How a Lady Weds a Rogue fc-3 Read online

  He had intended it. And he wished it still. Her warmth clung to the palms of his hands and his chest, the memory of her softness upon his lips tightening his breeches.

  “That beastly man was too.” Her voice dipped. “He called me a poppy. Have you ever heard such an imbecilic thing? He looked like a gentleman, but he turned out to be not heroic in the least.”

  Wyn shook his head, jarring a fragment of clarity into it. “Miss Lucas, return to your bedchamber, lock the door, and go to sleep.”

  “Don’t you even want to know why I am not there now?”

  “I may be foxed, but I am far from stupid. I know why you are not there now.”

  “You know I went looking for another gentleman to assist me because you refused?”

  “I know you even better, perhaps, than you know yourself.” Nine girls. In ten years he had found and rescued nine runaway girls. Also two infants, one amnesiac, a pair of children sold to the mines by a twisted guardian, one former solider who’d gone a bit mad and hadn’t realized he had abandoned his family, and one Scottish rebel who turned out not to be a rebel after all. But nine girls. They always assigned to him the girls. They even chuckled when they said he had a particularly good rapport with girls, as though they shared a marvelous joke. “Now go.” He pulled back the door.

  She went, neither defiantly nor meekly. She simply went, cutting a silhouette in the glow of lamplight from the inn that Wyn consumed with his fogged gaze, the gentle swell of her hips, the graceful taper of her shoulders. He was drunk. Too drunk not to stare and not drunk enough to be unmoved by the sight of her.

  In the morning he would offer her a proper apology for his wandering hands. But now he could not. He could never lie convincingly while under the influence of brandy, and Diantha Lucas was not a girl to be lied to. Even drunk he realized that.

  A sliver of sunlight sliced across Wyn’s vision. Someone was scratching at the door, dragging him out of thick sleep.

  He rubbed the slumber from his face and went to the door. The stable hand stood in the corridor, his brow a highway of ruts. He tugged his cap.

  “Mornin’, sir.” His voice was far too agitated for Wyn’s unsteady nerves. A bottle would cure those. But he never drank before noon. Ever. The single rule he lived by. The single rule among the many others his great aunt had bequeathed him, one of which in a thoroughly unprecedented moment of weakness he had broken the night before, and for which he would have to make amends today. Miss Lucas did not strike him as the missish short, but she was a lady, a young one at that; she might be skittish. Curiously, he could not imagine her offended. But wary now—yes.

  He pressed a hand to his brow. “What is the time?”

  “Near eight o’clock, sir.”

  Wyn’s stomach tightened over the perpetual pain. Eight o’clock was far too early to feel this unsettling instability in his limbs, especially given that he’d finished a bottle of brandy only nine hours earlier.

  “Is something amiss with my horses?”

  “I thought you’d be wantin’ to know, sir, the constable from over Winsford’s been around this mornin’.”

  “Winsford?” His hedonistic host’s country. This was not good.

  “Yessir.” The man nodded rapidly, his hat brim bobbing up and down. “He’s been askin’ after that bay filly of yours.”

  Exceedingly not good. “Has he?”

  “He wanted to go right in that stall with her and take a look at her. But I said as the black would take a hunk out of his behind if he tried.”

  Despite circumstances, Wyn grinned. “He won’t, you know. Galahad is as placid as a plow horse.”

  The fellow returned the grin. “I figured since the Lord gave me a tongue to say what I see fit, I use it as I might.”

  “And what do you expect to gain from this particular use of it? I don’t suppose the constable is waiting at the bottom of the front stair and you will now be glad to show me the back stair for a price?”

  The man’s back went poker straight. “Now, see here, sir. I wasn’t thinkin’ to hold out my palm. I only thought as if you was goin’ after the lady quick like so you can catch her, you’d better not find trouble with any nosey old constable from clean over five parishes. Why, after the way she took up that little spaniel that got its paw near chewed off at the smithy’s and limpin’ along like it does and she wouldn’t hear no from the coachman about takin’ it aboard, sayin’ all the time that she’d care for it till it got well, why I figure she’s the sort that needs a little carin’ for herself.” A flush spread across his cheeks and he pulled his cap lower. “I’ve a girl like that, likes to take care of everybody else and ain’t got no one takin’ care of her. ’Cept me now, sir, you see.”

