A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2) Page 8

  The wind swept over her, and her dress billowed in the breeze.

  If someone saw her—identified her as the daughter of a duke, rushing over in the middle of the night to see a man—

  She would be ruined.

  The sensible thing would be to sneak back and go to bed, maybe get some servant to send word to Rockport. If she addressed the letter to Lady Somerville, the marquess’s sister-in-law, perhaps no one would think her note unusual.

  Rockport had made it clear that he didn’t care for her help.

  And yet she couldn’t remain at home, wondering if Oggleton would be successful at murdering him. And if Oggleton had revealed her unladylike behavior at the ball, her father would monitor all her actions.

  Even note sending might be off-limits.

  Amber light from an inn sparkled on the side of the road, and boozy singing wafted from open windows. The name of the pub, The Old Goblet, was painted on the stucco facade. Horses were tied on posts outside, and some guests chattered beside them.

  “What you doing out here, pretty lady?” A man shouted, and Cordelia urged the horse to quicken its speed. She leaned forward, hiding her face from the cluster of men, and her heart raced.

  She was breaking every rule she’d ever been taught, every rule that she’d advocated on the cream-colored pages of Matchmaking for Wallflowers, underneath images of perfectly attired women.

  She pressed forward, resisting the temptation to turn back, to climb underneath her covers, and deny that anything had happened. Her reputation was not more important than a man’s life.

  She rode past a stone church and toward the imposing property that had been pointed out to her when she’d first arrived.

  Trees touched their knobby branches together. Perhaps the sight might have some romantic merit in the daytime, but now the heavily covered trees only served to obscure the moonbeams from guiding her path, swathing her and everything she saw in darkness.

  She swallowed hard.

  Nice ladies did not call upon aristocrats after calling hours. A two-hour difference would be seen as improper: this was far worse.

  Never mind. She tied up the horse and headed up the steps. She grasped hold of the iron door knocker, icy cold now, and pounded on the door.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, the butler answered. He gave her an imposing frown worthy of his station, though his arrogance was perhaps marred by his ruffled hair and clearly hastily tied cravat. “This is not a place for harlots.”

  Cordelia blinked.

  The butler swung the door shut, and she jutted her foot out to stop it from slamming. The heavy door stung her feet, but she did not squeal.

  The butler scowled at her, but she straightened and firmed her expression.

  Her muddied gown might drag on the stairs, the light from his torch might scatter around her, but she maintained eye contact. “I am no harlot.”

  His gaze drifted toward her torn dress.

  Cordelia knew that butlers were supposed to act impassive and lofty. This man seemed to have mastered the lofty part of the position, and though he might feign impassivity when he addressed his master, he drew his face into an open sneer. “Encroachment on private property is forbidden.”

  Anger flamed through her, and she pinched the instinct to berate him away. Instead she fixed her steeliest glance on him, the one she’d seen her father using. “I would like to see Lord Rockport.”

  “Mm . . . hmm.” The butler didn’t attempt to disguise his surprise. His eyes widened, a fact that hardly improved them. “These are not calling hours.”

  “I know.”

  “You should respect calling hours.”

  “It is an emergency.”

  “Mm . . . hmm,” he said again, and something in the note seemed to imply that he imagined a romantic dalliance. Perhaps he fancied her some spurned woman, driven by anger rather than rational thought. Or worse yet—perhaps he imagined her some lady of the night that the marquess had called for. A sour taste invaded her throat.

  “I will see if he cares to see you,” the butler said. “Who shall I say you are?”

  Goodness, the man didn’t even trust her to give him her correct name.

  “He will know who I am from your description.”

  “Your torn dress?”

  She summoned the haughty glance she’d seen her father give others, but the butler only shrugged.

  “We shall see. Please allow me to show you into the drawing room.”

  Not the normal place for calling upon men, though perhaps he expected her to make away with all of Lord Somerville’s most important papers, were he to show her into the library.

