Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  Rose looked at Lord Aubry who stood there with a tight smile, then back at Wolfe. Cold fear trickled through her veins. Wolfe would not take kindly to Lord Aubry’s interference.

  The earl stepped forward, directly in front of Wolfe, his shoulders squared, his scowl dangerous. “You will show yourself out, this instant.”

  Rose stared at the men, her cheeks burning. As much as she appreciated his help, she would rather keep her struggles with this unsavory character private.

  “Yes, my lord. Right away.” Wolfe stepped around Lord Aubry, but not before glowering at her. A moment later the door slammed, shaking the floor beneath Rose’s feet. She let out the breath she’d been holding.

  “Thank you, Lord Aubry.” She dipped into a deep curtsy. Gratitude filled her, but her stomach also knotted. She knew Mr. Wolfe would not give up easily, and Lord Aubry was not likely to be around the next time she found herself in need of saving.

  * * * *

  Rose clutched the proof in her reticule as she marched toward the constable’s office. She had launched a frantic search through Papa’s old records last night. Hours were spent sorting through dusty ledgers, until at last she found the slip of parchment she needed. Rose pulled the receipt out and stared at it. Just how Mr. Wolfe managed to forge mortgage papers was beyond her understanding. Well, soon enough, she would prove Mr. Wolfe to be the fraud she knew he was.

  A gentleman in a tall hat rushed past as she reached for the office door. A gust of air created by his movement snatched the precious receipt from her hand. The document danced on the breeze, pausing briefly, then bounced across the walkway. Her pulse quickening, Rose hurried after the receipt. As she stooped to grab her proof, another wind gust snatched the parchment from her fingertips, carrying it away. It landed on the edge of a mud puddle in the center of the busy street. Rose’s chest tightened with dread. If the receipt were ruined, she would have nothing to disprove Mr. Wolfe’s lies.

  Scrambling after the small piece of parchment, she made to grab it, but the wind gave it wings again. She paid no mind to the people moving all around her as she dodged between them, desperate to reclaim her proof.

  The receipt once again, fluttered down, landing in the very puddle from which Rose had just attempted to save it. Her heart sank. She reached out, fingers brushing the receipt, but pulled back when a carriage rattled by. No, no, no. This cannot be happening. If she lost her proof, Rose knew she would also lose the cottage. She edged closer to the curb. As she did, a horse approached with a quick gate. Rose jumped back and watched, as its hooves trampled her hope into the muddy pool.

  Dropping to her knees, she reached for the soiled receipt, heedless of her gown. Please let the writing still be legible. She leaned over as far as she could, and fished the parchment out of the muddied water. Her heart tumbled to her toes. The ink was smeared beyond recognition. Nothing more than black streaks remained. What was she to do now?

  “Miss Woodcourt?” A deep baritone voice invaded her thoughts.

  She turned her head, her gaze colliding with Lord Aubry’s.

  Rose took the hand he offered, allowing him to pull her up. She glanced down at the sopping parchment. “Gone, it is all gone.” Her voice shook as she met his questioning gaze.

  “What is gone?”

  “This! My proof.” Frustrated, she dangled the wet, smeared receipt in front of him. Her white gloves were stained with muddy street water from fishing the receipt out of the gutter. Rose struggled to maintain her composure.

  “I am afraid I do not follow, Miss Woodcourt.” Concern flashed in his blue eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, determined to stay calm. “It was the receipt proving Papa had indeed paid off the mortgage he owed Mr. Wolfe’s father. I intended to take the proof to the constable. Now I have nothing.” Rose fought rising panic, her free hand fisting her skirt.

  “You might still hire the Bow Street Runners to investigate.” He studied her, his gaze softened.

  Something in the way he searched her face warmed her deep inside. “That is not an option. I must go, my lord.” She dipped into a curtsy.

  He caught her elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Pray tell, why is hiring a Bow Street runner not an option?” Rose could not ignore the small butterflies taking flight in her belly at his touch.

