The restrained look was not an improvement.
It was almost as if—
It couldn’t be.
Except it was the Marquess of Rockport. He was just the sort of man to find himself in trouble.
She couldn’t be the only person in this world to despise the man, and clearly this stocky stranger felt strongly enough on the matter to thrust a pistol against the marquess’s back.
Who knew what he’d do next.
In truth, she sympathized with the stranger. Lord Rockport possessed a gift to infuriate the people around him.
Still, even she wouldn’t condone actually threatening him with a weapon. That was the sort of thing that led to fatalities.
“Inside,” Lord Rockport said.
She hesitated.
She wasn’t fond of the marquess. But leaving him with a man pressing a pistol into his back seemed hardly ideal. And who knew—perhaps the brusque man would go ahead and kill the marquess once she left. He’d already put a pistol against his back. It wouldn’t take much effort to murder him now.
She could handle this.
Hopefully.
If only she carried a weapon. She strove to think of something, but the stranger’s scowl deepened, and worry rippled through her body. The man would not welcome the idea that someone was here to rescue the marquess.
Slippers.
She still had her slippers in her satin bag. She inhaled the crisp air, thick with flower blossoms, and turned her attention to the pistol-wielding stranger. She flung her hair, so her golden locks would glisten in the torchlight.
“Perhaps you might dance with me.” Cordelia made sure to add a breathless quality to her voice and keep it at a lower pitch—men always appreciated that. She’d written an article on that very subject.
He tilted his head. “His Grace wouldn’t like it.”
He knew her? Then again most people knew who she was.
“It seems I have developed a habit of shocking people,” Cordelia said. “So you may dance with me.”
Lord Rockport widened his eyes, and Cordelia fought the urge to laugh.
“Truly?” The stranger asked.
“His lordship has abandoned me. Perhaps you share my opinion on the despicable nature of the marquess.”
“Yep.” The man grinned. “Your father feels the same way.”
She blinked, but continued to direct her gaze at Lord Rockport’s companion. “It’s hard to find that sort of enlightened opinion here.”
“Enlightened?” The stranger asked.
“She means you’re damn smart,” Lord Rockport said. “Obviously I disagree. Immensely.”
“Is that so?” The man’s voice roughened, but his gaze drifted to Cordelia’s chest.
She replicated the flirtatious smile commonly displayed in caricatures of mistresses and harlots. She smoothed her dress and tugged the fabric downward, displaying her cleavage in a manner that would appall the more matronly members of the ton. “See how argumentative the marquess is? He’s completely unworthy of his rank.”
The man shifted his gaze from Cordelia and her cleavage to Lord Rockport. His scowl deepened, and he seemed to jerk the pistol further into the marquess’s back.
Lord Rockport paled, and she continued to address his stocky companion.
“I’m sure if we’d been dancing, you wouldn’t have abandoned me on the ballroom floor.” She smiled and tilted her head, so that her locks would cascade downward, and she would appear even more petite and innocent. Her fingers played with her brooch, further drawing her attention to her bosom, in case the man needed help to remember she was a woman.
The burly man’s head snapped toward her. His eyes flared, and he licked his full lips.
“If this gentleman won’t dance with me, perhaps you can?” She kept her voice innocent.
“I don’t dance.”
“It’s just—it’s just that I was so humiliated,” Cordelia continued, and she fluttered her eyelashes. “If I could just show the others that a man wanted to dance with me—”
“You want to dance with him!” Ice seemed to have replaced the marquess’s voice, and he slowed the pace of his words, as if he considered her devoid of even basic comprehension skills. “I wouldn’t advise it. And look how he’s dressed!”
Cordelia inhaled. She was eager to end this, just so she could admonish the marquess. Clearly his Oxford education lacked completion.
The thickset man narrowed his eyes as if he were a sailor assessing a strange ship on the horizon.
