Married to a Rogue

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Have I been told everything?” he said suddenly, studying the man’s face.

  “My lord?”

  “Is anything being held back from me?”

  The man paused and puffed on his cigar. His dog grunted and wheezed, then lapsed back into a snore. “My lord, you know everything that you need to know.”

  Not a very satisfying answer, Baxter thought. He sighed and kneaded his trick knee. Life currently seemed to be a confusion of problems that needed to be worked out, problems with Belle, with Emily, with that damned French upstart Marchant.

  “What do you know about a young Frenchman, Vicomte Etienne Marchant?” he said suddenly.

  Sir Douglas coughed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He hacked for a moment, then grunted, “Never heard of the man.”

  “Yes, you have! He is in my report. My purported ‘savior’!”

  The older man did not answer and Baxter felt a thread of suspicion wind through his entrails. Shadows behind shadows behind shadows. More was going on than he even knew about and it was disturbing to think that he was only in some outer circle of trust. How could he protect himself if he only had half the information he needed? He got up, bowed and took his leave, exiting the smoky, stuffy office into the rain-washed freshness that even London dirt and smoke had not yet contaminated. He needed to think and the only way he could do that was to walk.

  • • •

  Emily lay curled up in her bed. There was too much to think about, to worry about! Was Baxter still in danger? Was Etienne involved? Why had Baxter not returned to her, not spoken to her, not . . . she covered her face with her hands, holding back the tears with difficulty. The answer to that last question was too easy to answer; he had a beautiful little mistress who adored him, even if she didn’t think she loved him. Their night together had been just the result of his dazed unawareness. No doubt he had realized it was a mistake when his head cleared in the morning and could not think of a way to tell her.

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes dry. There was no point in that unprofitable line of thought. Of primary importance at the moment was to find out if Etienne was involved and ensure Baxter’s safety. It might be the last thing she could do for him, but she would not see him harmed for the world, even if the one who benefited was Belle Gallant. She slipped off the bed and called out to her dresser. “Sylvie, aide-moi, s’il vous plait. I am going out for the afternoon.”

  • • •

  Baxter patted his pocket, hearing the crisp crinkle of paper as he strode up the steps to the small town house he had rented for Belle. The parlor maid let him in—Belle had not wanted a butler or footmen—and he waited in the downstairs salon. The faintest hint of lilacs on the breeze from the window teased his nostrils and he felt a sharp twinge of melancholy as it reminded him of Emily and what he had lost forever. He had not been able to bear to see her lying face after their beautiful night together, to know that he was a poor second, that he wasn’t even her first lover that night! That knowledge tainted every day and haunted every night.

  His stomach felt hollow and a sharp acid taste flooded his mouth. He had not been eating or sleeping well for days. Food revolted him and sleep evaded him, so he pursued all of his activities in a fog of unreality. Decisive action was required though and today he would take the first step to regaining his autonomy. He should have done this long ago. It was time he stopped letting the women in his life run it.

  The door opened quietly behind him and Belle’s maid brought in a tray with brandy, which he gladly helped himself to as Belle floated into the room.

  “You look extraordinarily happy, my dear.” He sipped the brandy.

  “And why should I not?” She drifted to a sofa and eased herself down into it.

  He quirked an eyebrow, wondering why she was carrying herself as though she would break. Normally she whirled around like a top, moving like a cyclone through any room in a mad swirl of energy. She seemed . . . different somehow. Normally the first thing she thought of was taking his hand and leading him up the stairs to her boudoir for sex, after which she wanted to talk about her acting career. Instead she was gazing at him languidly through half-closed eyes.

  “Baxter,” she said, sitting up a little from her relaxed position. “You never talk to me about your life . . . I mean, your life besides me.”

  He took a seat beside her and she cuddled up against him, twining her arm through his. “I had no idea you’d be interested.”

  She gazed up at him with reproachful eyes. “I’m interested in everything about you, Baxter. Really. What you do, who you see, what your life was like before I met you.”

  “Is that right?” He was bemused and nonplused. This was a side of her he had never seen in the two years they had been together. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? A mistress who wanted to talk as well as to make love? He felt a twinge of irritation since he had come that day intending to cut the relationship off, and now this was going to make it more difficult.

  But he would not rush it. Disentangling oneself from an affair was a burdensome business, but with Belle it would be even more difficult. She did not have the sophistication to understand that love affairs were ephemeral, nor the philosophy to accept that all good things come to an end. And he did not want to hurt her if he could avoid it. “What do you want to know?”

  She stroked the sleeve of his jacket and then toyed with his wedding ring. He had been teased by friends when he married because he had wanted to wear a visible symbol of his commitment to Emily, unlike most of his married friends. The ring was a family heirloom of her father’s, a band with a black onyx cabochon set in it. He had never taken it off even when they had formally separated, and Emily had never asked for it back. He had noticed that she still wore the ring he gave her, too.

  “Why did you split up with Lady Sedgely?”

  The baldly stated question took him aback and he twisted to look down at her, but her head was rested against his arm. “What on earth makes you want to know that?”