  “I do.” God, no. Damn foolishly nearsighted of him to underestimate her tenacity. Slipping, indeed. “Tell me quickly, in which coach did the lady depart and where is the constable now?”

  The constable was in conference with the local law, consulting on the tricky matter of retrieving a horse stolen thirty miles away by a gentleman of means. Especially grateful on this occasion that Galahad’s indisputable quality gave him the appearance of being such a gentleman, and thus recommending caution to the law, Wyn dressed swiftly.

  In the stable he pressed a guinea into the groom’s palm.

  The man’s eyes went round. “No, sir! I didn’t do it on account o—”

  “Take it,” he said sharply. “Buy something for your girl who cares for everyone else more than herself.”

  He set a quick pace, considerably quicker than the Shrewsbury Coach would on the quagmired road.

  The dog appeared first. Limping along the center of the road toward them, it waved its tail in uncertain greeting. Then it barked once, a high yap of pleasure. On three or so legs it leaped around, its black eyes the only discernable color in its matted coat, then turned about and raced back the way it had come.

  Wyn urged his mount forward.

  Veiled in misty rain, Miss Lucas stood at the side of the road beside a traveling trunk topped with a lady’s bandbox.

  “Do not expect me to be thrilled that you of all people have happened along,” she said before he even pulled to a halt, the dog cavorting between them with little growls of pleasure.

  “Good day, Miss Lucas. I hope I find you well.”

  “Of course you don’t find me well.” Her brow was tight. “But I can only expect you are happy about that.”

  “On the contrary, madam. I am far from happy.”

  He did not look happy. Despite his measured tone he looked remarkably displeased and a little dangerous atop his ebony horse and wearing all black, with a shadow of whiskers upon his jaw and his cravat tied rather hastily it seemed. Diantha had never seen him out of perfect order, which could only mean that upon discovering her missing from the inn, he had hurried after her. Which, despite the resolve she’d made to herself the moment she saw him round the bend, made her belly feel tingly again. Even a little hot, the way his hand on her behind had made her feel in the stable.

  “You may help me now, if you wish.” She frowned. “And I will appreciate it. But if you attempt to force me to return to my friend’s house or to go home I will refuse.”

  “Miss Lucas, why are you standing here with your luggage?”

  “Because it suits me.”

  He tilted his head. “This sort of stasis is unlikely to bring you closer to Calais.”

  “You are very clever, Mr. Yale. I’d thought before that I liked that a great deal about you. But I am coming to revise my opinion.”

  “Thank you.” A glint shone in his gray eyes. “And I am coming to see to whom I might apply whenever I feel the need to not be complimented.”

  Her lips—agents of betrayal her entire life—twitched. For a moment his gaze seemed to focus upon them, and the tingles inside her turned to decidedly vibrant sparks. Her cheek had accidentally brushed his chin the night before. His whiskers had felt hard and rough. Her skin was still tender there
from the scratch.

  “I could not leave the dog behind, you see,” she explained a bit unsteadily, though that was perfectly silly because of course a man’s jaw would feel rough if one touched it in the middle of the night so many hours after he had shaved. But she could not help wondering if she touched his jaw now would the whiskers be even rougher. She wanted to. “But several people inside the coach with me didn’t like its smell of the stable—”

  “It cannot be wondered at.”

  “—and it would not remain in my lap when I sat on the roof. I think it is afraid of heights. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous, a dog afraid of heights?”

  “Preposterous, really.”

  “You are quizzing me. But I could not strand it all alone on the road. So I was obliged to disembark prematurely. I am waiting here for the next coach.”

  “You will be waiting until Thursday.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Obviously I read the schedule at the posting inn too. I only said that to—”

  “To see my reaction.” A slight grin slipped across his mouth.

