Three Rogues and Their Ladies - A Regency Trilogy

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Now he took both her hands and gently raised her. He was so tall that her head came only to his shoulder. He gathered her to him as though she were a beloved treasure, clasping her head to his shoulder, and running his hands through her hair, which she wore loose. The action reduced her anger to the consistency of a quivering blancmange.

  “Oh, my dearest love, I am so sorry you suffered this when you were giving so generously of yourself.” He then held her from him and cupping her face in his hands, smoothed the peeling skin with his thumbs. Even in her distress, she still felt the warmth of desire flood through her. She wanted him to hold her close again and stop looking at her face.

  “Thank you for dousing me with water,” she said. “If I ever get my complexion back, it will be due to your quick wits.”

  He chuckled. “I’m glad I’m good for something, if only for throwing water on you.”

  “I look dreadful, don’t I?”

  “Facial skin heals remarkably fast. I think you will be back to normal soon. But the reason I invaded your privacy is because I must set the record straight on a matter.”

  Unable to bear his scrutiny any longer and afraid that her eyes were betraying her desire, she put her head on his solid chest once again. His arms came around her and he rocked her to and fro, comforting her as though she were a child.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Lady Susannah told me that you thought I had used your memories of Beynon to disarm you. I want you to know that those memories are as precious to me as they are to you and that I would never do such a thing. Particularly as I love you from the bottom of my poor old heart.”

  His words moved her greatly. She envisioned her childhood love bivouacking on the Peninsula after a bloody day of fighting, drinking out of a mug next to the duke, his green eyes crinkled up in laughter, sharing a memory of dramatics in the tree house. Tears stung her eyes. It was such a childish memory. How could a rogue be moved by it, unless at bottom he was not a rogue? “My fears and my hurt made me unjust.”

  “After meeting your mother, I can see that Beynon must have meant even more to you than I had supposed. Did you receive any love from your father as a child?”

  “He was gone to Town as much as possible. Even he did not escape my mother’s wrath.”

  “So the only love you knew came from your sweetheart. He is doubly dear for that reason.”

  “Yes. You’re right.” Forgetting her face, she pulled her head back and looked at him. “I never really thought about that.”

  “Beynon was very protective toward you, and I know he regretted leaving you. He was always so glad to receive your letters. I know now what the sunny temperament you showed him must have cost you. It is another of the reasons I love you.”

  His words of love penetrated her heart this time. He must have seen it in her searching eyes. “It would be very dishonorable for me to kiss you under these circumstances. I knew you would be alone today.”

  She shook her head slowly, never taking her eyes off of him. “Thank you for respecting me.” Leaning into him once more, she felt the hardness of his chest through his shirt and waistcoat. His masculinity excited her, and forgetting herself entirely, she put her hands up into his thick mane of hair and ran her fingers through it. He was so dear to her, all at once, and she wanted badly for him to kiss her. Caressing the planes of his face, she felt her heart melting dangerously. She had never desired a kiss so badly.

  But the duke stepped away. “Confound it! I must go,” he said. “I am on fire for you, Elise. I dare not stay a moment longer. God bless you for a miracle in my poor life.”

  He kissed her fingertips, and then he was gone.

  Dazed, she went into her bedroom and lay on her bed, curling into a ball so that she could hold the warmth she felt inside her. In spite of everything, there was no denying it. She loved him.

  She must go to her publishers as soon as she was fit to be seen in public and withdraw that scurrilous book she had written.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IN WHICH THE DUKE ENCOUNTERS FRUSTRATION

  Ruisdell tried to follow the pace of Henry Five in his courtship with Elise, but it was exceedingly difficult. Used to having whatever he wanted when he wanted it, he had not learned much restraint in his life. He called at Blossom House most days to check on the progress that the ladies there were making with the plans for the benefit ball. Elise was still shy about her face, however, for she kept to her room for the next three weeks. Her aunt said that she had never seen her niece so discouraged. Her face was taking a long time to heal. According to Lady Clarice, once it had finished peeling, it was as red as a tomato. The new skin was shiny, and Elise was determined to keep to her room until she looked normal enough to conceal the worst of the damage with cosmetics.

  They corresponded, as though they were in different parts of the country.

  Dearest Elise:

  We are making good progress in the matter of stirring up interest for the benefit ball. It is the latest on dit among the ton! I have not even confided in Somerset what the lottery will be, for fear he might let it out while in his cups. No doubt I am being too cautious. He does not say much, as you will recall. He does send his regards to you and hopes for a good recovery.

  The ball promises to be the crush of the small Season. I have ventured to the canteen to gather more information, and as of now, I have written up a sheet of vellum for fifty different men with their skills and abilities. The vellum will be laid out on a table with plenty of candles so that the guests can choose which one they want. Each man who chooses to take one will give you his name, which Lady Susannah or Lady Clarice will write on a slip of paper. That paper will go into a top hat, and then you will choose the winner after supper.