  Her blonde curls trembled and she shrugged. “Curious, I guess. You don’t talk much about all that.”

  “Not much to say.”

  She twisted and gazed up at him, the expression on her narrow face vividly expressing her disbelief. “What rot! Did you love her? Do you love her? Have you ever thought of going back to her? What broke you up in the first place?”

  Baxter sighed. Women, but more specifically, Belle! She would not be put off lightly. Once she fastened on to something she was as tenacious as a terrier with a slipper. That quality had served her well when it came to the lessons her tutor had given her. She was not so much intelligent as she was clever and an excellent mimic. What could he say? What would satisfy her so that he could get on to the business at hand, which was the imminent end of their relationship?

  And so in the cool placidness of her salon, gold drapes filtering the late-day sun, he told her about meeting Emily and kissing her for the very first time. He told her about their marriage and even about their voracious sexual appetite through the first years of their marriage. Perhaps that part was none of her business but he found himself saying it anyway, as though he were remembering out loud, holding on to every precious facet of their life together.

  It soothed him to recall that once Emily had loved him. He was not mistaken in that at least. What was hard to fathom was that making love to her again after all the intervening years had been like coming home. It had felt the same, the connectedness, the love, the feeling of joining two parts of a puzzle that fit so well no seams showed. How could it be that it felt the same, and yet was so very different? Had to be different, if she had a lover!

  At the end of his explication, Belle nodded, satisfied. “And she could never have a baby?”

  “No, though the fault may be entirely mine. In all my adult years, to my knowledge I have never impregnated a woman, and I have certainly had enough partners.”

  He felt her move as if startled, but then she settled again. She was sil
ent for a moment, but then spoke again.

  “Would it have made a difference, do you think? If you had been able to have a baby with her? Would you have stayed together?”

  He stretched his long legs out over the worn Turkish rug and settled her against his chest, with his arm around her. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “We’ve talked, Emily and I, and I can see how she was blaming herself and I thought she was blaming me, and my mother constantly stirred up trouble between us. I never defended Emily, never took her side out of some mistaken idea of loyalty toward my mother.” And now it was too late for them, Baxter thought sadly, thinking of the lost opportunity for love, the changes that must have taken place in Emily for her to have taken a lover. He gritted his teeth, unwilling to let the black tide of anger sweep over him again. He controlled the surge of rage with an effort and said, “Is that enough? Do you know everything you need to know?”

  “Would having a baby have made a difference? Would you have stayed together?”

  Lord, but she was tenacious. He thought about her question. “I think we would have stayed together,” he said finally. “We would still have had problems, but we would have been forced to work through them, with a child to consider. It was too easy to separate when it was just us. Now, is that enough? Is there anything else you want to pry into or stick your pert little nose into?”

  “No,” she said, sitting up and moving away from him. She faced him, her blue eyes challenging him. “Well, yes. Do you still love her?”

  He blew out a long breath and straightened. He gazed down the room at the cold fireplace at the end, an ornate relic from the previous century. To his knowledge, Belle had not done a thing to this house that was leased in her name except to gaudy up her boudoir with tarty red draperies. Emily had always stamped her imprint on any home they were living in, whether it was in the country or in London. She would have fresh flowers everywhere and would supervise the rearrangement of the furniture, moving it into comfortable conversation groups or . . . he realized that every thought he had began and ended with Emily.

  “I think I do.” He glanced over at Belle, hoping that admission had not hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt her with his honesty. He was surprised by her smile, a mysterious expression like that of a cat with a mouthful of feathers. It was a mixture of smugness and satisfaction that he could not fathom. His suspicion was aroused. “What are you up to, my dear?”

  “Nothing.”

  She stretched and offered him more brandy but he refused it, intending to get down to the business at hand. How to break off their affair. He was about to open his mouth to speak and draw the papers out of his pocket, but she forestalled him with another question.

  “Why don’t you go back to her now that you know you still love her?”

  He gaped in astonishment but a flare of anger made his answer easy. “I will not take another man’s leavings!”

  It was her turn to be astonished and she stared at him. “What—”

  “She is having an affair with that French bastard Etienne Marchant. He had the gall to come into my home and gloat.”

  “Are you sure, Baxter? That she is sleeping with him?”

  “I’ve seen them together. She looked guilty, damn her eyes!” He covered his face with his long-fingered hands. “And I didn’t know about it until we had made love again.”

  “You made love to her?” Belle’s voice was small.

  He glanced over at her and explained about being coshed again and being taken into her house, into her bed. As he spoke he remembered the delicious sensation of waking up, finding her next to him, her body pressed against his. He didn’t elaborate on the lovemaking, but Belle was ever forthright.

  “Did you like it better than with me?” She looked fragile and very, very young sitting on the sofa in her pale green gown, a vision of sylph-like and delicate beauty.

  What could he say? What should he say? “It was different, Belle, it was—”

  She held up one small white hand. “Don’t! It doesn’t matter, Baxter.”

