The Devil Rogue

by Lori Villarreal

  Angela enjoyed her chats with Mrs. Olsen in the cozy kitchen, surrounded by the tantalizing smells of whatever was being prepared at the time. She would sit at the table, drinking her tea, watching the cook as she bustled around the room with impressive efficiency.

  Occasionally, Angela would help by peeling potatoes or snapping beans. It was like a haven of serenity, a peaceful oasis away from the doubts and anxieties of her current situation.

  It had also become a habit, most evenings, for the five of them, Angela, Rosemary, Mrs. Olsen, Mrs. Brown, and Emma, to sit comfortably in Emma’s private parlor, quietly sewing and talking of mundane things. She utilized those special gatherings to complete two day dresses and a ball gown, as requested by Blackridge.

  Angela had discovered that Mrs. Olsen, who was now in her early fifties, had a twin sister who worked for a family just three blocks over. Their husbands had been brothers, now deceased and Mrs. Olsen had a daughter. Her sister had a son and a daughter.

  Mrs. Brown and her husband, Lyle, Blackridge’s head groomsman, had no children of their own, which was why she seemed to enjoy her role as the mother figure of the household. Even Blackridge, Angela had observed, deferred to Mrs. Brown with respectful affection.

  And Emma was actually the only daughter of an earl. Her parents had died when she was only seventeen. She’d been left penniless with no other relatives to take her in. She’d begun her career in housekeeping, eventually acquiring her post here at Blackridge House as the head housekeeper.

  Angela admired them all for their strength and perseverance through life’s many pitfalls. She especially envied the way they seemed to fit into their roles, obviously happy and contented. It made her yearn for that same kind of contentment, to be a part of a close-knit group of people who cared about her – a family. She had Rosemary, she knew, and a few of the servants left behind at the baron’s house were like family to her. But they weren’t here, and when it came time to leave, she would be alone.

  For the first time since arriving, Angela wondered if she really wanted to isolate herself in the country. Yet, what choice did she have? It wouldn’t be long before she would be ostracized from society, with no chance to find a suitable husband, marry, and have children of her own.

  Well, she must do what she must, and if it meant she was to live the remainder of her life on the fringes of society, then so be it. As long as she was free and independent of the dictates of a man, she could do what she pleased. She could travel to exotic places; even have an affair, if she so wished. Her own thoughts caused her face to flame. Angela realized that she was already currently engaged in an illicit affair, regardless of the fact that she was still a virgin. Soon, that would be a thing of past, as the moment of her deflowering drew closer and closer with every passing day.

  Her bruises had long since faded, she was no longer sore, and the cut on her arm was practically healed. She’d removed the stitches and covered it with a small bandage. Any gown she wore would have to be long-sleeved from this day forward. The scar would be too noticeable, and Angela had no desire to answer curious questions about it, especially from Blackridge. Hopefully, when she was in his bed, doing all the wicked things they’d done that night in her room, it would be too dark to see her imperfections.

  Blackridge had said they were to attend a ball. She wondered whose it was and when. An uncomfortable and foreboding flutter began in her stomach, working its way into her chest. What would everyone think of her new status? How would she be received and could she withstand it? She held no misconceptions that her position as mistress to The Devil Rogue was already widely known, and disapproved of.

  “Miss Angela!” an out of breath Rosemary halted in the doorway. “It’s awful!” She’d obviously run up both sets of stairs, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve just heard from Mrs. Brown, who heard from the upstairs maid, whose sweetheart works for the Tysons down the street—”

  “For God sake, Rosemary, just tell me!”

  “You’re ruined. Quite thoroughly, too.”

  “Should I be surprised? We knew this would happen, after all. Since I plan on removing myself from society, it doesn’t much matter.” Angela felt oddly calm. It had been a foregone conclusion she would be forever labeled a ‘fallen woman’ the moment she set foot in Lord Blackridge’s house. And now that it had actually occurred, the news didn’t seem to disturb her as much as she thought it would.