  This is all supposing that your poor face has healed. I am so dreadfully sorry that you are having such a difficult time. We have had no luck apprehending the villain who threw the soup. No one in the habitual queue knows him, or if they do, they are not telling.

  Apart from all of this, I am longing to see you again. You are constantly in my thoughts.

  Do you remember our meeting in Green Park? I don’t know if I have ever told you what an odd feeling I had. I did not know, of course, that you were reading my letter to you about my adjutant’s death. But I felt as though he were near. So near that he was able to impart a message. Someday soon, I hope to tell you what it was. But I felt a connection between us, as I sat behind you on my bench.

  You were so still. I could feel your loneliness. As it communicated itself to me, I felt that loneliness in me, as well. I had never realized how incomplete I was.

  Elise, you complete me. You have chased away the demons that have beset me since seeing so many of my men die under my command, including Sir Joshua. It was those images that assailed me on the times I left you so abruptly. But you have given me new thoughts, happy thoughts of a future I pray we will share.

  I hope with all my heart that someday you will forgive me and that I shall be able to take you as my own. But not only would I take; I would give. I would be your servant, husband, lover, the father of your children as long as we live. It would be the design of my life to please you, to comfort you when you need comfort, and to celebrate with you when you are glad.

  I am off now, for I have just thought of what I want to do! I am going to Hatchard’s to buy one of your books. One of the things that I most love about you (aside from your compassion and beauty) is that you are clever.

  Yours forever,

  R

  * * *

  Dear Peter,

  You overwhelm me with your sentiments. It is very easy to write them, but I don’t really know if you would say them to my poor face.

  I don’t know if it will ever be the same. It is healing so slowly. I, too, hope that I will be able to attend the ball.

  I have forgiven you. Indeed, after your visit to me in my room, two weeks since, I looked at the scrap of the scandal column with new eyes. I
realized that the marquis had laid the bet, not you. And I realized that you had not taken the bet, for you have surely never tried to seduce me. I also realized the culpability of the Viscount Chessingden in allowing me to believe that the date of the bet was recent and not before you had met me.

  My own feelings are in a jumble. Try to imagine what it has been like for me: For two months, I believed you to be dead, and I mourned you with all my heart. Then the viscount tells me you are alive. For twenty-four hours, I rejoice. Then, another reverse: he gives me that clipping. Then you arrive and act as crazily as Lord Waterford, breaking down my door! When I arrive in London, you have become as docile as a lamb, and, after the incident to my poor face, heap flowers and lovely sentiments upon me. Now you seem to want to marry me.

  It is a lot to take in. Do you not see? Plus, I do not think I am really that laudable person you say you love. I have a terrible temper and have done something of which I am dreadfully ashamed. I hope to put it right, but until then, and until we see each other again, I must tell you that I cannot accept this great love that you are so willing to offer me. I pray you will give me the gift of patience and try to understand.

  E

  To say that the duke was frustrated was a vast understatement. What could that angelic woman have possibly done that was so awful? What could prevent her from partaking of his sentiments? Was it all a hum? Had he overwhelmed her?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE ENCOUNTERS DISASTER

  It was but two days before the duke’s ball when Elise decided she could wait no longer but must ask her publisher to withdraw her novel. Her face was close to normal. The swelling had gone down, the new skin was still a bit too pink and shiny, but when she applied a liberal dose of face powder, she looked nearly normal. Her vanity had caused her to put her errand off far too long.

  Messrs. Eyre and Holmes had their publishing concern in the City. In order to arrive there, she must go through the East End. After the soup incident, she was nervous about attackers and wished she could have asked the duke to accompany her. Since that was out of the question, she did the next best thing and confided in the intrepid Sukey, whom she knew carried a pistol.

  They started their journey at the unfashionable hour of ten o’clock. Sukey said, “Now, dear, did you sign a contract with this publisher?”

  “I did. You have no notion how angry I was, Sukey. You must take my word. I thought the duke had trampled on my memories of Joshua, using them to attempt a seduction. Can you think of anything more beastly?”

  “I can see why you would have been upset, Elise, but it is generally not a good idea to make business decisions when you are angry. To be frank, I do not think that they will allow you to rescind the agreement.”

  Sukey proved to be correct.

  “Miss Edwards,” said Mr. Eyre, “this is your best work! Why would you not want to publish it?”

  “I wrote it when I was angry. It is too close a representation to a real person whom I misjudged.”

  “I see no reason for you to worry. You write under a pseudonym, do you not?”

  “Yes. But this person knows the pseudonym! I simply must stop publication. I will ruin an innocent person’s life otherwise.”

  “I think you are exaggerating. I have read the manuscript, and I do not think there is anything in it that positively identifies the person. Indeed, I was certain that such a villain must be fictional. He is so overdrawn that he surely would have been disgraced and cast out of polite society, were he real.”

  Elise blinked back her tears. Sukey took over. “See here, my good man, has the manuscript actually been printed? If so, I will endeavor to buy all the copies.”