  She peered up into his sky-blue gaze and nibbled her lip. How could she admit to him that hiring them was beyond her financial reach? Without proof they could not simply right the wrong. Perhaps Wolfe could be arrested. No. She would have to hand over coin, and plenty of it, for an investigation. She had no extra coin. No matter how she tried to think to answer him, she simply couldn’t respond. She stood mute, gazing at him.

  “Do you intend to ignore me?” Frustration coated Lord Aubry’s words. He released his grip on her.

  Rose glanced up at him. Could he help? She wanted to ask, but made no move to speak.

  “If you tell me what the issue is perhaps I may be able to assist you.” His eyes were locked on hers. His voice was gentle. An odd sensation unfurled in her midsection.

  Rose averted her gaze, not entirely sure she wished to share her struggles with him.

  “Very well,” he said. “Keep your secrets for now, if you must.”

  “I cannot afford an investigation at this time, and I do not desire your assistance.” Her cheeks flamed at the admission. “I could not possibly impose.” Her insides felt so strange. Why did he affect her so?

  “There is no imposition. In fact, I insist.” Grinning, he extended his arm. His day coat clung to his chest, revealing a muscular physique.

  “That is most generous, but I cannot allow it.” Rose forced a smile.

  Pity flickered in his eyes as he held her gaze.

  How mortifying. A flush spread from her chest up her neck. The last thing she wanted was to become his charity case.

  “At the least, allow me to take you home,” he offered.

  She flashed a smile and turned, intending to take her leave. “I can see myself home. Thank you.”

  Taking her elbow, he turned her to face him. “Nonsense. There is no reason for you to hire a hackney when I have a perfectly good carriage right here.” He gestured toward the same impressive coach that had delivered Lady Julia to her door the previous day.

  Rose nibbled her lower lip in thought. The pair shared the same surname, but how were they related? Could they be siblings or cousins, perchance? Regardless, Lady Julia was fond of him. Perhaps not all lords were as odious as Annie’s earl had been. Surely, she would not come to harm simply by allowing him to drive her home. “Very well.” She sighed.

  Her thrill of longing went through her when she wrapped her hand under his upper arm. She was certain the reaction had nothing to do with her current predicament. Stop you ninny, he is a lord. Lords do not court untitled misses. Mayhap if she told herself that enough she would get him out of her mind.

  Lord Aubry waved off his driver. Instead, he opened the door to his coach and pulled down a tiny step for her to use. Holding her firmly, he assisted her up into the black lacquer barouche, his crest emblazoned on the door. Her skirt rustled as she sat down on the overstuffed leather seat. She had never been inside such a fine conveyance.

  The lopsided grin he offered set her heart aflutter. She smiled back before averting her gaze. It would not do for him to see how deeply he affected her. Besides, her thinking became muddled while looking at him. She needed to focus on the problem of Mr. Wolfe. There had to be a way to stop him, without sending her to the poorhouse. There simply had to be.

  Chapter 2

  Dewitt Wolfe paced his office still holding the fancy lord’s invitation in his hand. Where had the blasted man come from? More importantly, why did he insist on interfering? He thought the earl’s presence a mere wrinkle when he had intervened at Rose’s. Now Dewitt realized the lord could present a bigger problem. He caught him off guard when he ordered him from his betrothed’s home. Now, he beckoned him
to engage in a meeting. Why?

  Bloody hell. What could a fancy lord want with his untitled, penniless flower? The earl would not cow Dewitt again. He swore an oath to himself and he meant to honor that vow. Status made little difference to him. Rose was betrothed to him when they were children. His pulse sped at the thought.

  The betrothal contract had burned along with his family home. Everything went up in flames, including his parents. Following the fire, the creditors came, removing anything he had left of value, even the family’s horses were confiscated. Over the years, Dewitt worked hard, scraping, lying, cheating, and even killing when necessary to rebuild his life and ensure nothing was ever taken from him again.

  When Rose’s parents died, she conveniently forgot about their arrangement--a fact he had not counted on. Her copy of the betrothal vanished, as well. Dewitt had her cottage searched a few months earlier while she was away with her insufferable grandmother, visiting relatives in the country. No trace of the document could be found. He had hoped to use it as a way to remind her of what her parent’s had wanted.