  The faint sound of laughter and chatting drifted through the corridor as Cordelia followed him into a feminine room. Silk pillows dotted the sleek sofas, but the pastel colors and watercolor paintings hardly calmed her.

  The butler lit some candles, and she settled onto an ivory couch. The butler’s pudgy fingers twitched as if he desired to drag her from the furniture.

  “I recommend you stand,” the butler said.

  She stiffened and followed his gaze over her dress. Leaves and twigs clung to the wrinkled, damp gown. Her tree climbing escapade had damaged the dress. Goodness, the butler didn’t even think her fit to sit on the sofa.

  Galloping on a breezy, rainy night was not a practice to be incorporated into her daily toilette.

  She clenched her fingers together and folded them on her lap. Her heart rate escalated, but she attempted to breathe with some degree of normalcy. “Please do tell him to hurry. It is of the utmost importance.”

  The butler sniffed. “Matters of the heart usually are.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gerard had spent the rest of the evening perusing papers to see if he could sell any assets to the Duke of Belmonte.

  He stared at the ledger, until the rows of figures, each one negative, blurred together.

  It seemed he had no choice but to slash positions. Scoundrel, rake and rogue were all terms he embraced. But when it actually came time to do something that would harm people—he couldn’t.

  Voices tinkled from downstairs, and he envied his half-brother’s newfound carefreeness. The man had thrown himself into his education early on. Gerard was glad, now that Marcus had met his wife, that his brother no longer confined all his conversation to hoary academics.

  A knock sounded on the door, and he sighed. Likely Marcus.

  Perhaps he should make an appearance. The Duke of Alfriston was visiting with his new wife though Gerard felt uncomfortable chitchatting with Lady Cordelia’s former fiancé. She’d had no problem agreeing to marry him, even before they were introduced.

  Gerard knew he was supposed to despise her, but he failed to summon the emotion, no matter how much he thought about the fact that she’d spurned him.

  She’d been damned brave tonight, whether he admitted it or not.

  The knock sounded again.

  “Enter,” he said.

  “My lord . . .” The butler’s baritone voice filled the room, its strength not hampered by the extreme apologetic note that seemed to reside in it. “I do beg your pardon, but you have a visitor. A very disheveled one. Not the type of person we like to see here on the estate at all. It is not calling hours, but . . .”

  His stomach tumbled down. Oggleton. He gave a brave smile to the servant though the man did not seem sufficiently cognizant of the effort it had taken him to muster it.

  Gerard opened the box where he kept his pistol and loaded it. He then frowned and stuck a knife on the inside pocket of his robe. “Time to meet my fate.”

  The butler blinked. “Very well, my lord.”

  Gerard followed the butler through the dark hallway, and the dim light of his torch barely illuminated the portraits and landscapes that dotted the walls. The servant stopped at a door downstairs, and his white gloved hand stretched to the handle.

  Gerard claspe
d his hand over the other man’s. “Let me open it.”

  The butler nodded, and his eyes were wide.

  “You’ve been a good man,” Gerard said, wishing he could remember the name of the servant. “Take care of my brother.”

  “My lord.” The surprised expression hadn’t dissipated from the butler’s face, and his normally strong voice had weakened. Gerard’s chest tightened. This was a moment for emotion. He could not say that there would be many more. If Oggleton didn’t get him this time, he might later on.

  Gerard clasped hold of his pistol. “It’s probably best you go.”

  The butler nodded rapidly and scampered down the hallway.

  “Tell my brother I love him,” Gerard called after him.

  His heart thumped wildly, and despite the presence of his sister-in-law’s beautiful paintings, and the sumptuous rugs and furniture that dotted the room, at this moment, he might as well have been on some beastly French battlefield.

  He opened the door a sliver, and his eyes adjusted to the light. Energy surged through him, and he scowled. He despised that the butler had been forced to light all these candles, had treated Oggleton as a true guest, when the man was a murderer.

