The Rogue of Her Heart: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 2)

by Nina Mason

  Just as she was settled in, she remembered with a stab of guilt and annoyance that she’d forgotten to say her prayers. Begrudgingly, she slipped out of her warm cocoon and got down on her knees.

  “Give us grace, Almighty Father,” she prayed softly. “Look with Mercy on the Sins we have this day committed, and in Mercy make us feel them deeply, that our Repentance may be sincere, and our resolutions steadfast of endeavoring against the commission of such in future. Teach us to understand the sinfulness of our own Hearts, and bring to our knowledge every fault of Temper and every evil Habit in which we have indulged to the discomfort of our fellow-creatures, and the danger of our own Souls. May we now, and on each return of night, consider how the past day has been spent by us, what have been our prevailing Thoughts, Words, and Actions during it, and how far we can acquit ourselves of Evil. Have we thought irreverently of Thee, have we disobeyed thy commandments, have we neglected any known duty, or willingly given pain to any human being? Incline us to ask our Hearts these questions Oh! God, and save us from deceiving ourselves by Pride or Vanity ...”

  By the time Georgie climbed back into bed, her heart was laden with guilt. Not only had she disobeyed God’s commandments and willingly given pain to another human being, she’d permitted Pride and Vanity to deceive her into believing she was superior to Miss Stubbs and, therefore, justified in her actions. Moreover, she’d interfered in Christian’s personal affairs, thereby imperiling his birthright and future prosperity.

  Oh, what a wicked creature she was. Wicked, wanton, and selfish. She’d thought only of her own happiness and was now heartily ashamed of herself. She also feared for her soul, which could only be saved through repentance.

  Yes, yes. She must atone for her sins in order to redeem herself in the Lord’s ever-watchful eyes. For, as the prayer made clear, nothing could be hidden from Him. Not even her thoughts.

  Georgie, now inconsolable, closed her eyes and prayed for the serenity of sleep to overtake her. All would look brighter in the morning. Is that not what Winnie once told her? Yes, it was, and Georgie dearly wanted to believe her.

  Sleep did come, but instead of peace, it brought her a nightmare in which she was inside a parked carriage in a downpour. A look through the rain-streaked window showed her Craven Castle. In the deluge, it looked like a face with all-seeing eyes and a mouth waiting to devour her.

  She shivered at the terrifying visage just as footsteps sounded on the gravel drive. Before she could reason out who might be approaching, the door flew open and an arm shot toward her out of the darkness. An arm clad in a black woolen coat sleeve.

  Panic exploded in her breast. She tried to scramble out of its grasp, but whoever it was caught hold of her arm. The next thing she knew, she was out of the carriage, flat on her face in wet gravel. A heavy weight on her back prevented her from rising or seeing the face of her attacker.

  As impossible as it seemed, she was sure it was her father.

  “You are dead,” she said, as much to herself as to him, “and cannot, therefore, hurt me anymore.”

  He laughed and kicked her in the ribs hard enough to knock the wind out of her. “Could a dead man do that?”

  “Probably not,” she said, gasping for air. “But his ghost could, I daresay, if the Gothic novels are to be believed.”

  Her father’s phantom grunted and dug the toe of his boot into her ribs, rolling her onto her back. Bulging, reproachful eyes met her withering gaze. He then brought his face so close to hers, she could smell decay on his breath as he said, “Dead or alive, I know what you’ve been up to, you shameless whore. Did you really think you could hide your wickedness from my all-seeing eyes?”

  Grabbing hold of the front of her frock, he tore it open from neckline to hem. Then, seizing a hank of her hair, he jerked her up and forced her to kneel. Hard bits of gravel dug into her flesh through her mud-soaked stockings. The pain, though considerable, was nothing to her smarting scalp, the searing shame of kneeling in the road with her underpinnings exposed, or the fear inspired by what he said next: “Do you know how we punish whores here in England? We strip them naked, tie them to the whipping post, and invite a crowd of onlookers to witness their shaming. And that is just what I mean to do to you, you filthy little bitch. Right here in full view of all who care to observe.”

