Every Bit a Rogue

Book 4: Ellinghams

by Adrienne Basso

Genres: Women's Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

An Amazon Best of the Month Selection When a young lady sacrifices her reputation to save a viscount, it’s the beginning of an extraordinary adventure in Adrienne Basso’s captivating Regency tale . . . Jon Burwell, Viscount Kendall, knows what the gossips say about him. They claim he’s been a dejected, half-mad recluse ever since he was jilted at the altar. The simple truth is that Jon has thrown all the passion he once had for his fiancée into his latest mechanical invention. But his single-minded existence has lately been shattered by repeated encounters with Miss Emma Ellingham, his neighbor’s intriguing sister-in-law . . . Painting and sketching have been Emma’s consolation since her own secret heartbreak. When she stumbles upon the viscount’s workshop, his machine revives her artistic imagination. The gentleman himself is even more fascinating—and deeply seductive. When Jon is accused of a crime, Emma risks her good name for his sake. But though the threat of scandal compels them to wed, only courage can overcome their pasts, and allow desire to transform into love . . . Praise for Adrienne Basso’s The Bride Chooses a Highlander “Basso keeps the action moving and the attraction building between the compassionate, appealing protagonists, making their journey to the altar both entertaining and satisfying.” — Publishers Weekly

Release date: February 25, 2020

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 267

Sample

English Countryside, 1824

The bride was late. Not modestly late, not traditionally late, not coyly late.

Alarmingly late.

Scandalously late.

Unforgivably late.

The slight spring breeze that had earlier drifted through the small, crowded chapel had ceased. The guests, growing warm and impatient, began fidgeting in their seats. Those who had previously turned around to discreetly glance at the church doors, were now openly staring and the murmurs of conversations speculating as to what, exactly, was keeping the bride had begun to swell in volume.

“Can you see anything, Carter?” Lady Dorothea Grayson, Marchioness of Atwood, asked. Her husband dutifully angled his shoulder, raised his chin, and stole a quick look at the open church doors.

“Or hear anything?” her older sister, Gwendolyn Barrington, added as she extracted a fan from her reticule and began vigorously waving it in front of her face.

“Not a blessed thing to be seen or heard,” Carter replied. As he was taller than most men, the marquess had an unobstructed view, so there was no need to be as vulgar as some of the other guests and so obviously crane his neck.

Sitting quietly between her two sisters, Gwendolyn and Dorothea, Miss Emma Ellingham lifted her head and glanced about the chapel, noting for the first time that something was amiss. She had been woolgathering, caught so intently in her own thoughts that until now she had shut out her surroundings.

It was an understandable circumstance. She had been invited to the wedding merely as a courtesy out of respect for her brother-in-law Carter Grayson, the Marquess of Atwood, heir to the Dukedom of Hansborough. Carter and her sister Dorothea were the groom’s neighbors, and since Emma was currently living with them, it would have been considered impolite to exclude her.

Emma had only briefly met the groom, Viscount Kendall, in passing last month and had never once laid eyes upon the bride. Apparently, from what she could now glean, there was a chance she might never be afforded that opportunity.

“Brides, especially younger ones, can suffer from extreme nerves on their wedding day,” Emma said, hastily adding, “or so I’ve been told. Perhaps the poor girl needs a few extra moments to steady herself before the ceremony. I believe you mentioned that she was only nineteen years of age, Dorothea?”

“I did.” Dorothea cocked an eyebrow at Emma. “I’m surprised that you remembered. Actually, I had assumed that you weren’t even listening to me when I told you.”

Emma blushed. Dorothea and Carter had been nothing but kind to her since she had left Gwen’s household and come to live with them last month. Emma appreciated their warm hospitality and efforts to include her in all things, but frankly she found the many intricacies of their social life exhausting. Especially given her ever-present, lingering melancholy.

No matter how hard she tried, Emma had been unable to get past her current preoccupation with her future. Specifically, what she was going to do with herself now that her artistic muse, the one thing that had sustained her for all of her twenty-two years, appeared to have vanished.

Who was she, if not an artist? What could she possibly do with herself, with her life, if she did not paint? The question was terrifying to contemplate, even more so when no reasonable answer was to be found.

Her artistic talent had been obvious from a young age, but since she was female, it had never been encouraged. Growing up, art lessons had been beyond her family’s financial circumstances, especially after her parents had died, but despite the lack of formal training, Emma’s skills had continued to grow.

