Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose

by Laurel O'Donnell

  That was why she usually took the other, newer bridge. This track was much closer to Perygrim Park however, and with the weather about to express her displeasure, and considering Mama’s episode this morning, Eden couldn’t take the time to detour to the other crossing.

  “My lord, perhaps your first duty could be to replace, or at the very least, repair this bridge? Simon refuses to pay for it, as does the duke, and passage becomes more unstable with each crossing. I fear the worst for an unsuspecting traveler.”

  A stiff draught whipped several strands of hair around her shoulders, and she shook her head to fling them from her face.

  While at school, she’d endured people’s unkind staring and pointing, other girls whispering and some even calling the brownish red patch on her neck a devil’s mark or witch’s kiss. She’d rather deal with the unruly tresses than the unkindness and curious stares.

  “Consider it done, Miss Haverden. Now as to that other matter.” Lord Sterling laid one arm across the back of the seat and presented his noble profile. “I’ve been away for a decade and wouldn’t be here now except my sire is gravely ill. Plainly put, I’m an outsider now, and I could use a friend.”

  A friend?

  So could she, truth to tell.

  Though Newbury’s citizens treated her kindly, she fit neither with the commoners nor with the local gentry. Not outwardly shunned, neither was she included in social gatherings or assemblies. Except for those hosted by Vicar Jedidiah Wright.

  Six weeks ago, he’d proposed for the fourth time.

  He was to be commended for his persistence, even if she never intended to accept his offer.

  Caring, gentle, and attractive in his quiet reserved way, and a widower with two small children, Vicar Wright couldn’t fathom why anyone should mind if he took a bastard to wife. His love for humanity and his non-judgmental soul were blind to the censured looks parishioners cast him whenever he spoke with Eden.

  She truly feared if she accepted, he might well lose his position.

  The last time her brother Simon had threatened to evict them, Eden had seriously considered Vicar Wright’s proposal. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to say yes, even if it meant an assurance Mama would have somewhere to live.

  Despite her conscience pealing an alarm, she met Lord Sterling’s inquisitive gaze.

  My, he had the loveliest eyes. She could get quite lost in their intriguing depths.

  Rogue or gentleman?

  What did it matter?

  She’d already made up her mind.

  An innocent friendship. Nothing more.

  There couldn’t be.

  “I should like that, my lord, as well. As long as we stay well within propriety’s strictures.”

  That ought to make her position clear.

  “Might you consider addressing me as Chester when we are alone?”

  Brow cocked, she gave him a starchy glance.

  Was he testing the limits already?

  “You know perfectly well that’s outside the bounds.”

  He chuckled, a wonderful raffish echo in that chest she knew to be nicely muscled. When the wheels hit an uneven board and jostled the cart, he gripped the seat. Probably not used to having his manly bum bounced about.

  “It is,” he said. “But friends are permitted privileges, are they not?”

  “I suppose they are. But only small concessions.”

  Shushing her conscience’s frenetic warnings about foolhardy decisions, she returned his easy-going grin. For the briefest instant. Then a startled gasp tore from her fear-constricted throat.

  “Oh, no!”

  The eerie crack of first one plank, then another, and then another rent the moist air and stalled her breathing. If the dogcart spilled into the churning stream-turned-river, Mr. Wiggles and Peony might drown.

  So might she and his lordship.

  “Get off, my lord. Now!”

  Eden released the reins and scampered from the wagon as did Lord Sterling without a jot of hesitation

  “Help me push.” Neither very big nor strong, she couldn’t budge the vehicle on her own. “We must get the wheel free. Hurry.”

  He positioned his shoulder behind the cart, tension accenting the slashing angles of his cheeks.

  “Walk on, Peony, walk on,” she shouted whilst giving the cart another hard shove.

  The caught wheel suddenly came loose and bounced forward.

  Unbalanced, arms flailing, and her heart pounding in her throat, she tottered backward.

  Then . . . off the bridge.

  “Eden!”

