Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose
Page 43
Collette Cameron
A Waltz with a Rogue Series:
A Kiss for Miss Kingsley
Bride of Falcon
Her Scandalous Wish
To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart
The Wallflower’s Wicked Wager
A Rose for a Rogue
Castle Brides Series:
The Viscount’s Vow
Highlander’s Hope
The Earl’s Enticement
Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper Series:
Brooke: Wagers Gone Awry
Blythe: Schemes Gone Amiss
Brette: Intentions Gone Astray
Blaike: Secrets Gone Askew
Heart of a Scot Series:
To Love a Highland Rogue
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series:
Triumph and Treasure
Virtue and Valor
Heartbreak and Honor
Scandal’s Splendor
Passion and Plunder
Seductive Surrender
Seductive Scoundrel’s Series,
A Diamond for a Duke
Boxed Sets
Embraced by a Rogue
To Love a Reckless Rogue
When a Lord Loves a Lady
Stand-Alone Novels and Novellas
Heart of a Highlander
Earl of Wainthorpe
A Rose for a Rogue
Collette Cameron
To all the Mr. Wiggles and their owners everywhere.
May you experience the unconditional love only a dog can give you.
(Okay, cats can too!)
A Rose for a Rogue
Collette Cameron
A huge thanks to my VIP Reader Group, Collette’s Chèris, for helping pick Chester’s middle names, and to Amy Ikari for suggesting Acorn for Eden’s pet squirrel’s name. The pet squirrel was inspired by my sister Holly’s pine squirrel, Orbit. Thank you to Teresa Spreckelmeyer for A ROSE FOR A ROGUE’s gorgeous cover, Period Images for the models who posed for the exclusive shoot, Kathryn Lynn Davis and Emilee Bowers for your fabulous editing, and as always, my assistants, Cindy Jackson and Dee Foster.
A Rose for a Rogue
Collette Cameron
Newbury, Berkshire England
27 May 1820
Dilly dallying and dawdling weren’t going to change anything.
Manchester, Marquis of Sterling, tossed back the last of the fairly decent whisky. With a resigned sigh, he placed his empty glass on the Fox and Falcon’s time-worn countertop. A full bottle wouldn’t have succeeded in easing a jot of his tension. Nothing could be done for the darkling thoughts tumbling round inside his skull either.
What few feeble rays of late afternoon sunlight managed to escape the sodden clouds outside filtered through the lace curtains bordering the pristine windowpanes. He permitted a small, wry smile to tip his mouth. From what he’d observed since leading Magnus into Newbury almost two hours ago, except for the shutters’ new coat of bright cobalt paint, the pub—along with the picturesque township—had changed little in his ten-year absence.
Had it truly been a decade since he’d strolled Newbury’s streets, attended the century-old, two-story stone church Sunday mornings, sneaked his first and last cheroot behind the stables, shared a dram with friends in this very establishment, or returned the friendly villagers’ many greetings?
A third of his life.
Now that the old duke’s health was failing, he’d been summoned—ordered—home.
No. Not home.
Perygrim Park had ceased being home the day his sire blamed Chester for Byron’s death, whilst also beckoning every curse from hell upon the Andrews of Gablecrest Hall.
His father’s venomous words, shrieked hysterically as he cradled his favorite son in his arms, still echoed in Chester’s memory—still lanced his heart even after all these years.
He cut a longing glance toward the whisky bottle.
Did he dare?
Even to silence the silent monologue ever ready to torment him?
Russell Stewart, the pub’s owner, angled his jowly chin toward the deep green half-full bottle whilst drying a glass.
“Would you care for another tot, my lord? Or perhaps some of my missus’s shepherd’s pie?”
If only he might. The fading light confirmed the sun’s slow descent, and he’d promised to arrive at Perygrim in time for dinner.
To celebrate his thirtieth birthday.