  “You shouldn’t have come here.” He firmed his jaw and entered the parlor, striding forcefully over the oriental carpets and polished wooden floor.

  And saw Lady Cordelia.

  “Your lordship!” She jumped up and stared at his pistol.

  “Ach, it’s you lassie.” He hadn’t expected her, and certainly not this version of her.

  She wore the same gown, though this time, wet grass and dirt clung to the silk surface. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair, rather than being in the prim style he was accustomed to seeing her in, lay in wild curves to her waist.

  She’d changed her mind.

  Gerard suddenly felt very, very awake. “I am pleased to see you.”

  Her blue eyes widened, and her thick dark eyelashes swooped up and down.

  He lowered his pistol. His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled at her, even though smiling and Lady Cordelia were never things he’d associated together before tonight. “I was anticipating a man wielding a knife. You’re far more beautiful.”

  Her face solemned into a serious expression that squeezed his heart, and she fiddled with her collar, stroking luscious pale skin in a rapid fashion. “Then you know why I’m here.”

  “Aye.”

  “You will need to leave at once.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to see me again.”

  Her eyes softened. “I reconsidered. I’m so sorry. Your life will never be the same.”

  “That’s true,” he said.

  But perhaps—perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

  He narrowed the space between them and noted the faint smell of vanilla as he offered her his hand. “Come. You should meet my siblings.”

  “I suppose that’s best,” she said, her manner so somber. “They should know the gravity of the situation.”

  He smiled. “They’re good brothers. They’ll understand.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lord Rockport’s expression was as impassive as the Greek statues in the garden, and she forced her gaze away. No point staring at his face to evaluate exactly why the man did not seem more distraught that Oggleton was chasing him.

  “You must flee at once,” she said. “Oggleton intends to kill you.”

  The marquess’s steady strides faltered, but when he spoke, his voice retained its natural calm. “Never fear. I’ll look after us both.”

  “Thank you.” Perhaps he would get his brother to arrange transport back to her father’s home. She despised the thought of returning, but perhaps if she were in a coach, there would be less chance that she might be discovered.

  She’d clambered down the tree. Surely she could make her way up as well.

  The butler rounded the corner. Cordelia dropped her hand from Lord Rockport’s arm, but the marquess clasped her hand instead and directed his gaze to the servant. “Prepare a carriage. We are leaving directly.”

  The butler’s eyes widened, but he simply nodded. “As you desire, your lordship.”

  “We’ll be traveling far. And fast.”

  Cordelia relaxed her shoulders. The man understood the danger he was in. Thank goodness for that. He could drop her in Harrogate. Her father would likely never know she’d left, and even if he discovered her bed empty, he would never imagine that she had gone to see Rockport.

  It was all going to be fine.

  She smiled. She’d managed to warn him in time.

  The butler bowed. “I shall inform the groom, my lord.”

  “See that you do. And give us a basket with food and drink and such.”

  “This is a situation that calls for alcohol?” Amusement flickered in the butler’s eyes.

  “This is a situation that I trust you will not ponder,” Lord Rockport said. “And now I will say goodbye to my brothers.”

  “You seem remarkably composed,” she murmured.

  Lord Rockport chuckled. “I am Scottish.”

  An inexplicable warmth swelled through her, and she found herself smiling. The man was about to be murdered and still possessed such good humor.

  “Come,” he said.

  “I’m hardly dressed appropriately to meet your family.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  She stumbled over the edge of a carpet and gazed at him wide-eyed. She never stumbled. She also hadn’t expected to hear those words from his lips.

  “And I think this announcement best comes from both of us,” he continued.

  She nodded. “I suppose that is correct. They might not believe it otherwise.”

  He chuckled.

  “I’ll assure them about the importance of the occasion,” she said.

  “Oh, they’ll grasp that quickly.” Lord Rockport pushed open a door and led her into an ornately furnished room.