  A torrent of freezing water engulfed her, and she struggled against the weight of her saturated cloak and gown. Terror momentarily paralyzed her. A panic-born burst of energy assailed her, and she fought in vain to reach the surface just a couple of feet above her.

  It might as well have been a score.

  The relentless current yanked and tugged, forcing her head under again and again.

  She choked and gasped, seeking purchase on something, anything, to gain her footing and lift her face from the pummeling.

  Time slowed, inching forward, the roaring in her ears growing ever louder and more insistent.

  Her hair caught, jerking her head so sharply, she cried out. Rushing water promptly filled her mouth and lungs. The unbearable pressure in her chest crushed her lungs.

  A Rose for a Rogue

  Collette Cameron

  Purplish blackness engulfed Eden just as vice-like hands seized her beneath the armpits and unceremoniously hauled her against a solid form whilst dragging her toward the embankment.

  “I’ve got you, Eden,” A deep, velvety warm voice rasped in her ear. “I’ve got you. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe now.”

  Lord Sterling?

  Stiff from fear and cold, her icy limbs dead weight, she couldn’t lift a finger in assistance. A tiny, frightened whimper made it past her clamped jaw.

  “Just a little farther,” he grated, his breath ragged and labored. “Stay with me, sweet.”

  What a delicious notion. If only such a thing were possible.

  Then he plopped her onto the shore, dropped to his knees and brushed his hands over her face, patting her cheeks. Tilting her head, he pressed his firm mouth to hers and blew.

  Mmm, that’s rather nice.

  He pressed hard on her chest.

  Ow. Not nearly as pleasant.

  A second powerful push. And a third.

  Ouch. Not so hard.

  She rolled to her side and vomited.

  “That’s it. Get all the water out.”

  Scraping sopping strands of hair from her face, he cradled her body against his splendid warmth.

  Sweet God, she was mortified, not to mention freezing cold.

  She wanted to climb on top of his lordship, burrow into his warm, fabulous smelling chest, and stay there until her limbs thawed. Shaking from toe to head, she clenched her teeth to halt their chattering. After a few moments, she forced her lids open, her gaze melding with Lord Sterling’s gentle yet arresting eyes.

  “You frightened a decade off my life. I shan’t be surprised to find I’ve gone quite gray.”

  He tipped his lips upward as he traced her cheek with his fingertip.

  “Please tell me you’re all right, Eden.”

  Groaning, she gingerly fingered her throbbing scalp. “My head . . .”

  She coughed, clutching at her aching chest, and closed her eyes once more.

  Using two fingers, she probed the tender spot at the base of her skull.

  “I’m to blame for your head. You were being dragged downstream so fast, I grabbed your hair to stop you.”

  Eyes still shut, she managed a wobbly smile.

  “So being unfashionable saved my life, it seems.”

  “Indeed.”

  He chuckled, the sound resonating with relief, yet still held her tight to his chest. She made no effort to move away from the wonderful feeling.

  She did mana
ge to crack her eyelids open.

  Mouth turned down, worry crinkling the edges of his eyes, he examined her scalp. The merest stubble darkened his carved jaw.

  “You’re not bleeding, but I imagine you’ll be sore for a few days. I am truly sorry, but I was desperate to prevent you from drowning.”

  “I also almost drowned when I was six.”

  Why she thought to volunteer that at this moment, she couldn’t say.

  His lordship hugged her tighter, those marvelous strong arms making her feel safe.

  “Poor darling. This must’ve been all the more terrifying.”

  A high-pitched cry and a hard nudge from a wet doggy nose announced Mr. Wiggle’s arrival. His muddy front paws on Lord Sterling’s wet, marble-like thigh, he anxiously sniffed her face, then licked her cheek, whining the whole while.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Wiggles.”

  Well, perhaps not fine. She hurt all over and probably would be bruised worse than an apple used to play conkers. Her throat burned as if she’d swallowed hot coals, and her lungs ached something fierce, as if fiery little needles were poking non-stop. But, thanks to Lord Sterling still embracing her and soaked to the skin as well, she was alive.