  “But the ball! You’re to attend a ball with Blackridge, are you not? You’ll be given the cut direct for a certainty. You’ll be humiliated!”

  Angela felt breathless. “I couldn’t possibly attend now. I shall just have to tell him I decline to go.”

  “Will he allow it?” Rosemary asked uncertainly. “I mean, he seems so intent on ordering you about.”

  “I don’t know, but I have to try. Although,” Angela said, her brows crinkling together, “sometimes I get the feeling there’s more to this bargain than appears on the surface. Sometimes,” she continued in a quiet voice, “I could swear he hates me.”

  A shiver ran up her spine. Why would he hate her when he didn’t even know her?

  “Oh, love! He couldn’t possibly hate you, of that you can be sure. The man can hardly keep his hands off you, from what you’ve told me.” Rosemary laughed, giving Angela a quick hug. “You’re not an easy person to hate. You’re too generous and kind and lovely. So don’t go seeing things that aren’t there.”

  “I love you, dear friend,” Angela said, hugging Rosemary back. “What would I do without you?”

  “For one thing, you wouldn’t have someone to talk to about your wicked activities with an extremely handsome rake!”

  BLACKRIDGE WAS NOT at dinner again that evening, but on the table, next to Angela’s wine glass, was a note sitting on a small silver plate. She read the boldly scrawled words:

  I’ve been called away on business to my country estate. I will return two days hence in order to escort you to the Iverson’s ball. Be ready at nine O’clock.

  It was signed with a flourishing ‘B’ at the bottom. Blackridge obviously didn’t bother mincing words. The note was short and to the point. What else would she expect, love poetry?

  Angela found herself inexplicably annoyed by his continued absence, and now this. After that one night of sinful pleasure, he’d as good as disappeared.

  Had she failed in some way? Was he repulsed by her wanton behavior? Perhaps he’d discovered that she wasn’t as appealing as he’d first thought. Perhaps he was contemplating severing their agreement.

  But that would be a total disaster! She would be left without funds and no place to go. Returning to The Baron’s house was not an option – she would beg on the streets before she allowed that to happen.

  They were to go to the Iverson’s ball, which were usually grand affairs. Everyone who was anyone would be in attendance. Angela groaned inwardly. It would be difficult at best, disastrous at worst, and since Blackridge wouldn’t be returning until that very day, she had no opportunity to beg off before-hand.

  Bloody hell and damn that man!

  Well, she would just have to hold her head up, get through the evening, and let the chips fall where they may.

  5

  Villarreal / The Devil Rogue

  Chapter 10

  THE BALLROOM WAS crammed to capacity with a crush of people. Angela walked beside Blackridge, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her stomach felt like she’d swallowed a handful of marbles and her legs trembled with every step. When they’d first arrived and Blackridge’s presence was announced, a hush had fallen over the crowd, all eyes turning to them.

  Well, maybe not a complete hush, but rather a slight lowering in the noise level, and not everyone turned to stare, but quite a few did, nonetheless.

  Her body tensed when she received a few cool looks as they passed by a particularly large group. A couple of older matrons actually turned their backs on her, giv
ing her the cut direct. Angela felt so brittle at the moment that she feared she would shatter at the slightest nudge.

  Blackridge leaned near her ear in order to be heard over the din of the crowd. “Would you like a glass of punch, Miss Hopkins?”

  Angela’s mouth was so dry she could barely speak to answer him. She could use something to soothe her parched throat, but feared her stomach would reject anything she put into it. She didn’t care to humiliate herself further by casting up her accounts in the middle of the Iverson’s ballroom.

  “No, thank you, my lord,” she said, staring straight ahead.

  She refused to acknowledge the fact that she seemed to be the main topic of conversation. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see members of the crowd whispering in ears, tilting their heads in order to receive the most titillating gossip of the evening: that The Devil Rogue and his mistress, Miss Angela Hopkins, had arrived.