  Filled with people. Women with coiffed locks gaped at her, and unwrinkled, untorn evening gowns hung from them. The men rose, and she swallowed hard, recognizing Lord Somerville, a man’s whose intelligence was renowned. Lord Rockport’s youngest brother, Sir Miles, the dashing sportsman whose muscular figure and boyish charm, had inspired many debutantes to submit poorly written poems lauding his every feature, stood beside him.

  It wasn’t Sir Miles’s wide smile, and the manner in which he winked at Lord Rockport, that grasped her attention.

  No.

  The Duke of Alfriston, her former fiancé, stood beside them. His wife, the famous archaeologist, the woman he’d favored over Cordelia, touched her hand against his, and Cordelia’s chest constricted.

  Miss Carmichael stood on her brother’s other side, and Cordelia wondered how anybody could ever have thought there was anything lacking in the woman’s appearance.

  She tightened her grip on Lord Rockport’s arm, and he smiled as if she’d done something adorable.

  Dear Lord.

  This was more than merely Rockport’s two brothers.

  Cordelia raised her chin, even if the motion demanded a surprising amount of strength, and brushed her fingers through her hair. Or she would have done if her hand hadn’t become trapped midway through. She withdrew her fingers in an inelegant fashion.

  “You’re joining us!” A pleasant voice rumbled, and Lord Somerville strode toward her. “I’m so pleased.”

  “And you’ve brought a chit!” Sir Miles grinned and elbowed his older brother. “I never believed you were working.”

  Cordelia dipped into a deep curtsy.

  Sir Miles blinked and scanned her tattered gown as if he’d not anticipated such good manners from a harlot.

  She’d never felt more conspicuous, and Lord Rockport squeezed her hand. “I believe you are acquainted with Lady Cordelia Haywood? Her father is the Duke of Belmonte.”

  Sir Miles blinked again.

  Clearly he’d also not anticipated a woman with a good title.

 
; “What a pleasant surprise.” Somerville’s voice was strained, but he still smiled at her. “Forgive me. I—we—did not recognize you at first.”

  Lady Somerville strode toward her, and warmth radiated over her pleasantly tanned face. The sides of her eyes crinkled. “A pleasure that you should choose to join us, Lady Cordelia.”

  Her lips widened, but Cordelia didn’t fail to note the countess’s questioning look to Lord Rockport.

  Cordelia sighed. She would expect that.

  “Yes, it’s a pleasure,” the duke said, his voice strained.

  “Indeed.” Cordelia forced herself to smile. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been pleading with him to honor their practical engagement. Instead he’d told her he had no intention of marrying her, even though her parents had already announced their upcoming engagement.

  Cordelia’s heartbeat quickened. It shouldn’t matter what they thought of her. She was stopping Rockport from being murdered in his bed. “Forgive me for the late hour. It was an emergency.”

  Sir Miles chuckled. “We understand.”

  “Well—” Rockport shifted his feet over the sumptuous carpet, its thickness masking the creaking that should be taking place.

  Sir Miles leaned in conspiratorially toward Cordelia. “My brother told us he was doing paperwork. Accounting. Imagine.”

  “My visit was unexpected,” Cordelia said.

  “Naturally.” Sir Miles winked again and slapped his brother on the back.

  “You were at the ball!” Miss Carmichael’s American accent cut through the room.

  “Yes,” Cordelia said. “That’s where I met Lord Rockport—I mean, I’d met him before of course.”

  “You didn’t tell us you went to the ball!” Lady Somerville exclaimed.

  Lord Rockport shrugged. “It was an impromptu event.”

  “My brother is a rogue,” Sir Miles declared, and the pride in his voice was unmistakable. “Did you know Matchmaking for Wallflowers called him A Rogue to Avoid? I’ve never been prouder of him.”

  Lady Cordelia stiffened. “You aspire to that title?”

  “Naturally!” Sir Miles smiled. “Keeps the ladies intrigued and gives them no expectations. If I have to do one more tearful conversation . . .”