  Somehow, he managed to awkwardly stand while drawing her upward. Weak and exhausted, her knees soft as flummery, she leaned heavily against him.

  Sturdy as a tree trunk, he didn’t waver under her weight.

  “We need to get you warm before you catch lung fever. Perygrim is just there.”

  He dipped his dripping head toward the mansion’s austere silhouette.

  “Impossible, my lord.” Eden shook her head, cloying strands of hair clinging to her neck and face. “I’m not allowed—”

  “I’ll hear no more about that nonsense.” A harshness she’d never heard before made his tone flint-like. “You wouldn’t have almost drowned if you hadn’t been doing me a kindness. The least I can do is see you safely bathed, tucked into a warm bed, and fed hot soup and perhaps a toddy as well.”

  After scooping her into his arms, he effortlessly strode to the cart, now safely standing on the other side of the bridge.

  She tried a different tack. One Lord Sterling couldn’t argue against.

  “But my mother—”

  “I shall send a note explaining what’s happened and tell her that if you are fully recovered, I’ll escort you home tomorrow.”

  So much for not trespassing upon propriety.

  He bundled Eden onto the seat, resting his broad hand upon her shoulder.

  “Are you able to sit up on your own, or should I put you in the wagon bed?”

  “I . . . can . . . manage,” she stuttered between her chattering teeth.

  Even her marrow throbbed from the cold tunneling through her. Truly, the idea of waiting until she reached Briar Knoll to finally remove her saturated clothing convinced her he was right. She’d have to prepare her own bath and doubted she had the strength to do so.

  The sun’s remnants had disappeared below the horizon, and the breeze had developed into a full-on wind. Their branches swaying in the murky twilight, the trees swished and groaned. Any hope of making Perygrim before the clouds spilled their contents vanished as the first few heavy drops splattered from above a moment before the flood poured forth.

  The striking lines and planes of his face, which bespoke generations of nobility, grew stern as Lord Sterling retrieved his greatcoat from beside the wagon. After settling Mr. Wiggles in the wagon bed, he leaped onto the cart, then wrapped his overcoat around Eden’s shoulders before pulling her to his side and draping one arm around her shoulders.

  Such an intimate thing to do, and she didn’t mind this infringement one iota.

  “My coat should stay the wind a bit.”

  “Thank you, but you’ll be cold now. It’s very gallant of you.”

  Peculiar shyness blanketed her, and she fought the impulse to turn her gaze away.

  Humor softened his mouth as he assumed a courtier’s pose, one hand pressed to his chest and chiseled chin elevated.

  “Hark, fear not, fair maiden. Chivalry shall warm my unworthy flesh, and knowing my humble covering bringest thou a measure of comfort kindles a fire in my blood.”

  “Fire in your blood? Sounds terribly painful to me.”

  More physically miserable than she could ever recall, from whence she summoned her droll humor, she didn’t know. But his chivalry had earned him a high mark in her esteem.

  Lowering her chin the merest bit, she touched her nose to the coat and inhaled. The garment smelled of his lordship—the aroma comforting and sensual at the same time. She ought to object to his forwardness. That would be the proper thing to do. At this juncture, honestly, she was so dratted cold and uncomfortable, she didn’t give a chicken’s tail feather about decorum.

  Her earlier consternation about whether he was a knave or an honorable man had been answered, but she’d suspected as much all along.

  “I don’t think you’ll need to polish your boots after all,” she quipped, boldly pressing into his body’s heat.

  Wisdom decreed she continue on to Briar Knoll after delivering Lord Sterling to Perygrim. The impropriety of what he’d suggested hadn’t escaped her, even if he meant nothing untoward.

  Quickly calculating how long it would take to deliver him home and then continue on in the dark—by herself—to the cottage in this ever-increasing foul weather, made her slump her shoulders.

  Close to a half hour. Mayhap more.

  She’d catch her death.

  But was staying at Perygrim a lesser risk?

  She forced her mind to a different topic.

  “Just send a note round with the amount I owe you for your garments and boots.” Shuddering, she pressed her lips together and hunched deeper into his heavy coat.