  Did this Lord Aubry know of their betrothal and her desire to escape it? Perhaps Rose had gone to him for assistance. He shook his head. A lord would not help an untitled miss, especially one without wealth. Unless, she graced his bed.

  Dewitt’s blood boiled as an image of his Rose, naked and writhing with passion beneath Lord Aubry, sprang into his mind. He shook it off. No, she was entirely too proper to be duped into becoming any man’s mistress. Something else must be going on. Whatever that might be, he would not allow the earl to interfere with his plans for her. She belonged to him.

  Lord Aubry’s meddling would not change a thing. He would marry Rose by force, if necessary. Surely, the situation would not come to that. He owned the home she loved and her desire to hold onto the cottage should be enough to change her mind. He had spent a small fortune to manufacture the mortgage documents. Now that they were his, she would be too.

  He snatched up his riding gloves. Lord Aubry waited for him at a gentlemen’s club and he would not disappoint.

  * * * *

  Hunter lifted his glass, taking a slow sip. The amber liquid blazed a trail down his throat. Mr. Wolfe should be making an appearance at any moment. The man would be a fool to ignore his request. He drummed his fingers on the table as he stared at the door before taking another drink. Glancing around the room, he noted that White’s was rather empty at this early hour. A good thing, since Hunter did not wish for a large audience.

  He set his glass down when Wolfe bustled through the door, thrusting his hat and riding gloves at a doorman. Hunter took note of the fine day coat and expensive-looking breeches Wolfe wore. The man might not belong to the gentry, but he clearly had means. Hunter’s gaze met with Wolfe’s as a waiter showed him to the table.

  Wolfe sat across from him, one hand resting on the smooth surface of the wood. Hunter raised an eyebrow, taking note of the man’s defensive posture. “Would you like a drink?”

  Wolfe’s mouth pulled into a menacing grin. “I would prefer to get right to the point. Why have you summoned me?”

  So, the man was not interested in pleasantries. That suited Hunter, as he had no intention of becoming chummy. He took another drink then methodically swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I wish to make you an offer on Miss Woodcourt’s cottage.”

  “The property is not for sale.”

  A peculiar reaction indeed. Why was Wolfe so swift to reply? Hunter leveled his gaze at the man. “Name your price. I am a very wealthy lord. Surely we can come to terms.”

  “Your wealth is of no consequence. As I said, the property is not for sale.”

  Wolfe’s icy tone gave him pause. The pit of his stomach soured. An image of Miss Woodcourt came into his mind. She tried to hide her worry yesterday, but the tension in her shoulders, coupled with the way she averted her gaze, gave her away. A primal need to protect her filled him. Why?

  “I will give you twice what the property is worth. Far more than what is left owed on the mortgage.” Hunter drained his glass, not taking his gaze from Wolfe. Only a madman would refuse such a generous offer, and Wolfe seemed too shrewd to be insane.

  Pushing back in his chair, Wolfe rose to his feet. “No amount will change the fact that I am not selling. Good day, my lord.” He strode to the door.

  Hunter narrowed his eyes at the other man’s retreating form. He had initially thought Miss Woodcourt made a mistake. Perhaps it was an accounting error. He wanted to purchase the property so he could return the cottage to her. Now, he had no doubt Wolfe was up to something nefarious. The moment he got involved, he became honor-bound to stop Wolfe. He left White’s the same way Wolfe had gone.

  The journey back to his townhouse took under ten minutes. Hunter handed his riding coat and gloves to the butler, before instructing him to send for Lady Julia.

  The memory of Rose’s altercation with Wolfe made him scowl. Julia’s maid normally escorted her on errands. He only accompanied her to Miss Woodcourt’s on a whim. Would she have been in danger if he had not been there? Wolfe clearly wanted more than the cottage. A chill ran through him at the thought. What may have happened to Miss Woodcourt? Hunter paced the length of his office.

  A swish of skirts brought his thoughts back to the present day, and he turned at the hearth. Julia trapsed over to him, dropping a kiss on his cheek. “Brother dear, tell me why have you sent for me?”

