Miranda Neville

by The Ruin of a Rogue

“You couldn’t possibly want to wed such a self-satisfied bore.”

  “Exactly. Since he’s my guardian’s choice I had to render myself unacceptable to him and you were the perfect man to do it. My association with you will get him out of the way and I hope any others of his ilk. I’ve decided I’d just as soon not be married at all. But if I change my mind someone will have me.”

  “But . . .” Marcus stared at her, quite flummoxed by the revelation. “What . . .” Then he smiled, his biggest, most devastating grin, his eyes alight with mirth. “My dear Anne, I salute you. You played me perfectly and I didn’t think I could be played. You should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Lord Lithgow.”

  “Call me Marcus. I hate the title.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it means nothing. It’s an obscure peerage that came to me through a cousin of my father’s so distant I had no idea of his existence. It brings me no property, not even a seat in the House of Lords. It has nothing to do with me.”

  She could appreciate his point since she’d often felt the same about her wealth. “Why use it then?”

  “I’m a rogue and I’ll take advantage of anything that might give me entrée to those who can be of use to me.”

  She touched the back of his hand, feeling the elegant bone structure under the rough masculine skin. “I don’t believe you’re as bad as you say.”

  “Whatever can have given you that idea? I’ve proven quite the opposite.”

  “You saved my life yesterday.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why did you come to the villa in the middle of a storm?”

  He averted his eyes. “I was making sure Frederick was covered up and safe.”

  “That was a very sweet thing to do.”

  Abruptly he stood up and strode across the room. “Here,” he said, handing her a hairbrush.

  “Do I look so untidy?”

  “It’ll give you something to do.”

  “I’d rather get up.”

  “Absolutely not. You must stay in bed, at least until tomorrow. Besides, your clothes are still wet.”

  “At least give me a book.”

  He returned to the dressing table and almost threw a volume at her. “I must go. I have to see about getting that bridge repaired.”

  Anne shook her head in puzzlement as the door slammed behind him. What had got into him? He hadn’t seemed upset by the revelation of her ruse. Apparently he really didn’t want to marry her, which was good. It proved he wasn’t a completely mercenary scoundrel. But it would have been more flattering if he’d shown an iota of regret. She found his failure to press his suit unaccountably depressing.

  She leafed through the battered volume of Hoyle on The Game of Whist. Though interested in the fact that the calculation of odds in card play was such a precise business, she’d never been one for arithmetic and soon grew bored. Which left her hair.

  Maldon, who had been her mother’s lady’s maid and stayed on as personal attendant to the orphaned infant, had always brushed her hair. Her mother had lived in an era of huge coiffures, and her maid missed them. Anne hated having her hair about her face, and the difference of opinion was a source of discord between them. The tight plaits were a compromise because Maldon became mutinous when Anne took a fancy to sport a fashionable crop, like Caro. Not that Maldon was opposed to fashion, quite the opposite, except in this one matter. She longed to wield curling papers and hot irons. But her grumpy loyalty to Anne was absolute, despite the latter’s stubborn resistance to coiffed excess.

  By the time she’d worked out all the tangles, Anne regretted not being firmer in the matter of the crop. Applying the same determination with which she uncovered a new section of Roman wall, she worked away until she could run her fingers through the almost waist-length locks without a single snag. Curious to see the result of her labor, she got out of bed to the dressing mirror and saw a new Anne Brotherton. Dark hair formed a cloudy halo around her head and shoulders, emphasizing the pale face and making her eyes seem bigger than usual. Clad only in Marcus’s shirt, she looked wild. The prim heiress, neatly dressed to the point of dowdiness, had been replaced by an exotic, wicked creature, a seductress.

  That was silly. She wasn’t the type to drive men mad with desire. Still, she wondered what Marcus would think of her like this. Nothing, probably. When they first met he’d appeared to admire her, but that had been a ruse. Since she came to Hinton, he’d shown no sign of being attracted to her. The almost-kiss at the villa had been part of his deception. Rather than stay in her company now, he’d preferred to go out in the rain and look at a bridge, which certainly couldn’t be repaired until the weather and waters calmed down.