  Who knew a gentleman’s mouth could be so very . . . intriguing? Or that looking at it could make her feel hungry, though it was only an hour since she had eaten the snack the innkeeper’s wife packed in the wee hours while trying to convince her not to leave without him. Diantha had never noticed any gentleman’s mouth before. Noticing Mr. Yale’s now also seemed silly.

  But for a moment the night before, his mouth had touched her ear, his breath hot upon her neck, and she hadn’t felt in the least bit silly. She had felt hot, and not just on her neck. All over. Merely recalling it now made her hot again.

  “I said it to stall for time,” she uttered. “I am still deciding what to do. I saw a farm a mile or so back. I am considering walking there and asking for help but I haven’t perfectly worked out my plan yet.”

  “Ah.” He looked very grave amidst the light rain that was quite like the color of his eyes. “Then let me not disturb your ponderings. Good day, ma’am.” He bowed from the saddle and with an elegant tip of his black hat, started off.

  She couldn’t help smiling. For a man so usually elegant he was a remarkable tease. “You will not leave me here.”

  He did not turn around. “Are you so certain of that?”

  “Entirely.”

  The dog loped after the horses. After a dozen yards it paused and looked back at her. Diantha’s breaths shortened, a thread of panic twining up her spine.

  “Mr. Yale, you may as well cease this teasing,” she called. “I can see right through it.”

  He slowed his horse and looked around. “It devastates me that we must part company continuing to misunderstand one another, Miss Lucas.” He bowed again. “But good day to you, and I wish you good fortune at the farm.” He clucked to the horses and they moved off again.

  She gripped her damp gloves together and wiggled her toes in her soggy boots.

  “I had a plan,” she shouted. “And I brought with me sufficient funds. I did not go off half-cocked on this mission. I had a plan.”

  He seemed to be too distant to hear her. She ground her teeth and muttered, “True gentleman, my mother’s virtue.” She threw back her shoulders. “All right, I apologize!” Then not quite so loudly, because frankly she could not bear the humiliation of it: “Please come back.”

  The black horse halted, and the other too. Mr. Yale drew them around and returned. Several yards away he dismounted, left the horses standing in the road and walked to her, the dog trailing at his heels. His attention was entirely upon her as though she were the only thing in the world, his usual manner, which of course she had liked very much until now.

  He halted quite close, tall and dark and wide-shouldered, his black topcoat swirling about his taut thighs and fine boots, and very much like a man she might be afraid to encounter upon a deserted road in the rain if she did not already know him. But in fact she did not know him, not well, and mostly through her stepsisters. And the night before, when he touched her although he should not have, her knees had buckled. But for his strong hands holding her between the wall and his chest, she would have collapsed.

  “Your plan was nonsensical.” His eyes glittered. She could not believe it was anger. A true gentleman, like both her fathers, held his temper from ladies. But the spark in Mr. Yale’s eyes now looked like anger. And a true gentleman did not stroke a lady’s behind in a dark stable.

  Her breaths stuttered. “My plan was not nonsensical.”

  His stare did not waver.

  “All right,” she admitted. “It was. Somewhat. But only insofar as it took a bit longer for you to appear on that coach than I imagined.”

  His brow dipped. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, my plan was only nonsensical in that it took a bit longer for you to—”

  “For me to appear. Yes. You hadn’t any idea I would be on that coach yesterday.”

  She wiggled her brows. “ ‘Are you so certain of that?’ ”

  “Mimicry does not suit you, minx. And, yes, I am quite certain, by the simple fact that I hadn’t any idea.”

  “Really? How inconvenient for you. I always have a plan for everything.”

  “I am coming to see that.”

  “How is it that you came to be on this road without planning it?”

  “I was at a house party and the entertainments wore thi—” He halted abruptly. “Naturally, that is immaterial. You did not know I would take that coach.”

  “No. I did not know you would, that is true. But I hoped to find a hero to help me. And then you appeared and you have quite the air of a hero about you, Mr. Yale. I have always thought so.”