Her oldest sister Gwendolyn’s marriage to the wealthy Jason Barrington seven years ago had changed everything. Suddenly, there were art lessons with the finest instructors, along with encouragement and admiration for her work. ’Twas glorious and humbling and wonderful.

Then two months ago—unexpectedly, inexplicably—her passion and inspiration for her art deserted her. And it seemed the harder she tried to get it back, the further it slipped away, leaving her puzzled and fearful.

Emma sighed and looked again around the church, the muttering crowd and the nervous groom, acknowledging that she wasn’t the only one facing an uncertain future.

“What precisely is the etiquette for this sort of thing?” Gwendolyn wanted to know.

Gwen’s husband, Jason Barrington, crossed his arms and sighed. “I suppose we must wait until the groom decides he has had enough.”

Carter removed a gold pocket watch from the vest of his patterned silk waistcoat. “The bride is nearly an hour late. I highly doubt the chit is going to make an appearance. Kendall must have come to that realization already.”

“Ah, but according to Mr. Pope, hope springs eternal,” Emma interjected, quoting the famous poet. “We might be here for an indeterminable amount of time.”

“Oh, dear.” Gwen sighed heavily and increased the already rapid speed of her fan.

“Our discomfort is nothing compared to the agony that poor Lord Kendall must be feeling,” Dorothea said with a sympathetic sigh. “’Tis common knowledge that he has a great affection for his fiancée and holds her in the highest regard and esteem. The scandal of being jilted will only add another layer of pain to his heartbreak. Especially since he is such a levelheaded, responsible, proper sort of fellow. Truly above reproach.”

“In other words, dull,” Jason interjected wryly.

“Don’t be unkind,” Gwen scolded, rapping her husband’s knuckles with the base of her fan. “Not all men are cut out to be daring, dashing rogues like you, my love.”

“Alas, Barrington is a rogue no longer. He’s been thoroughly domesticated by years of marriage to you, Gwen,” Carter joked.

Jason furrowed his brow. “I could say the same of you, Atwood, but I’ve too much breeding to mention it.”

The two men exchanged an exaggerated glare before breaking into roguish grins.

Emma shook her head, marveling at how much alike her two brothers-in-law could be at times. An odd occurrence, given that her sisters were very different women. Gwen was sensible, practical, and selfless while Dorothea was fanciful, unconventional the majority of the time, and kind.

There was no denying that marriage had brought them both great happiness and joy, along with a love that was deep and true. Could marriage do the same for her? Was it the lack of a partner that kept her tossing and turning at night, dissatisfied with seemingly everything in her life?

Emma sighed deeply. Nay. The man she loved, with her whole heart and full spirit, was married to another. Sebastian Dodd, Viscount Benton, Earl of Tinsdale, had captured her devotion within minutes of their first meeting. He was dark and brooding, complicated and witty and handsome to a fault.

Yet beneath the roguish exterior beat the heart of a sensitive man. For years it seemed as though she was the only one who saw it—or rather, she was the only one Sebastian felt safe revealing his true self to.

She had fallen in love with him when she was sixteen and though she was considerably younger than he, Sebastian had always treated her as an adult. He made her feel special, important, alive. He teased her, confided in her, listened to and valued her opinions, and when she had finally gained the courage to confess her love, he claimed that he loved her too—in a very different way. As one would love a younger sister, a boon companion, the closest of friends.

Not passionately—as she had loved him. Not as a man loved a woman. As Jason loved Gwen. As Carter loved Dorothea.

As, based on the green tinge of his complexion and the bleak, worried eyes of Viscount Kendall, today’s groom loved his prospective bride.

A noisy scuffle at the back of the church broke through Emma’s gloomy memories. Following the lead of the other guests in the chapel, she shifted in the pew and stared at the heavy oak doors, which were now shut. Then, suddenly, they swung open with a resounding thud, the harsh sound reverberating to the wooden rafters.

It appeared that the bride had finally arrived.

Jon Burwell, Viscount Kendall, tugged at his pristine white cravat, attempting to ease the tightness that encircled his neck. His valet, Gilmore, had fussed for nearly fifteen minutes this morning, insisting that his lordship needed to look perfect on this most auspicious occasion. For once Jon had allowed it, willing to accept the fashionable discomfort in exchange for pleasing his soon-to-be wife.