  An evil laugh blasted in her ear before he tacked on, “Tell me something, daughter. Did you enjoy being fucked?”

  Disgust and defiance rose within her in equal measure. Scowling up at him, she blurted out, “Yes I did, father. Very much, as a matter of fact. Because I love him and his touch. And if that makes me a whore in your eyes, then I proudly stand so accused.”

  He released a devilish laugh and pulled her up by her hair. Biting back her cries, she found her footing. Her legs were shaking, her knees were bleeding, and she was shivering violently under her cold, wet clothes. He walked around to face her, stripped off what remained of her frock, and ripped open the front of her bodiced petticoat. Then, with a knife he produced from thin air, he cut away her corset.

  As the rain soaked through the thin muslin of her shift, she bit her lip to stop it from trembling. Like coffins in a flooded graveyard, the memories she’d buried so long rose to the surface of her mind: the blast of cold air as he slipped into her bed … his hands in places a father should not deign to touch his own child … those same hands, big and warm, guiding hers to touch him just as improperly. More shameful still were her feelings. Rather than disgust, rage, and violation, which she ought to have felt, his caresses drove her to raptures!

  For, hard as she tried, he could not be pleased in any other arena.

  So she let him come to her, even longed for and welcomed his coming, so that she could enjoy his special attention and be his favorite for a while. Even now, in sleep, her conscious mind sought to repress the experience by whispering in her ear, “It was only a dream. It never happened. It wasn’t real.”

  But it had happened. And not just once, but several times. She knew that now as clearly as she remembered the pleasing words he’d spoken to her the first time he came to her in the night: “Be careful, Georgie. You are too clever for your own good. No man wants a wife who can outwit him.”

  All at once, in the dream, she was no longer herself. She had become Mary Magdalene, while her father, in turn, had joined the angry mob that stood ready to stone her. “Kill the whore,” they chanted with hate in their hearts. “Kill the temptress. For she would lead the good and faithful astray with her guiles and wanton ways.”

  “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” she shouted in return.

  But, unlike in the Biblical story, the words did naught to dissuade her persecutors. When the first rock struck her head, Georgie came awake, shaking, weeping, and drenched in perspiration. The dream lingered, provoking her to question herself. Was she indeed a temptress who had wickedly led first her father, and then Christian, into sin?

  Or was she the innocent victim of their misguided lusts?

  In her father’s case, she was reasonably certain she’d done nothing to entice him. How could she when she saw him as the devil in the daylight hours? Where Christian was concerned, however, she was less convinced of her blamelessness. For she had encouraged his affections, together with his passions, knowing full well he was bound to another. Yes, Miss Stubbs was a spider who had caught Christian in her web of deceit, but, as his friend, Georgie could have aided his escape without overstepping the bounds of propriety.

  Now, her only salvation lay in repentance and the cessation of her aberrant behavior. She must, therefore, keep her distance from Christian (as Louisa had so wisely advised). At least until he was free to openly court her.

  Fortunately, she would not have to evade him for long, as tomorrow was the twenty-fourth of December. His father would come, make his pronouncement, and that would be that. And if, heaven forbid, her hopes were disappointed, she must give up the silly, sinful notion of becoming his mistress and find hers
elf a suitable gentleman to marry. For, much as it would pain her to give Christian up, it behooved her to consider the fate of her immortal soul ahead of the desires of her foolish heart.

  Twenty-One

  Shortly after daybreak, the sound of a carriage driving up to the house brought Christian awake with a jolt. It was his father. It had to be. For who else would dare call so early? And on Christmas Eve, no less.

  Leaping out of bed, he dashed into the adjoining dressing-closet, opened a window shutter, and looked out. The flaring lamps of a carriage came immediately into view. By their uncertain light, he could discern it was a grand black coach drawn by four dark horses, one of them ridden by a liveried postilion. He could also see the faint gold outline of a coat of arms upon the door, but could not make out the finer details of the crests therein.

