My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes

by Courtney Milan, Lauren Royal, Grace Burrowes, Christi Caldwell, Jess Michaels, Erica Ridley, Delilah Marvelle

  “Drive the poxy bastard into the carpet!” Hunt shouted again.

  “W-What carpet!?” Ryder stammered, his legs heavy and his mouth dry as cotton.

  Luckily, Aston swayed on his feet. Blood spattered his white shirt, and the grin had gone from his face. If fact, he was blinking furiously, his right eye swelling up like a plum.

  Ryder drew up his fists and tried not to let his legs buckle. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made such meat of him, but he was going to take the bastard down.

  For Kathryn.

  Narrowing his eyes against the swaying room, Ryder darted forward and cracked his fist into Aston’s cheek. . . Just as Aston brought his fist up in an upper cut to Ryder’s chin.

  His face throbbed like an exploded grape, and Ryder felt the world spin as he tumbled. Bizarrely, Aston cushioned his fall.

  “Not a tie!” Hunt groaned.

  The crazed duke started laughing beneath him, occasionally sucking in whistling breaths. He slapped his hand against Ryder’s back. “I take it back. I take it back,” Aston gasped. “Mrs. Darrell. . . is a virtuous woman. . . and my entertainment was uncalled for.”

  “Damn right,” Ryder slurred, unsure if all his teeth were still in his head.

  Face down, Aston rested his hands on the scuffed wood floor. “Now, get off me. You’re as heavy as an ox.”

  “Certainly.” Ryder blinked, fought a groan as pain stabbed his ribs, and shifted onto the floor, which seemed like an infinitely safe place right now. After all, one couldn’t fall when one was sitting on the floor.

  Ryder looked about. The music started up again and the crowd returned to their various states of dissipation. Damnation, but the place looked like a painting straight out of Lucifer’s dreams. The lords and harem girls, drunk on the fun from the fight and copious bottles of wine and brandy, were all over each other, limbs writhing in one massive bed of cushions.

  Aston rolled into a sitting position, eyeing his bloody shirt. “Good fight, Darkwell.”

  Hunt jumped up on the stage and glowered down at the mad duke. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?”

  Aston wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. It was then Ryder realized his hand was covered in tattoos.

  Leaning back on his palms, Aston blew out a satisfied sigh. “Nothing, just one can’t get a decent fight this side of Jamaica. Sorry I prodded you so vigorously, Darkwell. I heard you were a comer, and so I couldn’t help myself.”

  Ryder narrowed his eyes. “You arranged the fight, you sick prick?”

  Aston wiggled his brows and smiled. “Right on, me hearty.”

  The duke struggled to his feat and staggered a bit. He gazed about at the glorious array of sin he too had arranged and let another one of his barrel laughs then winced and clutched his ribs. Panting he stood straight. “Beautiful sight this.”

  “You’re crazed,” Hunt stated, keeping his distance from the mad duke.

  “No doubt. But I’m happy.” Aston tucked in his shirt tails. And indeed, a blissful smile was pinned on his bloody lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a wench waiting for me.” He gave them a salute and started off. A few feet away he stopped. “Oh, and Darkwell, best of luck with your lass.”

  Ryder’s fingers dug into the wood below, threatening to leave splinters under his nails. He scowled. “She’s not my lass.”

  Aston nodded, a slow and exaggerated motion. “Of course she isn’t. But I do hope you’ll invite me to the wedding. Next best thing to a good fight is a wedding.” And with that he headed out of the room, his gate as shaky as a man tossed about on the high seas.

  Ryder and Hunt watched the man go. And when he was gone, Ryder shook his head. “What the hell was that?”

  Hunt extended his hand and stared after the door Aston slipped through. “A sodding crack pot. We should definitely invite him to be part of the club.”

  Groaning, Ryder took the offered arm and let Hunt pull him to his feet. “He is not going to be a member of the club, and he damn well isn’t coming to my wedding.”

  Hunt stared blankly at him for a few seconds then said, “But you acknowledge you’re having one?”