She laughed. “You think I care about attire. I’m rather fond of shocking people.” She leaned forward, and hoped that the scent of her perfume—roses and musk, a compilation popular in Paris—might distract him further. “I danced with him after all.” She jerked her thumb at the marquess. “And his boots were making a horrible clanking sound.”
Lord Rockport gaped.
“But he’s a marquess,” the pistol-wielding man said, his tone rightfully suspicious.
“Yet you surpass him in muscularity.” She surveyed his body slowly and kept her lips extended into a smile. “I believe I could shock people with you.”
He wasn’t going to follow her from the balcony to the ballroom.
She knew that.
The man was holding a pistol after all. At some point he would think she might see it.
But the man’s eyes did widen, and his lips did part and Cordelia seized the opportunity.
She gripped the bag that held her dance slippers and slammed it against the man’s face.
The man yelped, and Lord Rockport stepped into action. He wrestled with him and forced him to drop the pistol.
It clattered onto the stone balcony, and Cordelia snatched it up and directed it at the marquess’s companion.
“Stay away,” Lord Rockport ordered.
“Stay away? I’m saving you!” Cordelia exclaimed.
“That thing might go off.”
“If I shoot it,” she said.
“Don’t shoot it,” pleaded the stranger.
She paused. Amusement rushed through her, and she took pleasure in wobbling the weapon. “I’m not sure.”
Lord Rockport sucked in a deep breath of air.
Clearly he hadn’t expected to be rescued.
Chapter Six
Fury was too mild a word for the emotion Gerard felt.
Heat blazed through him as if a cannon ball were on the verge of exploding. He forced his mouth shut, pressing his lips together, lest a tirade barrel through. But it was coming, most definitely.
Lady Cordelia managed to look proud. Almost smug. As if she were some Grecian huntress, and not just a silly chit who shouldn’t be directing a pistol at them like some French spy escaped from prison who was unaware the war had ended. She tossed her hair, its shade lighter than that of the other ladies of the ton. Gerard suspected the woman’s ancestors had been Vikings, the sort comfortable jaunting over to the British isles to disembody some clergymen’s bowels and steal all their money.
Perhaps his situation was somewhat improved by not having a pistol slamming against his back. But Oggleton hadn’t placed the pistol there until the balcony door had opened, doubtless fearing that Gerard would take advantage of the open door otherwise.
And now Gerard had to contend with a chit thrusting a weapon in their direction, all while Oggleton crept closer to her.
She wouldn’t shoot.
Society women never shot unless they were riding on fancy horses and chasing after furry animals with fluffy tails.
That was permitted. Even encouraged and relished.
Oggleton was a human being, and she wouldn’t shoot.
The cold breeze pressed against him, and Gerard swallowed hard. If only he’d stayed inside tonight. If only he hadn’t ventured on that post-dinner ride. His brothers were having a celebration at home, but he’d left, driven by a despicable desire to stop seeing the nauseating affection his half-brother Marcus bore his new wife and the uncomfortable
realization that he himself was alone.
“Now,” Lady Cordelia kept her hand firm. “I don’t like guns.”
“Then return it,” Oggleton said.
“I don’t mind them that much,” she declared.
“Clearly, given your parentage,” Gerard muttered, and confusion seemed to flicker over her face.
The pistol quivered in her hand, and Oggleton stepped toward her. His solid frame filled her vision, and she shifted her weight away. “Now, now, little lady. We all know you jes’ ain’t gonna shoot.”
“I’ll shoot,” Lady Cordelia warned again, but her hands trembled. Her voice lessened in steadfastness, and her eyes appeared wider than they tended to be.
Gerard didn’t want to ponder why he was already acquainted with the exact width of Lady Cordelia pupils and the normal array of expressions on her face.
Tension surged in the air. If he rushed forward, Oggleton might move and then—
Bang.
A shot blasted, and Oggleton swerved to avoid the bullet. Gerard tackled and wrestled him to the stone surface of the balcony.
She’d fired the pistol. She’d really done so.