  “Are you sure? How about a glass of champaign, or better yet, I could get you some brandy.” His brows were drawn together in what might be concern, but she couldn’t sure.

  “No, my lord,” Angela said flatly, “but thank you, just the same.”

  They’d been there for about an hour, making a slow, leisurely circuit around the room. Angela wanted to scream at him to take her away from this place, to take her home – his home, rather – it didn’t matter.

  She couldn’t help but hear snippets of whispered comments as they passed various clusters of people. They were talking about her, right in front of her, as if she weren’t even there.

  “She’s his mistress now, can you believe it?”

  “To think she has the nerve to show up here!”

  It wasn’t until she heard, “. . . had several offers of marriage, but turned them all down, flat,” that she halted abruptly, causing Blackridge to lightly bump into her.

  Ian looked down at Miss Hopkins, curious as to why she’d stopped so suddenly, and was alarmed by the ghostly white pallor of her face. As they’d walked through the ballroom, he’d actually become a little concerned. From what little he knew of her, he could tell she wasn’t herself. But wasn’t this what he’d planned for in the first place? Even so, it tugged at his conscience to see the signs of distress shadowed in her beautiful blue eyes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. He was the one who had made sure of it, so of course she wasn’t all right.

  “I-I don’t feel very well, c-could you escort me to the retiring room, please?”

  Ian had to move closer in order to hear her quietly spoken words. “Of course, come this way.” He guided her around the perimeter of the room where it wasn’t so packed with people. The cloying scent of women’s perfume, mixed with pomades, powders, and the odor of unwashed bodies, drifted around them as they walked.

  His concern increased when Angela faltered, her grip on his arm like a vice as she attempted to recover. He had to give her credit, she was holding up admirably, considering how horribly she was being treated. Even though this was what he’d set out to accomplish, Ian found it worrisome to actually witness the effect it was having on her.

  When they moved behind a large marble pillar, she suddenly turned on him. “Why did you bring me here? You must have known, or even guessed what my reception would be like. So I have to ask if you did this with a purpose in mind?”

  Ian wasn’t about to tell her the truth . . . yet. He gripped her upper arms. “Listen, princess,” he said, gentling his voice. “You had to face the reality of your situation at some point. I only meant to get it over with for you sooner, rather than later.”

  What the hell kind of explanation was that?

  “I don’t believe you,” she hissed. “You don’t think I noticed how much you seem to despise me?”

  “I don’t despise you.” Was that true?

  “Just get me to the retiring room, if you would be so kind,” Angela said coldly.

  Her head was pounding and her stomach rebelled more and more with every passing minute. She felt unwelcome, unwanted, and claustrophobic in this stifling atmosphere stuffed with too many people.

  When she turned to continue on, Angela caught up short with a gasp as a man approached her with grim determination. It was that nice Mr. Wardley. He’d called on her several times this past year, but then, for some reason, had quit coming around. When she’d asked The Baron about it, he’d just snorted, giving a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders.

  Wardley was quite a handsome and dashing young man, with dark blonde hair and sparkling, bluish-green eyes. If he’d asked her to marry him, why, she would most assuredly have said yes. Now that he was closer, she could see that his eyes weren’t so much sparkling, but throwing sparks, making him look rather angry.

  “Miss Hopkins,” Wardley greeted her stiffly. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  To Angela, it didn’t appear that he found it a pleasure at all. “Good evening, Mr. Wardley, I’d like you to meet—”

  “I know who he is,” Wardley snapped, his otherwise pleasant mouth twisting with malice. “He’s your new protector, and you’re his whore of a mistress!”

  Ian stepped forward, adopting an aggressive stance. “That will be quite enough, Wardley.”

  Angela didn’t understand Wardley’s reaction at all. He’d been the one to abandon his suit, so why was he so angry now?