Many were the ways he’d have preferred to acknowledge the date, none of which included being scowled at and mocked by a spiteful curmudgeon. A cantankerous sod whose infrequent letters oozed with criticism, condemnation, complaints about Chester’s failure to marry and produce an heir, and fiendish gloating when Walter Andrews had drowned several years ago in the lake betwixt Perygrim Park’s and Gablecrest Hall’s lands.
Curse Chester’s sense of duty. His endless guilt.
A pox on the miniscule tender spot for his father remaining inside the buttress he’d erected around his battered heart.
He drew in a steadying breath, then released it in a long, controlled exhale.
The old man was dying.
Despite his sire’s rancor, Chester couldn’t be so cruel as to deny his critically ill father’s one last request. Honestly, this visit was more about putting to rest the phantoms haunting Chester once and for all than about reconciling with the duke.
He filled his lungs with another fortifying breath and closed his eyes for an instant when his stomach released a discontented growl.
“You were always particularly fond of Jane’s roast beef and potatoes too, sir. Are you sure you won’t have a plate?”
Stewart wiped the already immaculate counter, his hint as obvious as the single bushy eyebrow spanning his broad forehead.
Whisky on an empty stomach never boded well. Particularly since Chester generally eschewed spirits stronger than wine.
Unlike the sixth Duke of DeCourcy.
Diligence and discipline.
That mantra, Chester’s life’s motto, set him apart from his embittered sire.
“No, thank you, though I well remember Mrs. Stewart’s pie.” Shaking his head, Chester fished in his pocket for a few coins. “Another time, I give you my word. I quite look forward to it.”
After laying the money on the smooth walnut—battling the urge to slap them down and vent some of his pent-up frustration—he collected his beaver hat.
He’d have made Perygrim some time ago if Magnus hadn’t picked up a stone a quarter mile back and required tending. The horse’s misfortune provided him a much-needed respite before facing the dragon who’d begat him.
Holding his tongue might prove Chester’s greatest trial.
Diligence and discipline, man. You were not cast from the same malformed mold.
He barely contained a derisive snort.
But I am a product of his loins.
Stewart collected the coins, smiling broadly and revealing the rabbit-like front teeth Chester remembered so well.
“I know I speak for others as well as myself when I say we’re pleased you’ve returned, m’lord. I’ll make sure to stock that Bordeaux you’re fond of in the future, and I’ll bet my missus will keep a fresh supply of Sally Lund buns on hand now too.”
“Thank you. All the more reason to return very soon.”
Chester scanned the cozy taproom again. How many times had he and Byron enjoyed a dark ale whilst bantering with and razzing each other, as brothers are wont to do?
One elbow resting on the bar, he inclined his head.
“I’ve missed this, Stewart. Missed Newbury and her citizens.”
Truly, he had.
He far preferred the country’s serene pace than teeming Town life, which was why he attended nearly every country house party he’d been invited to these past years.
“I hope you’ll honor us with your presence often, m’lord.” Touching his fingers to his brow, Stewart angled his stout form toward the kitchen. “I’ll have
your mount brought ’round now.”
With another nod, Chester pulled on a black leather glove as he marched to the entrance, acknowledging the curious, slightly leery patrons observing his progress with a smile or a nod. They’d find him much more approachable, friendlier, and fairer than the current duke. He’d make sure of that.
No more whispers about DeCourcy the Demon Duke. Devilish and dastardly duke too.
Maybe he’d strive for a new moniker, something a trifle more flattering to the duchy.
The Dancing Duke?
No, too frivolous.
Perchance the Dashing Duke?
Pompous and full of self-importance.
The Dignified Duke?
A memory sparked—swimming nude in the lake, something he intended to do again now that he had returned home. Nothing remotely dignified about that.
He reached to press the latch when the door sprang open, practically smacking him in the face. The sturdy panel came to an abrupt halt when the wood hit his boots. His injured toes curled in protest despite their stout leather protection.
Arms laden, a petite, dull brown-clad flurry barreled into him, whacked her forehead on his chest and, giving a startled squeal, dropped one of her baskets.