  “The print run is not completed; however, we cannot hold it back now. We have advertised it extensively in our circulars and have many orders from our customers. The Duke’s Reprehensible Past will outsell all our other works combined! I am afraid that in our own interests, we must stand by our contract.”

  Elise was overcome with remorse. She was scarcely able to make her way out of the offices without giving way to tears. In the hackney, she began sobbing. Ruin! Her actions had brought ruin upon the duke—a man who loved her unstintingly. He would know without a doubt, from the very first sentence, about whom her novel was written.

  Now she had serious doubts that Gregory had even told her the truth. There was clearly bad blood between the two men. What if the card-cheating incident was fabricated in order to turn her against the duke? Had not her aunt told her that cheating at cards was worse than murder among the ton?

  The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that the story was untrue. How could Gregory tell such an awful lie? And how could she repeat it? A desperate idea began to form in her head. Hitting the roof of the hackney with her umbrella, she brought it to a stop.

  “What are you doing?” Sukey asked.

  Leaning out the window of the cab, she called Gregory’s address to the driver.

  “Why are you calling on the viscount?”

  “He lied to me. I put those lies in the book. I want him to stop it! He should be the one to buy up all the copies.”

  “My presence would only hinder you, if you intend to make a private appeal. That does sound like the best course of action, however.”

  “The driver can take you home after he drops me. Oh, pray that Gregory has one decent bone in his body!”

  Viscount Chessingden was in his rooms but was at breakfast, his valet informed Elise. Clearly scandalized by Elise’s solitary appearance at this hour of the morning at the private rooms of a gentleman, he said, “There is no place here for the viscount to receive a lady, miss. May I have him call on you at your residence when he is dressed and ready for the day?”

  Elise cursed her impulsiveness but put it down to desperation. “Please do so. It is a matter of the greatest urgency.” She pulled a calling card from her reticule and gave it to the valet. Then she stepped out into the street, wondering how long it would take to find another hackney. Gregory’s rooms were in Chelsea, too far from Mayfair to walk. Until a cab came by, however, she had no other option.

  She had not gone far when she was surprised to hear herself hailed. Oh, heavens! It only needed this. What is the duke doing in Chelsea?

  Ruisdell stopped his curricle beside her, his face thunderous. “Your first day out, and you go calling, quite alone, on Viscount Chessingden?”

  His conclusion served only to compound her guilt. He had leapt down from the curricle and now approached her. She knew he could read dismay in her countenance.

  “How did you come to be stranded?” he asked as he lifted her into his carriage.

  “I . . . I was with Sukey when I thought of a commission I had to give the viscount. I let her go on home in the hackney, never dreaming that I wouldn’t be able to secure another immediately. I have never been in this neighborhood before.”

  He got in beside her and flicked the reins. “The honorable viscount did not offer you a ride home?” His voice was neutral.

  Elise took a breath. “I did not see the viscount. I left him a message.”

  “Ahh . . . Nothing you could entrust me with, perchance?”

  She struggled with panic. Why did he have to be so kind?

  “You are far too busy, Your Grace. The ball is but two days away.”

  “I am aware of that; however, your good aunt has everything in hand. The reason I am out in the wilds of Chelsea at this hour is because my home has become a madhouse. That deuced Siamese of your aunt’s has taken to growling at me, the walls are being hung with sheets of fabric, furniture is being moved into and out of all the public rooms.”

  She managed a laugh. “It is only going to get worse. Whatever did you do to Queen Elizabeth?”

  “I was born.”

  Elise laughed genuinely this time.

  “So you see, any little commission that you might have for me would be in the nature of a favor.”

  Deciding
to change the subject, she asked, “Well. You haven’t commented on my face. What do you think?”

  “I can’t see it. You have too much powder on.”

  “That’s because it’s still a bit pink.”

  “I’m certain it will look much better without the powder.”

  “I might have been permanently scarred if it had not been for the cold water bath you gave me to stop the burning. Did I ever thank you?”

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re trying to change the subject?”

  “There really is not a thing you can do for me, Your Grace . . .”

  “Stop ‘your gracing’ me, confound it! Haven’t we made any progress? It’s Peter!”

  “The fact remains, this is something I must take care of myself.”

  “With the viscount.”

  “Yes. I’m in a dreadful coil, and he put me there.”

  “Ah . . . the guilty secret!”

  “It is nothing to make light of, I assure you. It directly concerns you, and if it does not get put right, you will hate me forever.”

  “Ever the melodramatist!” he chuckled.

  By this time, they had pulled up before Blossom House. The duke helped her down, and she lifted her eyes to his face, studying him with sadness. His eyes were full of gentleness, and he still held her hands. Loosening one, she put it up to his face. “Oh, Peter, I have done something dreadful. If the viscount will not help me, my actions will hurt you terribly.”

  “Nothing could make that happen. I begin to have a suspicion. But how the viscount can help, I have not a clue.” Taking her hand from his cheek, he kissed her palm, tickling it with his tongue, and a dismaying thrill coursed through her. “When you were so angry with me, did you put something hideous about me in a book?”