A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2) Page 12

  The driver frowned at her, but he jutted his thumb upward. Cordelia sighed and climbed to the top of the stagecoach. Other passengers scrutinized her. Their eyes narrowed, and their expressions were as somber as their practical clothes. Not a ribbon was in sight.

  “Holding up a stagecoach,” one man muttered. “’Jes ain’t proper. There are actual stops. Not supposed to get in ‘jes in the middle of the road.”

  “Youth today.” The woman beside him shook her head in an equally forlorn gesture. Below them the shepherd drove the van and horses to a place to pull over. The spot was only a few yards from where she’d been. No wonder the driver of the stagecoach had expressed such impatience.

  “Didn’t know harlots could afford stagecoach fares,” another woman said, her voice mirroring the condescension rampant among the ton.

  Cordelia stiffened and wrapped the blanket about her again. She needed a new dress.

  “My wife is no harlot,” Rockport declared. “I would ask you to please improve your vocabulary. Some people do not favor bad language.”

  Cordelia’s lips twitched despite herself. “You’re not one of those people,” she murmured softly.

  Lord Rockport grinned. “But you are, my dear. Now come on. Let’s find a seat.”

  Cordelia wove through the carriage, conscious of seven pairs of eyes on her. She scoured the place for seats, but there was only one.

  “Sit on my lap,” Lord Rockport said. “We’re lucky to have this seat be available.”

  “But—” She hesitated. Sitting on a lap was a rather more intimate step than she was prepared for.

  “Hurry up, lady,” a passenger shouted, and Lord Rockport frowned in the man’s direction. He settled in the seat and stretched his arms to her. The stagecoach jerked to a start, and Cordelia rushed to settle on top of the man’s thighs.

  Lord Rockport pulled his arms around her, and she was aware of a comforting, masculine scent. She perched awkwardly on his knee, keeping her spine straight. He brushed his now-stubbled cheek against her. “Just sleep.”

  The stagecoach hastened, and Cordelia found herself nodding and relaxing into the man’s sturdy arms.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At some point the stagecoach slowed, and Cordelia roused. An inn squatted in the distance, and the driver directed the horses toward the half-timbered building that appeared as if it had stood there for the last five hundred years, its position isolated and remote.

  “Perfect.” Lord Rockport brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “You slept during the other stops. But I think we’re going to spend the night here. It looks nice.”

  “Yes,” she nodded in her most authoritative manner, as if she’d had experience spending nights under thatched roofs in the Pennines and could assess the quality immediately.

  She wasn’t surprised when he went to arrange a room for them, was in fact glad, yet when the innkeeper led them toward the room, Cordelia’s heart still thumped faster than the action of climbing the creaking stairs demanded.

  She was an unmarried woman planning to spend the night with a man, and it didn’t matter that they were planning to marry. Everyone would disapprove if they discovered it.

  She glanced around, just in case someone was in view, but of course the walls were thick, of course the windows were tiny, and of course no one at all could witness them.

  Somehow that fact seemed less reassuring.

  “We’re alone,” she murmured when the innkeeper left them.

  “Your scientific observations are astute,” Lord Rockport said, and she flushed, an ailment that had become all too common in his presence.

  Her cheeks still flamed at the memory of their closeness during the coach ride, at the feel of his arms pressed around her waist, and of the strange urge to settle onto his lap again. Somehow he’d emitted warmth and a sense of protection she hadn’t known she’d craved.

  He paced the room, and she gazed at the single bed.

  Lord Rockport smiled. “This looks tolerable.”

  It wasn’t.

  It wasn’t possible for the room to be in any manner tolerable if they were not married.

  “The blanket should suffice in thickness,” Lord Rockport said conversationally.

  “Excellent,” she squeaked, the process of speaking rapidly becoming more challenging as her heart strove to maintain a rhythm that mirrored some sense of regularity.

  Was the man going to squeeze into the bed beside her? After murmuring on the quality of the blankets? A quality that was not the least bit obvious to Cordelia.

  The linens she was accustomed to were far finer than these, but she’d heard enough tirades about inns in general to believe that there were worse linens than these. Not that the linens held much distraction for her now. She avoided gazing at the marquess, though she remained distinctly conscious of the breadth of the man’s shoulders, the firmness of his frame, and the pleasing arrangement of chiseled features on his face.

  “Perhaps—perhaps I might sleep on the floor,” she offered.

  “You like hard wooden planks?” Amusement rippled through his deep, delicious voice.

  “Hardness has its appeal,” she murmured.

  Lord Rockport’s eyes flared as if she’d said something suggestive, but he then looked away. “Do what you like, Lady Cordelia. I shall be sleeping in the adjoining room.”

  “There’s an adjoining room?” she squeaked.

  “You think I would share a room with you?”

  “I suppose you are conscious of our unmarried state.” She had the horrible sensation that the sentence came out more like a croak.

  He stared at her, and she shivered.

  He smiled.

  He knows the effect he has on me.

  She firmed her expression, but he still narrowed the distance between them. “Are you sure you do not desire my company?”

  “Naturally.” If she noticed the symmetry of his features, and the pleasing contours of his face, that only meant the space lacked the architectural enhancements commonly found in the bedrooms she’d slept in.