  She wasn’t staying all alone in this dull room. To hell with Marcus. Thinking the oath gave her a little thrill of naughtiness. A quick inspection of the wardrobe and chest of drawers having revealed no cache of feminine attire, her eyes settled on a pair of unmentionables. Why not?

  The intimacy of wearing his clothing against her bare skin gave her a frisson of excitement. The long shirt protected her privates from contact with the soft leather breeches. Holding them up was a problem until she found and worked out how to attach a pair of braces. His stockings sagged on her slimmer calves but they’d have to do. Intimidated by a drawer full of wide, perfectly starched and ironed neckcloths, she settled for going bare-throated. Even buttoned, the too-big shirt revealed her neck and collarbones. The ensemble felt more comfortable than a heavy gown. Men had all the luck. With a happy swagger she made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

  Travis was ironing linens at the kitchen table. He looked up and goggled at her, Adam’s apple aquiver, bushy eyebrows shooting toward the ceiling. “Miss Brotherton,” he said, in accents of great shock.

  “Good afternoon, Travis. I understand my clothes are still wet so I borrowed some of His Lordship’s gear.”

  “Indeed, madam. Your gown—a very fine-quality kerseymere, may I say—was soaked through with mud.” He then proceeded to tell her, in exhaustive detail, the measures he was taking to restore it. “I apologize for not having it ready for you,” he concluded.

  “Don’t apologize. I’m comfortable as I am.”

  “May I offer you some tea, madam?” He avoided looking at her, the indecency of her attire evidently offending his sense of propriety. “I’ll bring it up to the study.”

  “I’ll stay here. I’ve never spent time in a kitchen and it’s warm and cozy and smells good. I’m thirsty but I don’t feel like tea.”

  “I’m afraid it will have to be water. The only other thing we have is beer and you wouldn’t want to drink that.”

  “Yes I would. At least, I’ve never tasted it but I should like to.”

  She sipped from the tankard provided by an obviously reluctant Travis. Bitter but pleasingly yeasty. As she drank, she watched Travis apply the irons, heated on the metal stovetop, to a couple of shirts. “You’re very skilled, Travis.”

  “Thank you, madam. I take pride in turning out my gentleman without a wrinkle.”

  “Have you been with Lord Lithgow long?”

  “A few months, since he saved my life.”

  This was a story Anne had to hear. “Please tell me what happened.”

  “My master, an Italian marchese, was crossing the Alps and I naturally followed in the luggage coach. Being early in the spring, the roads were slippery. As we descended from the pass we went off the road and fell down the mountain. The driver and horses were killed, as was madama’s maid.”

  She took a gulp of beer. “That’s terrible. How did you escape?”

  “I am a nervous traveler and the narrow mountain roads had me in a state of constant fear of such an event. I’m not sure how I had the presence of mind, but when I first felt the carriage lurch, I opened the passenger door and threw myself out of the falling vehicle. By the hand of Providence I landed on a rocky outcrop. From what I gathered later, my employer had no notion w
hat to do, except comfort the marchesa, a lady much given to the vapors. I have no doubt that had His Lordship not appeared on the scene I should have died there.”

  “Oh Travis! He did the very thing for me last night.”

  “Quite so. At considerable personal risk, he climbed down the precipice to my precarious perch. I’m no climber at the best of times and I was both bruised and frightened. Yet he helped me climb up a rope, with constant words of encouragement to keep me from succumbing to my terror. I resigned my employment with the marchese on the spot, despite the impropriety of quitting my post without due notice. I continued the journey with Lord Lithgow and have been in his service ever since.”

  “And is he a satisfactory employer?”

  “I wish he would allow me to curl his hair, otherwise I have no complaints. His reputation in the world is not of the best but in my opinion is undeserved. Those who speak ill of him are not aware of his struggles in life, nor of the real generosity and heroism of his character.”