Eggs and greens scattered everywhere, including atop his feet, and he instinctively clutched her elbows to keep her from crashing to the scuffed floor too.
A whiff of roses and lilies and some other essence wafted upward. Nostrils flared, he inhaled, trying to decipher the other scents. Perhaps a tinge of orange blossom or lemon? Fresh and light and wholly memorable.
“I beg your pardon.”
Breathless, the top of her head not quite at shoulder level, she arched away, peering upward.
Her hood slipped off to reveal unbound hair, a shade somewhere between walnut and pecan. Not brown exactly, but not blonde either, though golden ribbons threaded the strands here and there.
Her pale, ice blue eyes—hyacinth blue—rounded in surprise but not embarrassment. A deeper azure green rimmed her irises which, if he wasn’t mistaken, shimmered with uncontained joy and ill-concealed amusement.
Directed at him.
Battling an inexplicable reluctance to do so, he set her from him. Not, however, before mentally noting the delicacy of the arms his fingers encircled or the refined planes of her flushed face. Or her bowed mouth, pinkish-red from the brisker-than-usual May air.
Since when did he notice a woman’s hair color?
Or wind-tinted lips, for that matter?
Must be the whisky—had him numpty. Which was why he rarely imbibed more than a single tot.
Disgruntled at his intense, unsolicited, and distracting reaction, he firmed his mouth whilst leveling her a reproving glance.
“Perhaps you ought to watch where you’re going and use more caution when opening doors.”
“Indeed, I should, sir.”
Not the least chagrined, she offered a winsome smile, and the most irregular sensation flickered in his chest.
Bloody whisky.
How could something so simple, the upward turn of her petal soft lips, transform her heretofore unremarkable features into breathtaking beauty?
And more on point, why ever had he noticed?
Because a man could fall in love with that radiant smile.
He shook his head.
By Jove, he hadn’t indulged enough to produce those kinds of fanciful musings.
Not he, the master of controlling his baser instincts and dark inclinations.
“Russell, might I have a towel or two?” the small tempest called to the innkeeper as she crouched and gave a rueful twist of her pretty rose bud mouth at the mess she’d made. After placing the other basket on the floor, she gathered the salvageable herbs.
The odors of crushed oregano, rosemary, sage, and other aromatic plants Chester couldn’t identify drifted upward.
Who was she?
Obviously, someone who’d moved here after Father disowned him. Though her simple cloak and the scuffed half-boots peeking from the practical woolen folds of her russet colored gown weren’t the first stare of fashion, neither were they the coarse garments of a commoner.
A young, lonely widow perhaps?
From beneath half-closed eyes, he scrutinized her, very much liking what he saw.
Not attractive in the classical sense, nonetheless, an unidentifiable allure surrounded her. Beckoned him. Caused unruly thoughts and inclinations to knock about ribs.
Most troubling were these rash musings. They bespoke a ruthlessness, an inherited characteristic always—always until now—meticulously controlled, lest he mirror the duke’s scurrilous behavior or tendencies.
Brushing his bare hand over his mouth and jaw, Chester narrowed his eyes.
He’d never entertained the notion of a mistress before, particularly upon just meeting a woman. But he’d need something—someone—to keep him sane the next few weeks or months.
She might prove just the tantalizing distraction he needed.
Stewart poked his oversized head around the doorframe leading to the kitchen. “Missus, Miss Eden’s had a mishap. She needs help cleaning it up.”
Miss Eden?
Not a widow then. Bother that. Chester didn’t dally with innocents, no matter how bewitching their smiles or innocently seductive their eyes might be.
Unwarranted disappointment constricted his ribs.
“What’s this?” Bearing damp cloths, Mrs. Stewart bustled from the kitchen, her round cheeks apple-red from toiling over the hot stove, no doubt. Upon spying the slimy mess, she tsked and tutted. “Miss Eden, I’d about given up on you coming today.”
A shadow dimmed Miss Eden’s bubbly countenance as she accepted the linens. But only for an instant before her cheery smile returned full on.