  He stepped back. Questions swirled in her eyes and he grinned, reaching for her gloved hand. At two and twenty, Julia was younger than he by four years, and Hunter had always fawned over her.

  “You look as lovely as ever, my dearest sister.” It was a heartfelt compliment. She was dressed in a green silk gown, with a matching bonnet that put him in mind of crisp green grass. Long white gloves covered her hands and a delicate green fan swung from her wrist. Hunter released her, taking his time to answer.

  “Oh, how you do go on.” She shook her head as she worked to remove her bonnet. “And you did not answer my question.”

  “Let us sit, shall we?” He moved to a blue velvet chase.

  Julia sat across from him. She flipped her lace-and-silk fan open with a smirk. “Do tell me what you are about. The suspense is positively killing me.”

  “Very well. I wish to know the date of your next appointment with Miss Woodcourt.” He had considered suggesting she have Miss Woodcourt come to her townhouse for the fittings, but knew ‘Jewels,’ as he had called his sister since childhood, would ask too many questions. She never could stand being kept in the dark, but he did not want to share his suspicions with her. Not when all he had was a hunch. He would not put his baby sister in harm’s way.

  She pointed her gaze at him and one corner of her mouth tugged up. “Did you call me over here just to ask about my frocks? Honestly, Hunter, have you nothing better to do?”

  “Just answer me, Jewels.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chaise.

  “If I do, will you tell me what this is all about?”

  The little imp endeavored to bargain with him. She had done so for as long as he could remember, never giving up information without first attempting to gain something for herself. Some things never changed. “Just answer the question.”

  “Oh, very well. But understand you are no fun at all.” She circled her fan in the air. “I have a fitting tomorrow.”

  “I will accompany you,” he said in a tone that brooked no refusal. “For what hour shall I order the carriage?”

  “Late morning will do. Now, do tell me what this is about.” She leaned toward him, eyes dancing with mirth. “Are you sweet on Miss Woodcourt, brother dear?”

  He balked at the preposterous supposition. “You have a very active imagination.” Miss Woodcourt intrigued him, but he did not fancy the young lady. Did he? No, he could not possibly. Even if he were in the market for a wife--which he absolutely was not--she was an unsuitable match. When and if he ever married, it must be to a woman of
good breeding.

  Julia sighed. “More’s the pity. She is a delightful woman.”

  He called Miss Woodcourt’s image into his mind. With her delicate features and expressive green eyes, there was no denying she was a pretty thing. But he knew lots of pretty girls. Attractive aristocratic ladies far better suited to him. No. He sympathized with Miss Woodcourt’s plight and intended to help, nothing more. Besides, he had a duty to protect Jewels.

  “I merely wish to escort you is all. I miss spending time with my baby sister.”

  “While your words are sweet, I do not believe them.” She smiled. “All the same, I shall allow your escort. Just do not tarry. I will go without you if you fail to arrive by ten in the morning.” Jewels stood and smoothed her green skirts. “I must be getting home now.” She walked to the door and stopped. Turning to him, a mirthful smile curving her lips, she said, “You could do a great deal worse than Miss Woodcourt.”

  Hunter opened his mouth to argue, but closed it. She was gone before he could speak.

  Only Jewels would champion for him to wed a common miss. He shook his head. All of London would snub him forevermore.

  Blast! Jewels had gotten inside his head. Before she arrived, he had not given any thought to Miss Woodcourt as a match. He shook his head to dispel the ridiculous notion.

  Hunter looked up when his butler entered the room. “Lord Sinclair is here to call on you, my lord.”

  Hunter’s long time friend, Garret Tumbly, Viscount Sinclair strolled into the room.

  “Fancy the timing, Sinclair. I find myself in need of your expertise.” Hunter moved to the whiskey decanter and filled two glasses.

  Sinclair positioned himself on a wing-back chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. He took the glass Hunter handed him. “I am happy to oblige.”

  If anyone could help him discover what was afoot between Wolfe and Rose, Sinclair could. The two became very close after they met at Eton, a friendship that only grew during their Oxford days. Now he thought of Sinclair more like a brother than a friend.