  Heroic, indeed, Anne thought with a quickening heart and a buzz in her head. It was so easy for those who had never known trouble to pass judgment. Herself included. Why had she become so angry when she learned Marcus was a fortune hunter? She was acquainted with fortune hunters by the score and regarded them with nothing but resigned tolerance. She even expected to marry one of them at some point in the future. She’d blamed Marcus for this unexceptional sin because she’d wanted more from him. Back in the night garden of Windermere House she’d fancied herself in love and wanted him to love her back.

  She wasn’t sure if she felt the same now. She knew him better and her feelings were deeper and more complicated. That he was good at heart, she believed. But his bad reputation was not undeserved. He’d done something that put him beyond Caro’s forgiveness, most likely tried to steal something. It would be easy to fall deeply in love with Marcus, but she wasn’t sure she could ever trust him. Until she decided, she must guard her heart.

  That did not mean, however, that she could not enjoy his company. Until the bridge was repaired she had no choice.

  Chapter 18

  How the hell was he going to stand it, having Anne lying in his bed with her long hair gloriously about her like the most abandoned courtesan? When she’d leaned forward to touch his hand, giving him a shadowy glimpse of small but shapely breasts, it had taken every ounce of restraint to walk away. Anxiety about her health told him to stay and wait on her, make sure she kept warm and didn’t develop a fever. But he couldn’t do it. For he suffered a powerful desire to jump into bed with her and formally complete her ruin. He’d bolted out of the room and out of the house into the continuing rain, which provided the cold bath he badly needed.

  When had Anne Brotherton become a siren? And a wicked one too. Her bold ploy to use him for her own ends excited him. Still, compared to him she was a novice in the art of deception and she still needed to be protected from his baser side. Especially now that one of his baser desires had been fully awakened.

  An hour later he was chilled to the bone and certain he could resist Helen of Troy, or Venus herself if she paraded naked before him.

  “Travis,” he called from the back passage as he stripped off gloves, coat, and boots. “Start filling the bathtub.” He’d already unbuttoned his waistcoat when he burst into the kitchen to discover Travis had company.

  Anne lounged in a kitchen chair with her feet up on another. My God, her legs were endless. He’d seen her naked, of course, but at the time he’d been more concerned with keeping her alive than assessing her assets. Clad in his best breeches, those assets were displayed to stunning effect. He might as well have stayed warm and dry because the lust-depressing effect of an hour in the rain vanished in an instant.

  She looked up at his entrance with a smile. “My lord, er . . . Marcus.”

  Then she hiccupped.

  “Have you been drinking beer?”

  “It’s delicious. Wonderful. Why have you been keeping it a secret?” She shook her glorious mane of hair, reddish glints varying the dark brown in the light of the table lamp. “It’s very mean of you, Marcus. Cruel of all men to keep it to themselves. I feel as delicious as the beer. Give me some more.” She held out her tankard with an all-too-familiar imperious gesture, this one surely genuine if pot-valiant.

  “How many have you had?”

  “Two. Maybe three. Travis, how many times have you filled this?”

  “Twice, madam.”

  “How could you, Travis?” Marcus accused.

  “I am a servant, my lord. When requested, I serve.”

  “When it suits your purpose.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir, my purpose now is to take your clean shirts upstairs.”

  “Wait . . .” But Travis, the least servile damn servant in the history of the world, turned deaf and disappeared, leaving Marcus alone with a tipsy goddess.

  He fetched a glass of water. “Drink this,” he ordered.

  “I want beer.”

  “Too bad.” Although it might be better to let her drink herself into a stupor and remove the source of temptation. “I’m going to make us some dinner.”

  Anne watched him with interest as he assembled ingredients. “Can I do anything?”

  “Have you ever chopped vegetables?”

  “No, but I can try.”

  “In your present state I’m not trusting you with a knife. You can make pastry.”

  She listened attentively as he explained the method and started to work butter into flour with her fingers while he sliced up potatoes and carrots to add to the beef stew that had been cooking over a slow fire. “This is fun,” she said, sending a cloud of flour into her face and all over the table.