  Ryder opened his mouth to emphatically protest the ridiculousness of Aston’s words. But he couldn’t stop thinking how if he and Kathryn were married, he’d never have to see something like tonight’s debacle again. So, instead of answering the unpalatable question, he started for the doors, his step as drunk as Aston’s had been.

  He gave the only reply he could think of. “Go to Hell, Hunt. Go to Hell.”

  Chapter 17

  Kate fingered the infamous list.

  It was no longer valuable as anything but a symbol of her own idiocy, and she wished to bloody high heaven that Imogen hadn’t had a jolly old time with Reginald in the closet. At least then, she wouldn’t have a list detailing exactly where the duke could be at any given moment.

  For instance, at this very moment, he was likely at his lawyer’s for his weekly meeting regarding his estates.

  In an hour’s time, he would go for a ride in Hyde Park. And pathetic though it was, she carried the dratted note about with her as if that somehow made the duke closer.

  It was horribly pathetic.

  She’d even almost wrote him a letter. . . Five letters, if she was honest, but she’d burned the evidence before Imogen could harangue her for hours on end. In fact, her friend had been annoying beyond all possible reason, walking about with a knowing expression upon her mischievous features.

  Kate marched into the breakfast room, tucked the list back into her bodice and picked up a plate. She faced the laden sideboard and took eggs, sausages, a kipper, muffins and bacon. As an afterthought she went back for another sausage. Despite what Imogen said, she wasn’t upset.

  Not in the least.

  She was a mature woman perfectly capable of handling herself in such a situation.

  She sat and poured herself a cup of tea then ladled in four heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dose of cream. Really, she was perfectly fine. She forked a sausage, skewering it with undue relish. She didn’t need a man. She glanced at the sausage and glowered at it.

  Indeed, she didn’t.

  A man was the last thing she needed. Darkwell had no effect on her. She had already forgotten him. Forgotten the way his dark eyes heated like coals as he looked at her. She’d forgotten his hands upon her body, and she’d certainly forgotten the way he felt as he thrust his cock inside her body.

  No, he held no sway over her.

  Kate looked down at her plate erupting with food and sighed. She was such a horrid liar. Suddenly, the food before her looked appalling. If she admitted it to herself, she knew exactly what she was doing. She only ever ate like a starving horse when she was upset. One could hardly call five sausages, a serving of eggs the size of a croquet ball and enough bacon to feed a small military force the actions of a perfectly rational person.

  She took a sip of tea and grimaced. Sugar raced straight through her body and caused her teeth to grind together. She clunked the teacup back into its saucer and sighed. What was she doing?

  She’d reverted back to being a coward, that’s what. When she arrived in London, she’d been determined to be bold, and now she was tucked away in her London townhouse, her mind going over every moment she’d spent with Ryder.

  Again. . . and again.

  She pushed back from the table and flung her napkin down on the offending plate of food. Lord, she wanted to see him again so badly it hurt. Nibbling on her lower lip, she pulled the list back out and fingered it. He had no idea she had it. So, if she happened to come across him in Hyde Park there’d be no way he’d know that it was anything but a coincidence.

  Kate stood hesitating. If she did see him, what would she do?

  She’d be calm, collected, and the experienced lady of society she’d always wanted to be.

  It only took her a few minutes to put on a suitable gown for a drive through th
e park and though it was the last thing she wanted to do, she went in search of Imogen who just smiled and picked up a shawl.

  It wasn’t fair that a lady couldn’t go out by herself. But Kate was still holding to the merest thread of propriety.

  They hurried out into glorious summer air, and Gregory held the carriage door open. Much to Kate’s relief, the top was already down, so she wouldn’t be completely obvious as she gadded about, looking for Ryder.

  They headed across the lane and into the park. Imogen sat in silence for several seconds before she finally said, “Very fine weather, isn’t it?”

  The sun was out and the trees throughout the park were extremely green under the bright blue sky. However, Kate knew Imogen too well to be seduced by such banal speech. “You shan’t succeed.”

  Imogen batted her lashes. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You couldn’t give two figs for the weather. If you’ve something to say, out with it.”