Above all, he wanted to make Dianna proud when she beheld her groom. He wanted her to know that he was willing to make the small—as well as the grand— gestures in order to assure her happiness. The love he felt for her was all encompassing, so deep that often he felt unable to adequately express it in words.

Instead he relied on actions to demonstrate his utter devotion. Personally, he would have preferred a simple, family affair, but Dianna had wanted a large church wedding with a noble guest list. Jon had acquiesced.

She asked for their wedding breakfast to be held in the ballroom of his manor house, as it was far grander than her father’s home, and Jon was quick to agree. The long list of dishes she requested to be served put a sour expression on his cook’s face as well as a sizable dent in Jon’s wallet, but any unpleasantness was well worth enduring if it made Dianna happy.

His enchanting bride-to-be had begged to visit dozens of European cities on an extended wedding trip, and Jon had worked tirelessly making the arrangements. He planned their route thoughtfully, booking the finest accommodations available and hiring the most luxurious modes of transportation he could find to take them from one place to the next.

This trip would put a strain on his finances, but he had tightened his estate and household budgets and limited or even eliminated a variety of other personal expenses to accommodate Dianna’s wishes.

And he had done it all with joy and eagerness.

Not everyone, however, approved of his actions. A few of his friends had warned him that he was being far too indulgent and his mother had sputtered with outrage each time she learned of Dianna’s latest request.

It all came to a head yesterday morning when his mother saw the wedding cake Dianna had chosen—a multi-tiered confection that required the services of a French pastry chef to carefully construct. Stammering with indignity, Jon’s mother had pronounced it a vulgar monstrosity, and the height of poor taste. He had silenced her objections with a stern warning to keep her opinions to herself, which in turn had set off a torrent of tears.

His mother’s reaction made Jon feel like a brute, yet there was no help for it. He would not tolerate any criticism of his future wife, even from the mother that he adored. His greatest hope was that the two women he loved most in the world would someday share a more congenial relationship, and perhaps in time, that a bond would form.

One could only hope. And perhaps pray.

Jon’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the commotion at the church doors. At last! He sniffed, swallowing the lump that had settled in his throat and insisted that he had not truly been worried. He should have known that Dianna would insist upon making a grand, dramatic entrance.

The minx.

Jon pulled his hand away from his cravat, straightened his spine, and lifted his chin. With a rapidly beating pulse, he waited anxiously for the organ to swell with the majestic music announcing the arrival—at long last—of the bride.

Alas, the pipes remained eerily quiet and Jon soon realized why. ’Twas not a vision of feminine beauty and grace that strode down the aisle toward him, but rather a red-faced, heavy-breathing gentleman.

Hector Winthrope, Dianna’s older brother.

Hector literally ran down the aisle, seemingly unaware of the many eyes that followed him. The wave of chattering voices abruptly ceased when he reached Jon and an almost obscene quiet descended upon the church.

“Have you left Dianna in the carriage?” Jon asked, frowning with worry.

“Lord, no!” Hector exclaimed, thrusting the parchment dangling from his hand at Jon. “Read it. This note explains all. Well, rather, it states why she isn’t here. In truth, I fear it explains nothing.”

Jon accepted the letter, quickly scanning its contents. He recognized the handwriting instantly. The long, delicate swirls and slightly tilted lines could only have been written by Dianna.

“She’s run off,” Hector interrupted impatiently in a loud whisper. “With that scoundrel Dickenson.”

Jon’s head shifted. He returned his gaze to the note in his hand, but was unable to comprehend the written words.

Run off ? What the devil?

“Did you see her?” Jon inquired anxiously. “Speak with her?”

“Nay. She knew better than to tell me this atrocious news herself, knowing that I would have prevented it.” Hector clenched his fists. “When the chambermaid delivered the breakfast tray, she discovered Dianna’s empty bedchamber. My sister must have left sometime in the early morning hours, though the servants all claim they neither saw nor heard anything unusual.”

“What about Dianna’s maid?”

Hector shook his head. “She insisted, between sobs, that she knew nothing. I sacked her on the spot, of course, and sent her packing. Without a reference.”

Putting a hand to his pounding head, Jon stood motionless as he tried to sort through the myriad of unanswered questions that swirled relentlessly through his mind.

“Dianna was quiet, almost subdued when I last saw her yesterday morning,” he muttered. “I assumed it was due to nervous excitement.”

