How a Lady Weds a Rogue fc-3 Read online

  He bowed. “Your ingratitude is entirely becoming, Miss Lucas.”

  She burst out laughing. He offered her a mild glower.

  She clamped her berry lips shut. But she seemed to bounce on the balls of her feet, as though the effort of remaining still proved too much, and her dimpled cheeks were lightly stained with pink. Wyn couldn’t think with her so near. The punch had stilled the shaking in his veins, and now a comfortable, familiar languor stole through him, sheering the edge off his anxiety.

  The Scot would search the highway north first. They must be careful. But for today, Wyn had nothing to fear. Except himself. She was still standing too close, and the liquor in his blood hummed.

  “What would you say, Miss Lucas, if I told you that to pursue your mission we will be obliged to purloin a conveyance from one of these families enjoying Sir Henry’s hospitality?”

  “Purloin?” She moved closer, which had not been entirely his wish. Not entirely. “Do you mean to steal a carriage?”

  He turned again to the punch bowl, as much to move away from her as to pour more into his cup.

  “Have . . .” Her gaze flickered from the bowl to his face. “Have you done such a thing before?”

  “When necessary.” He leaned back against the table. “Is it now necessary, Miss Lucas? I am yours to command.”

  “Mrs. Dyer.” Her lips slipped into a partial purse. “You should call me Mrs. Dyer in this company. In case someone hears you.”

  “You are a minx.”

  “I probably am. And you drink too much.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why do you drink so much? Is the flavor so appealing to you?”

  “Rather, it steadies my nerves.” Ah. It would be the truth. It always required several glasses for him to mouth partial truths, after all. Her wide blue eyes apparently took him the remainder of the way to complete truth.

  No lies with Diantha Lucas, except one. If she knew he meant to take her home, she would seek to escape him again. With Eads on his trail, and perhaps the man in brown, he could not risk further delays.

  “Well, I am excessively nervous at the present,” she said, squaring her graceful shoulders, “so perhaps I shall have some too.”

  “You do not appear excessively nervous.”

  “I am an excellent dissembler. Really, Mr. Dyer, that should be clear to you by now.” She reached for a cup and lifted it to her lips. She sniffed and her nose wrinkled—her pert nose that sported two minute, round scars, so small they were not visible unless a man studied her quite closely, as he could not prevent himself from doing now. There were others across her brow and cheeks as well, tiny imperfections that rendered the grace of her features more touchable.

  She was damnably touchable.

  The musicians struck up a country dance. Her eyes, pools of azure in the glowing light of late afternoon, sought his over the rim of her cup. “Will it taste horrid?”

  “You must judge for yourself.”

  “My stepfather and sister Charity say I should not drink spirits. I haven’t before, you know. Not even wine.” She glanced down into the cup then back up at him. “You are not going to tell me not to drink it?”

  “That would be singularly hypocritical of me, I believe.”

  She sipped. She blinked, rapidly. Then she sipped again. She lowered the cup.

  “It is not horrid.”

  He shook his head.

  “It has not calmed my nerves yet.”

  “It requires several minutes.”

  She raised the cup again.

  “It’s warm,” she said this time, her eyes widening. “Rather, hot.” She placed her gloved hand over her throat then slid it down between her breasts. Her lashes flickered, and Wyn thought he saw something in them from earlier, when he’d taken her hand to assist her down from the coach: primal awareness.

  Selfish fool that he was, he did not now for her sake play the hypocrite and remove the cup from her grasp. For he wished to see more of that glimmer in her eyes, more of that awareness directed at him. He wished to be, for the first time in years—rather, ever—thoroughly irresponsible with a girl. With a lady. This lady.

  He wished what he wished every time he reached for a bottle of brandy, a glass of whiskey, a pint of ale. He wished to forget.

  Diantha could not feel her lips. She could, however, see Mr. Yale’s, despite the dark night and dim lamplight. She could not in fact manage to take her eyes off his mouth. His intriguing mouth. His mouth that looked so absolutely delicious.

  De. Lish. Os. Mouth.