  Imogen lifted her hand to her pale bosom edged with robin’s egg lace. “My, my, aren’t we in a lovely mood? I suppose you need a dose of your duke to make you sparkle again.”

  “He is hardly my duke.” Just the opposite in fact. Which, of course, was how she wanted it. She never wanted to feel the way she had when Percy made it clear he had not loved her. His duplicity had only confirmed in her father’s eyes she was a fool.

  She had been a fool to give her love to Percy. To give it to any man. In fact, she would never say she loved a man again. Of that, she was certain.

  But seemingly that didn’t stop her to risk being a fool again to catch a glimpse of Ryder.

  As they trotted down the lane running along the Serpentine, a few carriages rolled by. Whether green or black or blue, they sparkled with a fresh wash. Several had their tops down in the fine weather, exposing their owners. Ladies sat in striped red and cream silk, butter-yellow and lace, embroidered eggshell morning attire, all with hats decked with ribbons and plumes. And with each one that went by, Kate’s heart sank a little.

  Lady after lady, from young to old, stared at her as if she were a moving rubbish heap. A particularly smelly rubbish heap. With fish in it. The gentlemen on their fine hunters openly leered at her or looked at her as if she was a set of goods to be bought in a secondhand store.

  She was uncertain as to which was more disconcerting. Kate swallowed. She’d known she’d be stared at but she hadn’t realized quite how intently. Nor had she realized how intensely the lords and ladies of the ton would make their displeasure at her presence known.

  It was the park, for goodness sake. It wasn’t as if she’d insisted on attending a tea party.

  Apparently, more fool her for her optimism.

  As they sped along, it became infinitely clear. She was good and truly ruined. Something she had known, but had not truly accepted the full effect of until this moment.

  Good God, she was going to have go to Spain, or develop a liking for strudel.

  Imogen glanced at a passing carriage of old dragons, their quizzing glasses fixed on Kate, and their mouths pursed in identical frowns of horror. “My, there is quite a chill in the air.”

  “Yes.” Kate folded her arms about her middle as though that might stave off the dagger stares.

  “Perseverance, dearest Kathryn,” Imogen said cheerfully, though her eyes held a significant amount of doubt. “You must brave it.”

  Kate tried to laugh, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “Harlot!” someone shouted and Kate turned about trying to see who it was. Whoever it was had already turned, but a young boy on his pony, his face freckled and pudgy from too many sweets, sniggered.

  Imogen’s usually merry expression dimmed. “Ignore it, Kate.”

  “Perhaps we should turn back,” she whispered.

  Heavens, was this how it was going to be? Could she not even go for a drive? And with a sickening feeling she realized that yes, yes it was going to be this bad. Everyone tried to tell her, but she’d refused to accept the truth.

  She was only fit for the likes of the demimondaine now.

  A coach pulled up beside them, keeping pace. Its beautifully lacquered black siding reflected the trees, and it too had the top down. The large Carmine crest rested like a miniature shield on the door, the black cross over a white background ominous.

  The Countess of Carmine sat, imperiously, a queen of the row. Her black hair was curled upon her head and a magnificent purple hat, bedecked with pale pink flowers and a veil perched atop her perfectly arranged coif. Her purple gown stood out as if she was royalty and her lips, rouged to a rose red, were set in a cruel smile of anticipation.

  “Stop your coach,” she called, her voice hard with authority.

  Imogen nodded to the coachman. It wasn’t as if they could give chase in Hyde Park. The gossip would be far worse.

  Besides, she refused to run away and would not be run off by this woman.

  Their carriages slowed. Resting one gloved hand on her carriage door, the countess leaned forward. Other riders, spotting her and the countess, began to gather round, the scent of gossip in the air.

  The countess tilted her head and eyed Kate as if she were rotting meat. “Mrs. Darrell, I should give the cut direct but find I must address. . .” Her gaze traveled up and down her coldly. “Your person.”

  Imogen started to speak, but Kate put her hand out. She didn’t wish her friend to be implicated in this any more than she had to be. “Pardon me, my lady, but do I have business with you?”