Flustered, Hector puffed out his cheeks. “She was no doubt planning her escape. How could she be such a reckless fool? Who knows if Dickenson will even marry her? She has ruined herself and brought disgrace upon our family name and honor. My dear mother has taken to her bed, prostrate with grief. How will we ever survive this scandal?”

How indeed?

A sinking feeling descended over Jon as shock and disbelief mingled in his head. It felt as though he had taken a hard punch to his gut. His breathing grew uneven; his chest hurt.

Dianna had left him. Left him! Why? To satisfy a desperate need for more in her life. More what?

She had promised to be his wife. His partner, his helpmate, the mother of his children. He adored her. He indulged her. He loved her—unconditionally.

Wasn’t that enough?

The rising tide of inquisitive chatter brought Jon’s attention back to the calamity of the moment and the wedding that would now not take place. The reverend approached, his eyes filled with puzzlement. Jon crumpled the note in his fist and turned away, his jumbled thoughts momentarily distracted by the too tight, bright scarlet waistcoat Hector wore over a belly that was far too soft for a man of his years.

Hector was squeezed into the garment like a giant sausage. There was no doubt that if one of the gold buttons were to become dislodged, it could prove to be a formidable weapon, hurtling across the church like a lead ball shot from a pistol. Potentially wounding or maiming one of the guests.

Yet another scandal to add to the one already brewing?

“How may I be of assistance, my lord?” the reverend asked.

“There will be no wedding this morning.” Jon spoke calmly, yet he could feel himself growing clammy and queasy. His palms began to sweat and his tongue felt oddly oversized and thick. “I must make the announcement.”

“Please, allow me.” The reverend placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder.

Though meant to be comforting, it made Jon feel even worse, for it made the moment all too real. She truly isn’t coming. She will not marry me.

Jon drew in a shaky breath and then another. It seemed his carefully constructed, well-ordered life had just spun into total chaos.

Though she barely knew the viscount, Emma felt a tightening in her chest and she did her best not to send a pitying look toward the jilted groom. Instead, she allowed her compassion to shine through in her expression, hoping that somehow he would feel it among the snide glances and unkind remarks.

Society thrived upon appearance. Being left at the altar hinted at all manner of juicy scandal and impropriety. Judging by the bits of conversations around her that she could hear, Emma knew that speculation as to what the viscount had done to cause his own humiliation was running rampant.

Poor man.

“Such a horrible turn of events,” Gwen said sadly.

“The vultures are already circling in search of any sordid and salacious details,” Carter remarked.

“I’m sorry to say that I’m not surprised,” Dorothea added. “I fear the interest, speculation, and gossip will continue until a fresh scandal occurs.”

“Did you think it was wise of the reverend to invite the guests back to the manor house for a meal?” Jason questioned. “I suspect the very last thing Kendall wants—or needs—is to face this crowd.”

“I imagine the viscount’s mother, Lady Sybil, insisted upon it,” Dorothea said. “’Twas well-known that no expense was spared on the wedding breakfast and a considerable amount of food has been prepared. Perhaps if she feeds this ravenous crowd, they will speak more kindly of her son.”

“Don’t count upon it,” Gwen muttered.

“Well, we must be the exception to this ill-bred rabble. The viscount deserves to be surrounded by concerned and supportive friends,” Dorothea stated.

Carter nodded. “We shall stay and do all that we can. Agreed?”

Everyone nodded and dutifully filed out of the pew. Emma glanced over at Gwen, wondering if her sister was remembering the hurt and humiliation of the scandal she had suffered years ago. It had made her something of a recluse, until Jason had entered their lives.

Thankfully, he was not a man to be easily intimidated by society and its tireless rules. Jason scoffed at convention and had doggedly pursued Gwen until she had agreed to be his wife.

Emma and the rest of the family exited the church and the first thing they saw was the viscount’s open carriage, festooned with ribbons and flowers. The driver and footman, dressed in their finest livery, stood attentively around the convenience, keeping the curious group of locals at a distance.

“Oh, Lord.” Emma blanched. “It appears Lord Kendall’s coachman has not been informed of the canceled wedding. He and the footmen are clearly waiting for the newly married couple to arrive.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Carter offered.

“Ask the villagers to disperse too,” Dorothea suggested. “Then once the coach is stripped of its bridal finery, offer to ride in the carriage with the viscount. No doubt he’ll feel foolish going alone.”