  But it was too far away now. His mouth. And the rest of him. Far too far away. He had gone to the other side of the drive. She recalled him telling her quite firmly that she must under no circumstances follow him. And she had not. She was very good and remained precisely where he left her leaning up against the back of Sir Henry’s carriage house at the edge of a row of mightily tall black trees.

  But she wanted to follow him. She wanted to be wherever he was. She wanted . . . Oh, she wanted . . .

  She opened her eyes, uncrossing them. He was standing before her. The lamplight rimmed about him.

  “You look like you are wearing a crown.” She squinted. “Are you a prince, Mr. Yale?”

  “Yes. From now on you may address me as Your Royal Highness.”

  She placed her palm upon his chest. “I thought so. I thought perhaps you were a prince. But then you are far above my station. I am merely a baronet’s sister. Not sufficiently grand to dance with you.”

  “There will be no dancing tonight in any case, so you needn’t worry over it.”

  “That is a relief. Good heavens, this is remarkably fine fabric!” She stroked her fingertips across the silk of his waistcoat.

  “Only the best for my wedding night.” His voice sounded hoarse.

  “Wedding night?” She snapped her hand away and somehow his hand was around her shoulder then, which was a good thing because in his grasp she swayed gently into the stable wall instead of into air. She regained her footing. “Have you gotten married today?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dyer.” He released her. “To you, according to everyone you spoke to this evening.”

  “Oh.” She felt her lips curve into a smile. Feeling! But now her nose was numb. “That is a relief. Because I ex-press-ly wished to—to—” She pawed at the air and her hand landed again on his chest. “—to touch you.” She sighed. “If you were married I should not, of course.”

  “Even if I were not married, you should not.” His hand came around her wrist, large and warm, and then her hand was again dangling at her side, not touching any part of him, which really was a royal disappointment. She frowned at her fingers, then up at him and his intriguing mouth. His delicious-looking mouth.

  “Mrs. Polley has not yet awoken,” he said with that mouth, and she blinked to keep it in focus. “We must wait for her to rouse before we set off. If we awaken her abruptly, she might be startled and alert others, though it seems that Sir Henry’s servants and remaining guests are either abed or too cup-shot to notice.”

  “Oh, yes. She might believe she was being abducted and scream. I would.”

  “I doubt it. You would be more likely to quash your abductor over the head with whatever came to hand and grab the ribbons yourself.”

  “I don’t suppose you will let me drive. Papa never lets me drive, though I am quite a fine whip as ladies go. Good heavens, that sounded remarkably petulant, I think.”

  “It is to be expected. And no, minx, I will not allow you to drive. Not in this condition.”

  “What condition?” She sucked in a great lungful of air and shook her head. “Mr. Yale, Mr. Yale. I am in no condition for anything but one thing.”

  “What is that?” His voice smiled. She adored the way his voice smiled, because it revealed so much. It told her he thought she was amusing, and perhaps even a pleasure to be with. Gentlemen did not feel that way about her. Oh, everybody else did, but that was only because she liked
them, and people liked to be liked, of course. But young gentlemen did not notice her. Handsome men did not notice her. Rather the opposite. She was the spotty little fat girl that no one wanted to dance with unless it was to taunt and mock her and pull her hair and ribbons and pinch her until she wept.

  Except him. He had danced with her, with her spots and puffy cheeks and all.

  “I am in the perfect condition, Mr. Yale, for you to put your hands on me.” She closed her eyes and let the night air filter over her lips and eyelids and—

  She was hot.

  “I am hot.” She tugged at her cloak fastening. But her eyes were closed so she could not see it. Or perhaps her gloves were too tight. She picked at them, but it turned out she wasn’t wearing any.

  “Where have my gloves gone?”

  “You removed them some time ago. They are in your pocket.”

  “Oh, good. Papa gave me to them—them to me last Christmas. They are quite fine. From London you know. Like you.”

  “I am not from London, Miss Lucas.”

  She gripped his lapels and pressed her cheek to his chest. So solid. So warm. So Mr. Yale. He smelled very, very good, of clean linen and something else that was deeply nice.