And in doing so she’d given Gerard the chance he needed to overwhelm Oggleton. Gerard straddled the henchman’s back and tied the man’s stubby hands with the man’s own neckcloth. The coarse cloth might lack the sophistication and exceptional quality demanded by Brummel and the rest of the Corinthians, but it would serve Gerard’s purpose. He stuffed Oggleton’s hat in his mouth.
Oggleton was not the type of man to add anything to conversation and sparing him comfit did not rank high on Gerard’s priorities.
“Good idea,” she murmured as he checked the strength of his knot.
“I assure you, Lady Cordelia, that I am in possession of a multitude of skills, many of which bring a great deal more pleasure than knot tying.” He turned to her, but her cheeks didn’t darken and her mouth didn’t drop open like other lassies might.
Ice queen indeed.
“You could have gotten us killed,” Gerard said. “You should have returned to the ballroom. As I instructed.”
“I saved your life.” Lady Cordelia straightened and raised her chin. “Common courtesy dictates some expression of gratitude. Rescuing a person deserves at least equal gratitude as handing a person a cup of tea.”
Gerard’s dark eyes flamed, but then he chuckled. “You forget that after you interfered—”
“Saved you!”
Gerard shrugged. “Open for interpretation. Anyway . . . After your interruption I saved you.”
“You didn’t.”
“What do you think Oggleton would have done if I hadn’t stopped him?”
The stern expression on her face wobbled, and he continued to chuckle.
“I despise you.” Lady Cordelia swerved, and her thin dress fluttered in the wind. She handed him the pistol and then stomped through the balcony door. He was alone.
With a brute.
He huffed and removed Oggleton’s cap from his mouth. The man groaned beneath him, and his bulky body squirmed.
“Not good with the ladies, are you?” Oggleton said.
“That’s what you’re saying?” Gerard raised his eyebrows in a practiced expression of loftiness. “I nearly kill you, and all you can say is—”
“She nearly killed me,” Oggleton corrected. “She’s some lady there.”
“Your laudation is hardly an endorsement.”
“I’ve been following you for a while,” Oggleton said. “You could use a woman like that in your life. We all bloody could.”
“Balderdash.”
“Fiery,” Oggleton mused. “Hot-blooded.”
Aye, of all the ladies of the ton, he would have considered her the least likely to rescue him.
Emotion seemed foreign to her. He’d seen her last season. She’d seemed cold, calculating, and the perfect daughter of a Belmonte.
He glanced at Oggleton. Some things were not worth addressing. “She’s nicknamed the ice queen.”
“Hmph. I’m not pleased though that she met me. That’s the sort of experience she could recount to her father. Next thing I know, you’ll be introducing her brother to me.”
Gerard blinked. “Her brother is lost at sea, poor fellow.”
“Er . . . Right.” Oggleton shifted his legs. “So he is. I don’t much care for ghosts.”
“I’m glad you’re scared of something.”
Oggleton scrutinized him again. “I wouldn’t mind turning you into a ghost.”
“I assure you that you will not have the pleasure. I’m dashed fond of myself alive.”
“Hmph.”
“I’m going to take you to the magistrate,” Gerard announced. “And then you’re going to go to prison. For a very long time.”
“Ridiculous.” Oggleton arched his lips upward.
“He’s probably here right now,” Gerard said.
“You’ll never do that.” Oggleton smirked.
“Justice is important.”
“You don’t want everyone to think less of your brothers’ dear, sweet passed away mama. You think the story wouldn’t get out? How could you possibly arrest me?”
Gerard stiffened.
“No way will you want to admit that to the world. The ton will find such delight in tearing apart your mother. And all her descendants.” Oggleton fixed him with a steady look. “We might be far from the ton, but don’t tell me word don’t travel fast.”
Gerard swallowed hard, and his heartbeat leapt in his chest. He hadn’t even told his brothers. He never wanted to tell his brothers.