  Altogether, the evidence suggested that he had not been wrong in his presumptions.

  With a mixture of dread and urgency, he lit the candles on his shaving stand and dragged a dry razor over his cheeks, jaw, and chin. He then dressed quickly and hurried toward the central staircase.

  He met Mr. Murphy coming up as he was going down. “Ah,” said the butler, looking up from the landing. “I was just on my way to wake you, sir. For your father has arrived. He requested a private audience with you, so I asked him to wait in the library. I trust that meets with your satisfaction.”

  “It does, Murphy,” said Christian, suddenly feeling faint.

  Rather than turn back, the butler continued up as he continued down. Bullets of sweat stood out on his forehead as he approached the door. He paused outside the door to steady his nerves before entering the room. There was a fire blazing in the grate and his father was standing before it, warming his hands.

  Christian took a few steps into the room before stopping and clearing his throat. His father turned and said, “You are up and dressed. How providential, for I confess I did not expect to find you so at such an early hour.”

  “I arose when I heard your carriage in the drive,” said Christian, mildly offended by his father’s surprise at his being out of bed.

  The man before him had a regal gravitas that at once forbade familiarity and engendered reverence. His fine clothes accentuated a lean, muscular frame hardened by a lifetime of avid sportsmanship. His otherwise handsome features were ruined by a large nose and deep sockets in which rested eyes the same color as his. Apart from the seasoning of passing time and that his formerly gray-streaked hair was now pure white, he looked much the same as the last time they met, which was when? Three or four years, at least.

  “Of course,” said his father. “And do I find you well?”

  “Very well, as you also appear to be.”

  “I am as healthy as a horse, I’m happy to report.”

  Christian crossed his arms over his contraband silk waistcoat. “Shall I ring for some tea?”

  “By all means … and then do let us sit down,” his father said, rather more soberly than his son would have liked. “For there is much I would say to you.”

  Christian crossed the room and pulled the servant’s bell before returning to his father, who had claimed one of the chairs abutting the chesterfield sofa. He took the nearest seat, crossed his legs, and locked his fingers over the knee of his trousers. “I have no patience for small talk, as you know, so let us dispense with the pleasantries and get straight to the purpose of your visit.”

  His father flared his cavernous nostrils. “You never had much in the way of forbearance, as I recall … or politesse, for that matter.”

  “No,” Christian agreed. “I never did … nor ever shall, I’ll wager.”

  There was a long, pregnant silence before his father reached into his coat and withdrew a folded letter. Christian presumed, even before he saw the handwriting, it to be the one Georgie sent him. “I’ve had this letter lately from the daughter of the late Malcolm Bennet,” he said, looking his son in the eye. “I trust you know what she wrote, so I shall not waste time reading it aloud. I will, however, ask you to affirm its contents, so that I can ascertain if I’ve been rightly informed.”

  Before he could say more, a footman came in to ask what the gentlemen required. “A pot of tea, if you please,” Christian told the fellow, “as well as some buttered toast and preserves.”

  As soon as the servant left them, Lord Wingfield said, “Are you, in fact, affianced to an actress and serving wench?”

  “I am … but sincerely wish to be free of her, as I believe Miss Bennet explained in her letter.”

  There was a pause before his father asked with pique, “Then why the devil did you propose to her?”

  Christian, warming inside, looked away from his penetrating gaze. “To own the truth, father, I’m not altogether certain I did.”

  “I see.” His father leaned forward and rubbed his chin. “And is she … with child?”

  Startled by the question, Christian returned his gaze to his father’s. “Not insofar as I’m aware … and if she is, the babe is not mine.”

  Lord Wingfield’s black eyebrows shot up. “You’ve not had relations, then?”

  “Though she implies that we have—and further claims I promised her marriage to gain her favors—I, in all honesty, have no recollection of either event taking place.”

  His father regarded him charily. “Am I right in supposing you were intoxicated at the time?”

  Face heating, Christian averted his gaze. “You are.”