  She bit her lip, driving the blood from it until it was white. He thought he could see tears in her eyes and he was deeply touched and sorry to be the instrument of pain in her young heart. Whatever she was feeling she mastered it, took a deep breath and pulled herself up. “Before you judge her, you should think. Even if it is true, even if she had been with Veecompte Marchant, maybe she knew it was a mistake straightaway, or maybe . . . maybe it made her realize how much she loves you. You should find out.”

  It had cost her a lot to know the truth, Belle thought. It was easier when it was all just in her mind, but now, to know that he still loved his wife and preferred her . . . The one thing Belle had always been able to give him was sexual release, and now there was someone else he preferred. But wasn’t that her plan? Didn’t she want him to be happy, even if that happiness was to be found with Emily?

  Maybe she did love Baxter, she thought, looking at his harshly handsome face, the lines that grooved deeply to his mouth and the black eyes that looked so severe. She was one of the few people who knew that Baxter was as soft as blancmange inside, despite his dangerous looks and stubborn pride. But he loved his wife and she loved him, and Belle was planning to have his baby, the one thing he and his wife hadn’t been able to have together. It hurt more than she imagined it would when she made her plan, but it was still a good scheme and she would go through with it. Maybe there was a way to make her baby the instrument of reconciliation for Baxter and his wife. She would think of something, and then the debt to Baxter would be paid, at long last. Then she could start living just for herself and planning her future.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “. . . and I just don’t know what I should do! He means to abduct and rape me!” Grishelda sat on the sofa wringing her thin hands together, almost vibrating with agitation.

  Emily caught her hands in her own and chafed them. “Calm, my dear. Please do not give in to—” She quickly dropped her young friend’s hands as she heard a sound.

  The door opened and a footman brought in the tea tray, setting it before Emily.

  “As I was saying, I had a letter from Celestine. They are on their way home from Italy and have some sort of mysterious news that they do not want to relate in a letter.” She gave Grishelda a significant look.

  “R-really! I wonder what that could be.”

  Her voice stuttered a little, but she did fairly well, Emily thought. “I am hoping to soon be a great-aunt. If that is the news it would explain why Justin and Celestine are returning when the Italian sun has proved so beneficial for her arthritis.”

  The footman moved to the window, twitched the curtains to the right to shield the ladies from the blaze of the spring sun.

  “Justin has discovered an interest in antiquities and will be bringing back . . .” She watched the footman leave. “There, he is gone,” Emily said, keeping her voice low as the footman closed the door behind him. “It would not do to be indiscreet. Servants gossip. My dear, you must be strong. Do you really believe they will forcibly abduct you?”

  Grishelda nodded. “I do. I have my reasons. You have not met Captain Dempster—he is not generally accepted in polite society, though my mother has managed to get him invitations to some balls as her escort—but I believe him capable of anything. He takes every opportunity to touch me.” She shivered and swallowed, taking a great shuddering breath.

  “Have you talked to your mother about this?”

  “She would think I was lying or would accuse me of something worse. As hard as it is to believe, she is jealous; the captain has said something to her about me, accused me of impropriety toward him.”

  “Improp . . . what do you mean?” Emily was shocked and not a little diverted. Improper? Grishelda was the most proper of young ladies to the point of prudery. It was that prudery that made her so vulnerable to this particular situation. Emily had always known Grishelda as a calm, intelligent young lady with a core of steel. But this
affair had her as shaken and fearful as a child.

  Clearly distressed and embarrassed by her revelation, Grishelda stared intently at a pretty vase with Etienne’s latest offering of flowers. “My mother is besotted with Captain Dempster. He spends every night in her bed now; she has no shame when it comes to him and he takes full advantage of that. He takes liberties. I told you I have caught him in my room. Well, I think—I know—he has seen . . . seen a part of my body.”

  “My God!” Emily cried. “How can that be?”

  “One night we had no engagement and so we sat and played whist together with a friend of the captain’s. I became sleepy and groggy after evening coffee,” Grishelda said. “I retired early and fell into so deep a sleep, I cannot help but think that I was drugged. When I awoke, my night rail was untied and open. My . . . my breasts and stomach were exposed.”

  “But that could easily happen, could it not? It could have come undone?”

  For some reason, Grishelda blushed as she nodded. “It could, I suppose. But on the cover beside me were ashes. The captain smokes horrid, smelly cigars, and the ashes carried the same awful smell. They could only have gotten there one way.”

  Shocked and revolted, Emily exclaimed, “And you think the captain came into your room and . . . and what? He didn’t . . . didn’t violate you?”

  “Oh, no, not that! I suppose I would know . . . ?” She cast a questioning glance Emily’s way.

  “Yes, my dear. You would most certainly know if you were no longer a virgin, and there would be tangible evidence on your sheets. You would know.”

  Grishelda shivered and looked away. In the still quiet of the parlor, her voice hushed to little more than a whisper. “I think he looked at my breasts. I have a beauty mark—very identifiable—and C-Captain Dempster—” Her voice caught with a sob.

  Emily moved to sit beside her and took her hand. It was much worse than she had thought. Grishelda was a very prim young woman and Emily had considered the possibility that she was so afraid of marriage that she was becoming hysterical and imagining plots where they did not exist. But this . . . “How did this come out?”