“Alas, Mama had a difficult morning, and I wasn’t able to leave as early as I’d planned. But I promised I’d deliver eggs and herbs today, so here I am.” A rueful smile teased the corners of her mouth. “Those plants are a little battered, I’m afraid.”
Pointing at the basket holding the crushed greens, she curved her full mouth upward again, and Chester forced his attention away from her glowing face.
And those tempting bowed lips.
Women smiled at him all the time.
Incredibly beautiful and perfumed women. Many who regularly offered him much more than a radiant upward tilting of their rouged mouths. Elegant, coiffed, and graceful ladies, keen and qualified to be the next Duchess of DeCourcy. All the more puzzling then, why this little nondescript country mouse had him gawking like a young, untried buck.
“I don’t know what I’d do without your conservatory, Miss Eden.”
Mrs. Stewart lifted a bay sprig and held it to her nose. “I’d like lavender next time too, if you have any. I’ve a mind to try a lavender shortbread recipe my sister sent me.”
“I do, and mint as well. I know you enjoy mint tea.”
The young woman fluttered her ungloved fingers at the other basket. Short oval nails graced her small, elegant hands, which weren’t as milky white or soft as the ladies of his acquaintance.
“I’ve brought jars of honey to sell, and a present for you, Jane. Give me a minute to clean up the mess I’ve made.”
Thank God she hadn’t also dropped the honey. Eggs were bad enough, but honey was a sticky horror.
Without hesitation, she proceeded to wipe egg yolk and parsley off Chester’s less than gleaming boots. Trekking the last quarter mile along the mucky lane had caked his Wellingtons with a thick layer of mud. Though he’d scraped his feet before entering the Fox and Falcon, considerable filth remained.
“Here now, miss. There’s no need for that.”
He backed up a pair of paces. It unsettled him to have this pretty little thing kneeling, mopping at his splattered boots like the meanest of servants.
“Are you certain? A distinguished gentleman such as yourself cannot very well toddle off with yolk and shell sticking to your b
oots.”
Sarcasm?
Marquises didn’t toddle.
Well, perhaps if they’d unwisely drunk more than they ought on an empty stomach and were a trifle foxed, they might.
“Can you imagine what the villagers might say?”
She lifted a large piece of dark speckled eggshell from his toe.
Was she mocking him?
Lowering his lashes halfway, he considered her.
She pushed her hair behind her ear, and a troubled frown furrowed her brow, drawing his attention to the pea-sized birthmark near her hairline on the right side.
“Oh, you’re probably worried about me ruining the boot leather.” She scratched her eyebrow, unease now crimping the edges of her expressive eyes. “I’m certain there must be someone in town who can care for them. Maybe not at this hour, though.”
Mouth pursed, she picked another bit of shell from the leather.
He pulled on his other glove and gave her a reassuring smile.
“You misunderstand me. There’s no need to fuss over them. I’ll clean and polish my boots this evening.”
A little furrow of surprise marred her forehead. “You will? Polish them yourself? But you’re a gentleman. I didn’t think . . .”
She sounded so incredulous, he wasn’t sure whether to be enchanted or insulted.
“I am, but I’m not above tending to my own boots.” He sketched a bow, more elaborate than the situation called for. “Manchester, Marquis of Sterling. And you are Miss Eden.”
She narrowed her eyes and raked her astute regard over him, from his beaver hat, down the length of his great coat to his soiled boots, and then made the reverse journey to meet his eyes once more.
His flesh reacted—the nerves and pores alert and expectant—with every slow inch of her perusal.
Did her thorough assessment mean she knew who he was?
It was hardly a secret.
She had him at a disadvantage then, for he hadn’t an inkling who Miss Eden might be.
“Not Miss Eden exactly,” she finally said, the amused sparkle returning to her eyes.
“No?”
She shook her head and that cloud of downy hair billowed around her shoulders.
Unusual to leave her hair down. Not the fashion at all, but he quite admired the shiny mass.