  Lord Wingfield cleared his throat as if preparing to make a speech in the House of Lords. “From my experience, it is not unusual for a man to forget some of what transpired when he was deep in his cups. Especially if he is a habitual drinker, as I know you to be.”

  Irritated by the insinuation that he was a drunkard, Christian heatedly reposted, “Nor is it unheard of for a man to pass out when he’s overindulged in strong drink. And an unconscious man, I’m fairly certain, lacks the capacity to either perform or propose.”

  “Indubitably,” his father agreed, pulling on his chin. “But, to my mind, the question of your being unconscious or merely blind drunk remains unsettled. And to decide the matter, I must speak to the lady herself.” He opened the letter and scanned a few lines. “Pray, what is her name? For it appears Miss Bennet did not say.”

  “Miss Stubbs. Jinny Stubbs.”

  “I would like to interview her,” said his father. “This day, if possible. Do you think you can arrange it?”

  “I imagine so, given that she is presently a guest of this house. As, I should inform you, is Miss Bennet.”

  His father’s deep-set blue eyes opened wide. “Good God, man. I know you have an appetite for adventure, but are not housing your betrothed and your mistress under the same roof carrying things a bit far?”

  Christian resented the implication that Georgie was his mistress, even though, by all definitions, that was precisely what she was. “I’ll admit it has been awkward at times, but when Miss Stubbs appeared on the doorstep uninvited, I could hardly turn her away and still call myself a gentleman.”

  “No, I suppose not,” his father mused. “But I do hope you at least had the decency not to carry on with Miss Bennet under her nose.”

  As shame scorched his cheeks, Christian coughed uncomfortably into his hand. “I’m afraid I’ve not been as … well, as discreet as I might have been.”

  “Or honorable, I daresay,” his father grumbled with narrowed eyes. “And in more than this, by all accounts.”

  Christian was vastly relieved when the footman returned with the tray of tea and toast, for he could offer no defense for his caddish behavior. As the servant poured the tea, father and son sat in silence. To ease his discomfort, Christian took a triangle of toast from the silver rack and spread it lavishly with marmalade.

  As he took a bite, his father said, “I trust Miss Bennet is not another passing fancy?”

  “No, sir,” Christian said, mindful of the footman’s presence. To his father, servants were like pieces
of furniture, but he could not be as careless of their eavesdropping. “I plan to make her my wife as soon as Miss Stubbs is out of the picture.”

  As his father reached for his tea, he said, without looking up, “Are you confident she’ll still have you when you are a poor nobody who must work for a living?”

  The question astonished Christian so greatly, he choked on his toast. When he’d recovered his voice, he asked, still in shock, “You mean then to disinherit me?”

  “Believe me when I tell you I do not do so lightly.” Lord Wingfield noisily sipped his tea before setting the cup back in its saucer. “But your repeated and unrepentant rakish behavior leaves me no other choice. And if Miss Stubbs is, as you believe, only after your fortune, you will be rid of her even before the ink is dry on my new will.”

  A cold sweat broke over Christian’s skin. Though he’d known disinheritance was possible—nay, probable—he was as gutted by his father’s pronouncement as he would have been had it come out of the blue. He thought of Georgie with a heavy heart. While she had promised to stick by him through thick or thin, he could not in good conscience hold her to her word. Without his legacy, he had no means to support a wife; and, even if he could somehow manage to keep her, it would be wrong to ask her to squander her prime years waiting for him to be released from debtor’s prison.

  If he had any decency, he would not have trifled with her in the first place with his prospects hanging in the balance. But, since there was no going back, the only noble thing was to give her up. Yes, it would break his heart to do so, but he was convinced it was the right thing to do under the circumstances.

  “To answer your earlier question, father,” he began, forcing the words through his thickening throat, “I do believe Miss Bennet would stand by me even if I were penniless. It would, however, be extremely unfair of me to ask her to do so, given the financial straits in which I now find myself. For I have debts, you see … of no small consequence.”