Carter nodded.

“I’ll accompany you,” Jason offered. “It will look odd having two men in the wedding carriage.”

The men departed and Emma caught sight of the viscount’s mother, Lady Sybil. Dressed in a gown of fine yellow satin, draped in luscious pearls and sporting a wide-brimmed hat with the tallest group of ostrich plumes Emma had ever seen, Lady Sybil stood alone, rigidly waiting for her coach, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“Dorothea—” Emma began.

“I see her,” Dorothea interrupted. “Ladies, shall we?”

Gwen and Emma nodded and they all stepped forward. In the blink of an eye, the three Ellingham sisters had formed a protective circle around the viscountess.

Though she said nothing, Lady Sybil appeared to welcome their company. She held her head high as she was assisted into her coach by a footman, then motioned for Gwen, Dorothea, and Emma to follow.

The short journey to the manor house began in steely silence broken only when suddenly Lady Sybil spoke.

“Well, isn’t this a fine mess! Left at the altar in front of everyone! This confirms my worst opinions of the girl. Honestly, I never approved of the match. I found Dianna Winthrope to be a thoroughly disagreeable female, a vain, pea-witted, giddy flirt.

“Jon always defended her, insisting that I was being too critical. She was young and enthusiastic and he claimed that it gave him pleasure to spoil her.” Lady Sybil huffed, her distaste evident. “Yet even my dislike could not have predicted Dianna was capable of an act so heinous, so hurtful, so utterly cowardly. To leave Jon standing at the altar . . .”

With a sniff of pure disgust, Lady Sybil turned her head, looked out the window and sighed. Emma exchanged glances with her sisters, unable to formulate an appropriate or comforting retort.

“My Jon is the most loving and amiable of men, a model of propriety and restraint,” Lady Sybil continued. “Why, I can scarce recall hearing him raise his voice in anger, no matter how vexed. ’Twas child’s play for that odious chit to take advantage of him, encouraging him to enact the most undisciplined, free-spending habits while planning this wedding. An affair she lacked the decency to attend. Or at least call off days ago and spare Jon such a public humiliation.”

“That would have been the kinder way to handle this situation,” Dorothea agreed.

Lady Sybil frowned. “I fear that kindness is something Dianna Winthrope neither subscribes to nor understands.”

Emma blinked. Apparently, Lady Sybil was not one to mince words.

“We are all very sorry for the pain that your son—and you—have been forced to endure,” Emma said quietly.

“Yes,” Gwen quickly agreed. “I hope that in some small way our support provides some comfort.”

Lady Sybil’s hand flew out and grasped Gwen’s in gratitude. “I appreciate your kindness and understanding. I fear there are others who will find delight in my poor Jon’s misfortune.”

The three Ellingham sisters all nodded in sympathetic agreement.

“You must try to put them out of your mind,” Dorothea said firmly. “Their opinions are of no consequence.”

Lady Sybil sighed. “You are right, my dear. The scandal will eventually fade, and another take its place. Jon and I will simply have to find the courage and fortitude to withstand the gossip and become adept at hiding our true feelings from those who will relish our suffering.”

The women fell silent. Emma glanced at her sisters.

“’Tis Dianna who will bear the brunt of the ton’s censure,” Emma remarked.

“Yes, if she dares to ever show her face again, she will be a pariah among polite society,” Dorothea agreed.

“Oh, she will not return until all of this has died down,” Lady Sybil predicted. “And when she does, then a true reckoning for her actions on this day will occur.”

In a peaceful and private corner of his mother’s solarium, Jon stretched his legs, crossed his ankles, and leaned his head against the cushioned chair. Appreciating the quiet solitude he had discovered among the lavish foliage and comfortable, elegant furnishings, he understood why his mother always referred to this place as her refuge from the world.

If only he could stay here indefinitely. Jon sighed. This most extraordinary, most unpleasant day was finally drawing to a close. At last. The majority of the wedding guests—nay, he could not correctly refer to them as wedding guests, could he, since there had been no wedding—were gone. And he had no wish to engage in conversation with those who remained.

Far more people than he expected had returned to the manor house, and despite the bizarre situation, many appeared to enjoy themselves as they ate heartily of the lavish meal that would have been his wedding breakfast and drank innumerable bottles of champagne, wine, and spirits.

Somehow he had managed to be stoic and dignified while he circulated among them, accepting their . . .