  The hard look on Wardley’s face suddenly fell away, to be replaced by an anguished expression. “Miss Hopkins . . . Angela,” he said, taking her hands into his own. “I offered you a secure future, a home, marriage. Why did you refuse me – to become a – a . . . why?”

  “What did you say?” All the blood rushed from Angela’s head, making her feel dizzy and nauseated.

  “I offered to marry you, but you refused me,” Wardley repeated.

  Blackridge stood quietly, watching the two of them intently.

  “You did not!” Angela voice rose with impending hysteria. “I was never informed of any offer of marriage from you or anyone else . . .” She suddenly remembered that piece of gossip she’d overheard, ‘had several offers of marriage, but turned them all down, flat.’

  “I went to your father and made an offer,” Wardley said. “He accused me of ungentlemanly behavior, refused me, and—” He stopped abruptly, his face suffusing with color.

  “And what?” Angela was feeling sicker by the moment.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “My father—” She practically choked on the words.

  Trembling with a multitude of emotions, one of which was rage at her father, or whoever he was, Angela knew she needed to get some fresh air. Either that or she was about to crumble into a puddle of humiliation, hurt, and despair, right here, in front of everyone.

  If it were true – if she’d had an offer of marriage – possibly more than one, than she’d been deceived. She’d been deprived of her right to have a family of her own – to escape The Baron’s cruelty long ago.

  “Miss Hopkins,” Ian said, cutting into her thoughts. “May I escort you to the retiring room now?” He could see she was not well, her face completely absent of color. It made her luminous eyes look larger and bluer than ever. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, knowing that he was the one to have started the rumors. Could he have been so terribly mistaken?

  “Please . . . I shall be all right. I just need to take some air. If you’ll excuse me.”

  She didn’t wait for his response, just dashed for the nearest exit.

  Ian watched her go, understanding her need to have a moment alone. But he didn’t intend to leave her by herself for long. He was going to find out the truth even if he had to knock a few heads together to get it. There was something not quite right about this whole situation. He turned his attention back to Wardley, whose gaze was still locked on the path taken by Miss Hopkins.

  “What is your story, Wardley?”

  Wardley shifted nervously, but then he straightened his shoulders and faced Ian. “I loved her
, you know,” he said quietly. “She was sweet and kind – not someone I would expect to be involved in – well, never mind. Now she’s with you, Blackridge.” His expression turned cold, his tone, bitter. “Tell me, however did you manage it?”

  “That, my friend, is none of your concern,” Ian said in a low, warning voice. “And since you missed your chance with her, you have no business sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’ll be on my way.”

  He left Wardley standing with his mouth gaping open like a fish. Taking the same route Miss Hopkins had just a few minutes ago, Ian intended to find her and get her the hell out of here.

  Angela stood at the far end of the terrace in a darkened corner, her hands braced on the smooth marble railing for support. My God! What had The Baron done? Wardley had been about to say something else, and if it concerned her step-father, it couldn’t be good. She took gulping breaths of air until she was finally calm enough to breathe normally.

  “Well, girl, things aren’t so wonderful on the other side of the fence, are they?” her father said with that familiar sneer in his voice. “But I do hate to see you like this. It makes me want to help in whatever way I can.”

  She just bet he did.

  Angela turned around to face him. “Hello, father.” In no mood to play his games, she asked, “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you, girl. It’s important.”

  “Yes, father,” she said frostily. “We most certainly do need to talk.”

  “The coach is parked not too far away. We can cut across the lawn . . . avoid the crowd.” He gave her knowing smile.

  “You just lead the way.” Not wishing to spend one more minute at this party, Angela followed him off the terrace and into the darkness beyond. There were a few things she intended to discuss with him, starting with Wardley’s offer of marriage.

  Ian reached the terrace in time to witness Miss Hopkins departing with a man. She walked with him across the shadowed lawn, off to find some secluded spot, no doubt. He stood, unmoving, watching her disappear into the night. It was too dark to recognize the man, but she clearly left of her own accord.