“So you’re going to release me and tell that little girl that we were just horsing around and she overreacted.” Oggleton beamed. “Think of your poor half-brothers. Lord Somerville’s colleagues at Oxford probably wouldn’t be impressed by him having a drunkard and addict as a mother. Doubt your youngest brother would be much happier.”
Oggleton might be on the ground, but Gerard still fought the temptation to tackle the man. It was a definite miracle he didn’t tear the man apart, limb by limb, just like in the cock fights he probably watched.
“Personally I wouldn’t be sentimentally attached to somebody who ain’t even my whole brother,” Oggleton mused. “But I’m more sensible than you.”
Gerard doubted that strongly.
But the man was right. He had to let him go.
He untied Oggleton “I’ll get the money for Belmonte.”
“See that you do.” Oggleton hauled his legs over the balcony ledge “I ain’t got much patience.”
Chapter Seven
Gerard stormed from the balcony.
He needed to pay off those debts—now.
Oggleton was right, he would never permit his younger brothers knowing the extent of their mother’s problems. Marcus was starting a home—he didn’t need to know the family life he so longed for was at heart completely flawed, because the thing he aspired to recreate was a childish illusion.
No, Gerard refused to share his mother’s scandalous debts with Marcus. Not when the man spoke of babies and marriage with the glee he’d hitherto only reserved for the most obscure plants and vertebrae.
There had to be something he could do.
He was a bloody marquess.
He’d traveled the world, fought off Frenchmen. He wasn’t going to succumb to a man like Belmonte and his hideous henchman.
No way.
But the horrible thing was that he’d already spoken to his estate manager, and the money simply wasn’t there. Last harvest had been poor across Europe, and everyone still struggled to recover.
He sighed. If he cut his costs, if he forced a lot of the peasants from his land and reduced his servants dramatically, he could perhaps raise the money more quickly. His estate manager had suggested it.
But he wouldn’t consider that as a viable option. He wouldn’t be forcing anybody from their home, even if they didn’t share the Highgate last name. Jobs were scarce t
hese days. The market was flooded with returning soldiers.
He shook his head. He needed another solution, one that would bring the funds and secure his safety with greater haste than he’d obtain even if he did follow the unscrupulous plan of slashing his staff.
He scanned the ballroom. Women and men danced together. On one side of the room were the gossiping matchmaking mamas, and on the other were the wallflowers.
Oh.
He swallowed hard.
Of course.
There was one solution available. Perhaps he couldn’t raise the money, but if he found a wife with a significant dowry, everything would be set.
He scanned the ballroom. Marriage was a duty he’d always happily postponed to a later date.
The immensity of the change loomed before him. This was his future life, the one he’d always jested about postponing as he indulged in the rakish behavior the ton expected. The ton might not agree on many things, but they all agreed that marriage was something to be only barely tolerated.
He’d thought he’d have more time before he needed to make the leap to husbandom and responsibility. Clearly the time was now.
Though he might postpone duty, he would never shirk it.
If he needed a wife, he would find one.
Simple.
After all he’d always known better than to indulge in dreams of love match. The process should be easier, now that he knew what qualities he was searching for in a wife.
Perfect sewing, for instance, was not a necessity. Neither was perfect singing, perfect watercoloring, or even, perfect features.
He had only two requirements.
1) Wealthy father
2) No expectations for love
He wouldn’t marry any woman who would expect him to stare at her with doe-eyed affection, stroking her hair, and singing her praises in every smoking room and men’s club.
Most women of the ton should know better, but he knew how popular books by Loretta Van Lochen were. The woman’s books had first appeared a few years ago, and it was all the lassies wanted to chat about. If they weren’t discussing the woman’s ridiculous plots, with their helpless damsels in obscure castles, battling an abundance of well-mustached villains, aided by an equal abundance of spies, they were pondering the woman’s identity. The only thing her publisher had revealed about her was that she used a pen name.
A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2) Page 5