  It didn’t mean she found him attractive.

  “Not when I might kiss you?” He murmured, and his dark eyes gleamed.

  She’d never thought that brown could sparkle like any jewel, but the rich, deep color seemed to rival any emerald or ruby.

  “I—”

  “Have you been kissed before, lass?” He peered into her eyes, and her knees wobbled.

  She sucked in a deep breath of air. She didn’t want to look at his lips. She didn’t want to think about their soft curve and wonder at what they might taste like.

  She was proper. And even if they might marry, they would never be more than two people joined by circumstance.

  He lowered his head. He didn’t remove his gaze from her face. His eyes glittered vibrant dark shards, and she could have stared at them all night.

  Except then he would notice and that, that would definitely be inappropriate.

  And she didn’t do inappropriate things.

  He pulled her close to him and crushed his lips against hers. Her heartbeat pounded.

  She was being kissed.

  This was it. This was what it felt like. He moved skillfully, and her heart fluttered. His rough hands pulled her toward him, and she wanted to remain in his arms forever.

  “Now that, lassie, is a kiss.” He dropped his arms from her, his smile exuded a cocky self-confidence, the kind of cockiness that had compelled him to write to Matchmaking for Wallflowers, the kind of cockiness that had inspired him to humiliate her, the kind of cockiness that meant she could never ever trust him.

  After all, they’d made it clear that this would not be a marriage of anything more than convenience, and one very reluctantly entered into at that.

  She stepped away, even though untangling herself from his arms felt more wrong than anything she’d ever done.

  “You should write about those kisses in Matchmaking for Wallflowers,” Lord Rockport continued
. “Not nonsense about frock colors.”

  “You think kisses have anything to do with marriage?” She narrowed her eyes and sterned her voice.

  “They should.” The man had the audacity to appear puzzled.

  It was an odd statement . . . The sort of statement that made her wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, he’d felt something for her too.

  They had been terribly near each other on the stagecoach.

  But she didn’t linger on that thought. This was about propriety, and she wouldn’t just succumb to his charms. There was a reason he was referred to as a rogue, and she wasn’t going to give him her heart. Not when he seemed to not even ponder how he’d forced her into her intolerable situation. Not when he still jested at her small role for Matchmaking for Wallflowers, her only chance to truly make use of all the skills she’d been taught. Not when he showed her no respect.

  Goodness, he was the reason that she’d been humiliated before the ton.

  “The role of physical attraction should not be inflated.” Her voice grew firmer and energy pummeled through her veins. The man was impossible. She wasn’t the type of person to lose her temper, but at this moment, she struggled to constrain her arms from striking him. Her heart battered as if attempting to reach him from her ribs. “Marriage should be about careful calculation.”

  His expression sobered, and Cordelia was reminded that not only did they disagree on the importance of deliberation, but that she had lost her chance for a kiss from someone who truly loved her.

  Lord Rockport drew the thin, wrinkled curtains shut as if Oggleton might by some chance peek inside.

  “I never intended to accept your proposal.”

  Lord Rockport was silent, and Cordelia regretted her straight forwardness.

  “But you did. You rode over. Don’t tell me you have a habit of riding late at night, lassie.”

  She almost smiled. “I just wanted to warn you about Oggleton.”

  He froze, and her heart thudded.

  “I assumed you wanted to elope,” Lord Rockport said finally. “You risked your entire reputation simply to protect me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not because you wanted to become my marchioness?”

  She shook her head.

  “But you didn’t tell me. You should have told me!” Agony coursed through his voice.

  “You announced the betrothal to everyone.”

  “And you didn’t want a fourth engagement to fail,” Lord Rockport said slowly and settled into a chair.

  She nodded, for some strange reason wishing she could spare him from the truth, now that she knew he’d not intended to trap her.

  He sank his head into his hands. “Damnation.”

  “My lord?”

  “Can you forgive me?” He swung round. “I’ll—I’ll find a way to get you back to Harrogate. Maybe—maybe you could feign amnesia or something. You don’t—you definitely don’t need to marry me. I’m so sorry. Me and my bloody mouth. I was so sure.”

  “Your self-confidence knows no bounds?”

  He laughed weakly. “It’s not funny, lassie. I canna marry a woman who doesn’t want to marry me. Please forgive my behavior.”

  She smiled. “I have no plans to feign amnesia. Perhaps I never intended to accept your proposal, but I think this might still work.”

  “You like the thought of having a manor house to yourself, lassie.”

  She nodded, but she had the ridiculous sense that that was not what attracted her to the marriage with him at all. The appeal might actually be him. “Why do you never visit Kent?”

  His face stiffened, and his body grew more rigid, almost awkward, even though that was never an adjective she would have used to describe him. He averted his eyes.

  “Forgive me,” she said hastily. “You need not share.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “Thank you. Though, I suppose you’ll hear it soon enough. If not from me, then from some gossipy servant. My father died there.”

  “Oh.”

  “He went swimming in November.”

  She blinked. “He was a sportsman?”

  “No.” Lord Rockport paced the room. “In fact he was quite elderly. My mother was young and pretty and—having an affair. It . . . upset him.”