  “Careful there. The idea is to keep it in the bowl.”

  “Tyrant. How did you learn to cook?”

  “I picked it up along the way.” He didn’t want to talk about his father. “My mother showed me how to roll out the pastry for jam tarts when I was no more than a tot.”

  “You’re lucky. My mother died before she could teach me.”

  Marcus doubted that the lady in question, the daughter of a marquess married to an earl’s heir, even knew how. Making tarts was a task for children in cottages, not mansions. Which, now he thought about it, was a pity.

  “Am I making jam tarts now?”

  “I was thinking of apple dumplings, but maybe we should fill the gap in your education. Raspberry or plum?”

  Continuing to crumble the dough, Anne creased her face in grave thought. “I can’t decide. Would it be very greedy to have some of each?”

  If he needed further convincing that the Miss Brotherton who’d cozened him into ordering an expensive dinner was a sham, this did it. “Certainly not.”

  “Thank you. Is this ready?”

  As he bent over the bowl, her hair tickled his face. “Good enough.” He hastily stepped back. “Now add a little water and form the paste into a ball.”

  She was tentative, adding too little liquid so that the dough kept falling into crumbles. Finally he had to reenter her dangerous proximity to demonstrate and her nearness drove him mad. There was something perversely exciting about recognizing his own scent on her shirt, his soap haunting her skin. To get away from her he lingered in the pantry, taking longer than was needed to locate the rolling pin and tart molds.

  She set to work rolling out the dough with more enthusiasm than finesse. The motion made her breasts press their linen covering. Turning aside didn’t help. His brain possessed perfect recall: small, beautifully shaped, curved below to send tight pink nipples tilted upward. His mouth watered; he could feel the stiff peaks under his tongue.

  “How’s this?”

  To avoid the occasion of temptation he walked around to peer over her shoulder. His breeches were too big on her so the fine doeskin bunched up over her rear. It didn’t matter. The firm, surprisingly curvaceous bottom, bared for bathing, flashed across his mind. With a particularly strenuous forward
pass of the rolling pin she arched back into his groin. God’s breath! He’d led the life of a reprobate, but did he deserve such torment?

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “I thought I heard you groan.”

  “An expression of admiration for your remarkable . . . pastry.”

  She spun around. “Are you teasing me?”

  “I would never.”

  “Hm. What now?”

  “Cut out circles to fit the molds. Careful with that knife.” He hovered over her in case she cut herself, but she seemed to have sobered up and he was able to retreat to a safe distance. “Now put a spoonful of jam in each.”

  She applied the preserve with an exaggerated concentration that made him smile. He saw himself kneeling on a chair in the kitchen at the cottage, doing the same thing under his mother’s gentle direction. And he saw Anne taking the mother’s role in this kitchen, teaching her children to make jam tarts. That vision was hastily dismissed. For those children would be his too, and it was never going to happen.

  “There,” she said. “We have four of each kind and one left over. I’m going to try mixing the raspberry and plum.”

  “I see you are an artiste de cuisine.”

  The tarts were a success, especially the mixed jam one, divided in three as the culmination of the meal.

  “The finest pastry I’ve ever tasted, madam,” Travis said. “Now may I take the liberty of suggesting that it is time for you to retire to the drawing room? I lit the fire earlier and it should be warm by now.”

  “This is hardly a formal meal,” Marcus said. “Are you expecting me to linger over my brandy and nuts? I have news for you. We have none.”

  “I was also going to suggest, my lord, that you accompany Miss Brotherton. I will clear the table and wash the dishes. In due course I will bring a tea tray.”

  Marcus narrowed his eyes at the unusually helpful valet. He could be trying to impress Anne, or to throw her and Marcus together. If the latter, he ought to resist. During dinner Anne had seemed to grow more beautiful by the minute. Being alone with her was dangerous. And alluring. He let himself be persuaded and resolved to keep his hands to himself.