  Lord Sterling laughed, really laughed. The pleasant peal resounded in his chest.

  “I most assuredly will not. On the other hand, your clothes might be ruined on account of our detour, and I must insist on replacing them.”

  No. He would not.

  The gossipmongers would swarm around that like flies on dead fish. She was flirting with ruin as it was.

  Less than ten minutes later, night almost fully upon them, he guided the cart down the tidy stone drive to stop before the imposing manor.

  Peony expressed her displeasure with a wicker and flick of her tail. She wanted her warm stall at Briar Knoll.

  Craning her neck, Eden surveyed the stately house.

  Perygrim seemed lonely, almost forlorn. The impressive entry door swung open, and a bland-faced majordomo appeared in the illumined entrance. His contempt palatable, he peered down his nose.

  “I believe you are lost. We are not expecting guests, nor is his grace home to anyone.”

  “Come now, Wynby. Have I truly changed that much?”

  Lord Sterling handed her down and, keeping his fingers on her elbow, guided her toward the squinting butler.

  “My lord?” A joyous smile transformed the fusty fellow in a trice. “It is truly you?”

  “I said I’d be home for my birthday, and here I am.

  A welcoming, almost boyish smile curving his mouth, his lordship gestured wide with both arms.

  “It’s your birthday today?” This was even worse. She was intruding on a family celebration. She stopped and faced him. Voice lowered, she said, “I cannot possibly impose.”

  Perhaps she could borrow a blanket and a lantern for her miserable trek home.

  “Yes, it is,” Lord Sterling said, “and of course you can. You are my guest. I shall brook no refusal.”

  Before she had an opportunity to summon a suitable response or become vexed at his high-handed methods, he’d bustled her straight to the beaming butler.

  “Wynby, this is Miss Eglantina Haverden. She prefers Miss Eden. She graciously offered me a ride home when my horse went lame in Newbury. But as you’ve probably already surmised, we had a bit of a mishap. The old bridge gave way, she near
ly drowned, and we’re both nigh on to freezing.”

  Not exactly true. Part of the bridge had collapsed, and in her ungainliness, she had tumbled into the brook.

  “I should say so, sir. That span has been a worry for some time now. Not to fret. We’ll have baths prepared at once. Dinner isn’t until seven, so you’ve plenty of time to bathe and dress. Your trunks arrived two days ago, and your valet has already unpacked them.” Pressing his palms together, the middle-aged servant practically bounced in his excitement. “Cook has prepared a treat for you. Beef Wellington and trifle.”

  You’d have thought he’d announced the Prince Regent was to dine with them, such was his proud satisfaction.

  “See,” Lord Sterling whispered in her ear. “Nothing flusters the unflappable Wynby. We could have arrived naked as cherubs, and he wouldn’t have blinked.”

  When he said naked, she flashed hot and cold. Or maybe it was his warm breath caressing her ear that caused the onslaught.

  Whatever was wrong with her?

  For certain, a fever couldn’t have set in yet. Could it have?

  “The young lady will have to wear something belonging to one of the maids.” Eyeing Eden up and down, concern pinched the butler’s full mouth. “I apologize, Miss Eden. No offense is intended, I promise you. There are simply no other females in the household.”

  No others? Not even a housekeeper or cook?

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. What had she gotten herself into? If word got out . . .

  “Mrs. Gibbs and Mrs. Lackman are no longer at Perygrim?”

  So, Lord Sterling hadn’t been aware either?

  Wynby shook his head.

  His lordship brushed his crooked forefinger along his upper lip, the causal movement at odds with the thoughtful sternness in his eyes.

  “They retired within a month of each other last year, my lord, and went to live with their daughters. We haven’t had a housekeeper since, but Monsieur Fournier took Cook’s position. He is French.”

  That stiff-lipped pronouncement said much.

  She had no choice. To stay was to invite ruin, and when you were already outside of propriety’s boundaries, that wasn’t a risk to take lightly.

  “Lord Sterling, though I do appreciate your noble intentions, my reputation will be in shreds should I stay the night without a female companion.”