  “You believe it was suicide.”

  He shrugged. “He’s gone now. And my mother married the man with whom she was having the affair.”

  “The late Lord Somerville? Your mother’s second husband?” Shock spread through her.

  “Indeed,” he said stiffly. “I’ll leave you be. Call if you require anything.”

  She settled into the bed and pulled the covers over her. The horror of the story filled her. Lord Rockport was not that much older than the current Lord Somerville. Her chest squeezed as she thought of the poor boy being informed that his father had died.

  So his mother had married his father for the man’s title and wealth, and his father had been destroyed when she’d been unfaithful to him. No wonder Lord Rockport despised Matchmaking for Wallflowers and the financially sensible approach to marriage it advocated. His mother had married his father for the man’s money.

  The quiet night was only broken by the sound of animals howling. She tried to turn in the bed, but the rope mesh needed to be tightened, and the filled tick mattresses sagged down. Cordelia blew out her tallow candle and blinked into the darkness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When the sun rose, Gerard went to rouse Lady Cordelia.

  If he felt a strange constriction in his chest, well that wasn’t worth worrying about. Chests constricted sometimes. That’s just what they did.

  It had no bearing at all on the fact that he sometimes found himself longing for what his brother Marcus had. It had no bearing on the fact that the thought of children playing on one of his estates was a pleasant thing to contemplate, or that the thought of sharing his life with somebody else, somebody who truly understood him, appealed to him far more than it should.

  He’d been foolish to attempt to seduce her last night. He’d been spurred on by her pleasant company and the way he imagined she looked at him.

  And then he’d found out that she’d never intended to accept his proposal.

  Idiots behaved with more wisdom than he had.

  He picked up the frock he’d bought for her and strode toward her room.

  “Lady Cordelia.” He knocked on the thin wooden door and entered.

  Maybe there was something somewhat adorable about the manner in which her bleary eyes peered at him. Maybe there was something appealing about the way her cheeks were flushed from sleeping.

  She stretched up, and he averted his eyes immediately. She still wore her thin gown, but she’d set aside that plaid blanket. Her bosom curved alluringly, and his cock twitched.

  Because he was a man, he reminded himself. A natural reaction. Purely mechanical.

  Really, there was no point in looking at her. Looking at her might make him muse on her beauty, and really, there was no woman more off-limits to him. They had a business arrangement. That was all. Nothing more than that.

  She didn’t need him to confuse the boundaries between them, erected for sensible reasons he needed to respect.

  Golden locks fell down her shoulders, glistening in the early morning light that streamed from the window, barely broken by the thin curtains.

  He smiled wryly. He couldn’t have made a more tasteful choice for wife, even though tasteful was never a quality he aspired for. Scottish men, even Scottish aristocrats, tended to be linked with more animal attributes, a fact he embraced.

  He threw the dress on the bed and cleared his throat. “This is for you. Thought you might want something clean. I—er—will wait for you outside.”

  “Right,” Lady Cordelia said, and Gerard hastened from the room before he had another moment to contemplate the loveliness of her figure and the sweetness of her soprano voice.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mud slathered the ground, and Cord
elia blinked as rain dabbled downward. She lifted the hem of her new dress in an effort to protect against the worst of the puddles. Her feet wobbled over the wet gravel, and mist covered the steep sloping hills, speckled with sheep, they’d seen yesterday.

  “Lady Cordelia!” Lord Rockport’s voice boomed behind her, and she swung around.

  And blinked.

  Perhaps the fog succeeded in masking the landscape, but it certainly was not successful in shrouding Lord Rockport.

  The man towered above her, in his customary manner, though this time he was not in his customary buckskin breeches. His lips widened. “Have you seen a kilt before, lassie?”

  Warmth tumbled toward her cheeks. Kilt sightings were a rare occurrence in Mayfair, and an even more seldom one in Hampshire. In fact, Cordelia struggled to remember if she had seen a kilt in person before, or if all her images of kilts were confined to the brash, brawny men painted on the covers of popular books.

  Lord Rockport exuded more roguish charm than any of the idealized men that graced the illustrations of leather-bound books. Even though it was drizzling. Even though there wasn’t a castle in sight.

  “Shame about the rain,” Lord Rockport said conversationally. “Especially with the stagecoach. At least we’re only a few hours from Gretna Green.”

  She tossed her head. “I’m English. I am accustomed to the rain.”

  “Indeed?” The man grinned.

  “Since you are an Englishwoman,” Lord Rockport mused, “And express such fondness for the worst weather situations, it would perhaps be a shame to part you from the top of the stagecoach.”

  She turned toward him, and his smirk grew.

  “Though I expect,” the marquess added, “That even magistrates have the decency to transport their prisoners inside coaches.”

  She shrugged. “It would be wrong to expect the same standard from a Scotsman.”

  He laughed, and Cordelia had the absurd feeling she would be able to cope with being on the top of the stagecoach with him after all.

  “We are taking a coach with those lovely people there,” Lord Rockport announced, waving his hand loftily in the direction of a couple. His voice was as impersonal as a hack driver to a new passenger.