  “I suppose I ought to be flattered by your words and no doubt sent to my knees by those dimples that have conveniently appeared at this moment—”

  “I thought so until last night, that is.”

  His handsome features went still. “Miss Lucas,” he said in an altered tone, “pray allow me to beg your pardon for—”

  “You needn’t speak of it. Men will do foolish things when they have been drinking excessively, after all.” She did not want to hear him apologize for touching her. Somehow it felt wrong, especially since she wasn’t without blame, seeking refuge in a stable due to her own reckless misjudgment. “And I meant, of course, that I thought you seemed heroic until you told me you would not assist me.”

  His broad shoulders seemed to release their rigidity. “She giveth, and again taketh away. Is this un-complimenting a habit of yours?”

  “My dimples are perfectly sincere.”

  “I haven’t the slightest doubt of it. I also haven’t the slightest doubt that you are a remarkably troublesome young lady.”

  She blinked slowly, dark lashes fanning over lapis eyes. Then she turned about and walked to her traveling trunk. Without pretension she settled upon the trunk and folded her hands atop her lap.

  “You’ve just sat in a puddle.”

  She turned her face away, confronting him with her lovely profile. “A mundane care.” But the corner of her lips quivered not now from laughter.

  Wyn’s anger evaporated. Silence commenced, during which the only sounds were the snufflings of the horses that had sunk their noses in the grass at the side of the road, the soft whimpers of the mutt at his knee, and the increasingly steady rain. Each moment she less and less resembled the spoiled runaways he’d dealt with before. She was determination crossed with sincerity and an innocent sort of wisdom. And, before, he’d never looked upon a girl’s face and wished to do her bidding. Rather, only once, and at that time he had felt that girl’s anger too.

  But Miss Lucas was not angry. She was merely seeking her past down a rainy road.

  He wanted to see her dimples again. The need for it came upon him quite powerfully.

  “Do you even have an umbrella?”

  Her gaze remained averted. “That, admittedly, is one detail I failed to plan.”

  “Did you also fail to inq
uire of the coachman that left you off where exactly the next stop is?”

  “I did.” She twisted her lips. “Our disembarkation was rather hasty, in point of fact.”

  “I daresay.”

  Finally she cast him a glance. “Do you know where the next stop is?”

  “I do. It is but a quarter mile up the highway.”

  Her face brightened. “You have taken this road before, then?”

  “A few times.” He knew this road and the roads to the west and south as well as he knew his name, and sometimes better. Leaving Gwynedd at age fifteen, he had not strayed too far afield at first, not for three years, until he finally made it to Cambridge. The highways and one-track paths, hills, and farms of the Welsh borderlands and western Shropshire all the way to his great-aunt’s estate were more home to him than his father’s house had ever been.

  She leaped up. “Well, then, I should be on my way.” She gave a glance at the traveling trunk, released a quick breath of decision, then took up her bandbox and set off. Her boots sank into mud with each step but she seemed not to note it.

  “Miss Lucas, I advise returning now to your traveling trunk and removing the valuables and any necessities before you continue on.”

  “I will send someone back for it when I reach the posting house.” Her cloak was sodden, even her bonnet brim drooped, the errant chestnut curls that clung to her cheeks and throat making delicate dark swirls upon the cream of her skin.

  He glanced down at the mongrel wagging its tail beside him and murmured, “She has no idea the danger this escapade offers her.” Then more loudly: “I must insist.”

  She halted and turned to face him. She tilted her head. “You sound different sometimes. Just then, when you said that, you sounded . . .”

  He waited.

  Pale roses blossomed on her cheeks. “Like you did last night in the stable. And like you did that night at the ball for Lord and Lady Blackwood’s wedding, when you rescued me.”

  Ah. Clearly she had an inclination toward the dramatic. He recalled the incident, of course: a frightened girl, a pack of rowdy lads no less disguised than he at the time, and some stern lecturing. Or perhaps only a stern word or two, but the lads had scattered readily enough. Rescue overstated the episode.