  “Do cease calling me Miss Lucas.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “I don’t like it, but I would like to remove this cloak. I am positively sweltering.”

  Her back met the wall of the building and then he was unfastening her cloak and she was so happy she nearly wept. She danced free of it.

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you. A thousand thank you’s!”

  “One will do.” He followed her across the nubby drive farther into the dark.

  She spread her arms. “Am I drunk, Mr. Yale?”

  “You are, indeed, Miss Lucas.”

  She whirled around to face him, the cool night air swirling in her skirts and across her neck where it felt positively wonderful. “And are you drunk, Mr. Yale?”

  “Relatively speaking, no, Miss Lucas.”

  “Oh.” She pivoted to a halt. The world spun, disappointment smothering her. “Because if you were you would put your hands on me again, I daresay.”

  “Then we must both be very glad that I am not.”

  There were many thoughts in her head then. Her mouth tasted like paste. She could not bring the lamp-lit tufts of grass poking up from the drive into focus. It was too dark and a big black circle surrounded her tube of vision.

  She peered at the building. “Whose carriage are we stealing?”

  “Sir Henry’s.”

  “That seems terribly rude after we enjoyed his hospitality all afternoon.”

  “Yet unavoidable. It is the only vehicle remaining at this late hour that accommodates your traveling trunk and the three of us. Unless you wish to make the journey in a hay wagon?”

  She laughed. Then she sighed. She could sigh forever if he stood before her. “Four.”

  “Four?”

  “Ramses.”

  “Ramses?”

  She pointed behind him. “Our dog, Mr. Yale!”

  “Ah.” He nodded.

  “It was that name or Spider. He has black eyes, you know. Unlike yours. I admire your eyes very much. I will leave my necklace.”

  “Your necklace?”

  “As recompense.”

  “You wear no necklace, Miss Lucas.”

  “You told me to remove my valuables from the traveling trunk, and so I did. It is in the bandbox. We must leave it in the stable to pay Sir Henry for his carriage and horses. It is very valuable.”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “I insist! I hid it, you see, so when my mother stole my sisters’ jewels she did not find it.” She wagged a finger. “It is not right to steal, Mr. Yale, whatever you have been accustomed to doing in the past.”

  Her cloak was folded over his arm and he stood three yards away. The drive tilted this way and that, taking him and the spot of golden-orange lamp with it from side to side. She was excessively uncomfortable.

  Her eyes widened. “I think I am going to be ill.”

  He moved toward her.

  She was ill. Violently so.

  It was horrid.

  Chapter 7

  Diantha awoke in a sticky sweat with her mouth lined in gum paper. Wretched tasting gum paper. She swallowed thickly and her tongue felt large. So did her eyelids, and her stomach, and her head. She groaned a little and tried to breathe.

  “Awake, then?” Mrs. Polley spoke close by. “Must feel like old Beelzebub himself. Mr. Polley always did when he enjoyed too many pints at the miller’s on a Sunday.”

  Diantha cracked her eyes open. “He drank on Sundays? At a mill?” The room was minuscule, allowing only a small bed, the chair that Mrs. Polley’s little round form inhabited, and a rustic dressing table. The fabric over the window was striped and drawn back to allow in gray light. “Isn’t that blasphemous?”

  “Mr. Polley left the praying to womenfolk, miss, as good men do.” She went to the foot of the bed. “That man—and I’m not saying he’s a good man—will be wanting to speak with you now. But we’ll have you dressed before I’ll allow him in here.”

  She blinked to clear the discomfort in her head and stomach, to no avail. “Whyever would you allow him into my bedchamber at all?”

  Her companion held forth stays and petticoat. “We were needing some explanation to these nice folk for you being weak as a chick and none too clear-headed, I told them you were expecting a wee one, and bad off because of it. I’ve seen ladies worse on account of babes in the womb. Seeing as they believed it, they’d surely wonder if I didn’t allow him in here.”

  Good heavens; they were not at an inn apparently. She dragged her legs over the edge of the bed and pressed her face into her hands. “Who are the nice folk, Mrs. Polley?” she uttered into her palms, her stomach doing thick, nasty flip-flops.