  That caught the countess so off guard she stared for a moment, disbelieving that Kate wasn’t cowering under her disapproval. Gathering her momentary shock, she narrowed her eyes. “I do have business with you. I have a duty to instruct you on proper behavior since you seem completely ignorant of it.”

  A low hush of whispers circled round the growing group of gossips. Coaches pressed in behind and in front of them. Ladies and gentlemen on horseback made no attempt to ride around, but rather rode as close as they could, all of them eager to see a bit of blood spilled.

  “You see, Mrs. Darrell, a more honorable woman would realize the offense she gives to polite society by her stained presence.”

  Many of the onlookers nodded at the countess’ words which sent a chill down Kate’s spine. Londoners were notorious for their mob mentality, and though the day was fine, that might not stop them from making an example out of her.

  “The air is free, Countess,” Kate said firmly. “That is all I wish to take.”

  The countess’s red lips pressed into a line. “Make no mistake, madam, you are not welcome here. You are a scandal and should be driven from all good society.”

  Kate swallowed, her gaze darting to the ever growing crowd which now included carriages, ladies and gentleman on horseback. Even those from the walking paths had taken note and were swarming in like bees to honey.

  No one was coming to her defense, their eyes intense and excited. So, she would defend herself. “My lady, my society is as good as yours.”

  A series of gasps went up from the crowd as if Kate had just thrown the Bible down and danced upon it. Apparently, they all felt she should have the door of society slammed firmly in her face. And be tossed out into the mud to be trampled.

  The countess laughed, a frozen sound. “You, madam, are not fit to wipe my boots. With your conduct you have established yourself a wh—”

  “Think twice,” a deep voice growled, “before you insult Her Grace, the future Duchess of Darkwell.”

  A rush of harried commotion went through the gossipmongers.

  Kate whipped around looking for Ryder. She’d know his voice anywhere.

  And there he was.

  The Duke of Darkwell sat like a furious dark knight upon his black hunter. The crowd parted to allow him to ride through to her carriage. His gloved fists held the reins with a chokehold, and his face was a mask of rage.

  Even with fury upon his face, he was the most welcome sight she had ever seen, and her h
eart leapt at his presence.

  The countess sputtered. “Your Grace, surely you shan’t defend—”

  As if to make himself absolutely clear he spoke loudly, “Defend my wife? I promise you, I shall bring down all powers of my ducal position to prosecute any who might slander her.”

  “But. . . but. . .” the countess stuttered.

  “My lady.” Ryder sneered as he pressed his hunter up between the carriages. “You are hardly one to pass judgment, and unless you wish me to air your sins, ride on.” He turned to the onlookers. “That goes for every one of you.”

  For several seconds, the lords and ladies who had expected the public and final destruction of one of the wealthiest women in England gaped. But Ryder’s determined glare finally sent them slowly off.

  The countess was forced to wait, being locked in by the other carriages. Her face was a pale mask of indignation, and she stared straight ahead. Which suited Kate just fine. If she never had to look at the woman again, she would count herself very happy.

  When the din died down Ryder’s eyes softened, though banked anger still heated them. His gaze darted over her, and a muscle worked in his throat. “Are you well? Did they harm you?”

  Her own gaze traveled over his face, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Several bruises darkened his already tawny skin. “What happened to you?”

  A muscle tightened in his jaw, and he smiled tightly. “Nothing. An exchange of words.”

  “I didn’t realize words could leave such marks,” Kate said gently, wanting nothing more than to soothe away any hurt he might have sustained.

  “I am perfectly well,” he said, “I only wish to know you are unharmed.”

  His obvious concern sent her heart rioting and she had to take several shallow breaths. At last, she managed a smile. “I am perfectly well, thank you. A few harsh words never did anyone too much harm.”

  “Oh, Kathryn.” He sighed. “Your optimism is fatal.” He twisted towards Imogen. “Have you told her that? Have you told her if she keeps insisting on this all will work out set of beliefs she’ll end up to her neck in trouble?”