  Mrs. Polley strapped the stays around Diantha’s ribs. “A farmer and his wife, and a pack of children.” She scowled. “He’s charmed the lot of them with his pretty London ways.”

  Diantha cupped her splitting brow in one palm and pressed the other over her rebellious midsection. “Has he?”

  “Took the four little ones up the hill to see the sheep this morning, and brought them back smiling and so worn-out they dropped right off after lunch.”

  The petticoat came over her head. “Is it afternoon already?”

  “Near four o’clock, miss.” Mrs. Polley guided her hands through the sleeves and tugged Diantha to her feet.

  She swayed and grabbed the bedpost. The night was coming back to her in bits. Awful, shameful, truly appalling bits. She sincerely hoped the bits she did not remember were not any worse than those she did. Her throat felt prickly.

  “I think I may be ill.”

  “I don’t imagine there’s anything left in there to come up, miss.”

  Her modesty? Her self-respect? Oh, no, of course not. Those were already thrown entirely to the wind.

  She clutched the bedpost while Mrs. Polley fastened her gown, then pinned her hair with the same swift efficiency with which she did all such tasks. It was remarkable that anyone would release such a servant from service. But of course Mrs. Polley hadn’t been of much use to her modesty and self-respect, sleeping the evening away while she drank glass after glass of punch.

  “Now there, miss, you go out there and hold your head up.” She clucked her tongue. “It wasn’t your fault that man led you into debauchery.”

  “He did not lead me, Mrs. Polley. I drank the punch by my own will.”

  Her companion’s bulgy eyes narrowed. “I know what I know.”

  Then she knew wrongly. One of Diantha’s few pristine memories of the night was of Mr. Yale gently but firmly removing her hands from his person. Repeatedly. The debauchery had been entirely hers.

  She faced the door, heartbeats smacking against her protesting stomach. But there was nowhere to hide, and she did not particularly wish to hide now. Last night she had sei
zed life and lived it with abandon—at least the parts she recalled. She would not now cower in a tiny bedchamber of a farmhouse somewhere in Shropshire for another moment, no matter the certain embarrassment she faced beyond.

  She grasped the handle and went out.

  It was a long, unadorned room boasting a wooden table flanked by benches and an enormous kitchen hearth before which an apron-clad woman and girl stood. Ramses popped up from a spot before the fire and padded over to her, wiggling happily. Standing at the far window, Mr. Yale turned.

  He smiled his slight smile, nothing mocking or knowing or any different from before, and a little chord of dread unwound within her. She curtsied and nearly tumbled over. His smile lengthened only a bit. He bowed.

  “Good day, ma’am. How are you feeling?”

  “Not perfectly well.” Wretched. She smelled wretched too, her skin radiating a treacly acridness that made her nostrils curl. She probably looked wretched too. But the bedchamber had no mirror, which was for the best. Best not to know what he saw now.

  Because what she saw was perfection. Even garbed in his usual black coat, breeches, and boots, a waistcoat of exquisite quality and crisp white shirt and cravat, he made her throat tighten up a bit. But today he looked different. His cheeks carried a glow even in the dimness of the gray day filtering through the windows, and his eyes seemed especially clear.

  “Mrs. Dyer, may I make you known to our hostess, Mrs. Bates? And this is her eldest daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bates, whose excellent cooking we enjoyed for dinner today.”

  “How do you do, ma’am?” The mistress of the house curtsied with a rustle of apron. “We’re sorry you’ve been poorly. I was ill when I carried my first, Tom, and Betsy here too.” She nodded confidingly. “It’ll be easier with the third.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality.” She went forward, the steam from the pot rising to her nose and catching up her throat again. She swallowed tightly and smiled. “I cannot imagine what you must have thought when we were obliged to stop here in the thick of the night like that. You and your husband are very kind to have taken us in.”

  “The good Lord says that when we invite in a stranger, we invite Him in, ma’am. And Mr. Dyer being so gentlemanly, we’d no worry.”