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Synopsis
Will the Rogue's perfect plan
Colin Brockhurst, Earl of Ravenshire, has no desire to wed, this season or any other. So when his father demands he give up his wild ways and take a wife, Colin refuses. But his father raises the stakes and threatens to sell the ancestral home if Colin doesn't comply. Now Colin has no choice but to find a wife. Unfortunately, the only woman he wants is the one whose heart he broke years ago.
Lead to the perfect seduction?
Regardless of the ton's whispers, Lady Angeline Brenham won't settle for anything less than true love. After rejecting more than her share of suitable suitors, spinsterhood looms before her--until the devilishly handsome Colin reappears in her life with a proposition.
Angeline vows to keep her feet on the ground and her heart in check. That is, until one searing kiss melts her resolve and reignites a burning desire for more . . .
Release date: March 25, 2014
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 416
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What a Reckless Rogue Needs
Vicky Dreiling
Prologue
Eton, December 1798
Colin Brockhurst, Earl of Ravenshire, was only eight years old, but he knew bad things could happen.
He sat on a hard bench with the other boys waiting to go home. Normally, the boys were boisterous and bawdy, but under the stern eye of the headmaster, they fell silent, save for the occasional sneeze and cough. Most everyone had already left for Christmas holidays, including his friend Harry. Each time the door opened, frigid wind swirled inside, and even a warm coat and supple leather gloves were insufficient to block the miserable draft.
Footsteps stamped outside again, the sound a prelude to the door opening. Colin held his breath, but someone else’s father arrived. Where could his papa be? His chest felt hollow inside, but he mustn’t let on that he was scared, because the older boys would taunt him.
The door opened, letting in a cold blast of wind, and another boy jumped up, this time to leave with a servant. Colin’s stomach knotted up. He hoped it was Papa who came to the door, not a footman. The hollow place in his chest made him feel alone and scared, but he clasped his hands together and forced himself to hold all the fear deep down where no one could see it. He had to do it or the older boys would sniff it on him like day-old sweat and make his life hell when the term started after the holidays. He’d learned to duck the older, bigger ones and use his fists to defend himself when he couldn’t get away.
Sometimes he welcomed the fights, because it let him pound out all the fury and frustration inside of him. Two years ago, his papa had told him the angels had taken Mama to heaven. He’d been old enough to understand that she’d died and wouldn’t come back, no matter how much he’d prayed for a miracle.
Now it was getting later, and there were only three boys left, including him. What would he do if Papa died and no one came for him? Would he have to stay at school all by himself? Papa had told him there was nothing to fear, but he had to clasp his shaky hands together even harder.
He must be brave. That’s what Papa had told him when he first came to Eton. Colin made himself hold all the scared feelings inside, even though his chest hurt.
The door opened again. Colin held his breath once more and let it out in a whoosh when he saw his father. He grabbed his satchel and jumped to his feet.
“Are you ready to come home?” his father said, smiling.
He nodded. Papa’s hand on his shoulder made him feel safe, and he hadn’t felt that way in a very long time. They walked out, and a few snow flurries swirled in the air. He tried to catch one on his tongue as they walked down the steps to the waiting carriage. He climbed inside, and Papa gave him a woolen rug to keep him warm. The carriage rolled off, and the clatter of the horses’ hooves along with the motion made him sleepy. Papa put his arm around him, and he sagged against him.
It was dark when Papa woke him in the carriage and took him inside the inn. He was so very tired he didn’t remember anything until Papa woke him the next morning. After he washed and dressed, Papa took him downstairs for breakfast. Colin’s stomach growled like a dog, and he ate every bite of his eggs and toast. Papa laughed and mussed his hair.
Then a man called a porter took their bags to the waiting carriage. Colin climbed inside, and after Papa sat beside him, he took a deep breath. “There is something I must prepare you for.”
Colin stiffened. When grown people said things like that, it meant something bad.
“There’s no need to be afraid,” Papa said.
He held his breath anyway.
“You have a new mother,” Papa said.
He let out his breath, but he was confused. “Where did she come from?”
“I met her while you were at school. She is my wife and your stepmother,” Papa said. “She will live with us.”
He didn’t want a stepmama. He wanted his mother.
“All will be well, son.”
He didn’t believe it. Nothing would ever be well again. His mama had died and left him.
“You will meet her today,” Papa said.
Colin felt as if the bottom of the carriage had dropped away.
Chapter One
London, 1821, The Albany
Colin awoke with an aching head and his tongue as dry as the Arabian Desert. He must’ve drunk enough claret last night to fill the bloody Thames.
He sat up on the edge of the mattress, only to realize he’d slept in his boots. A ray of sunshine speared through the drapes, blinding him. He shaded his eyes and turned away. The remnants of his drunken spree sat on a chest: two glasses and three bottles.
For a disoriented moment, his woolly brain refused to cooperate. He scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his face. Two glasses? In the bedchamber? Had someone else been here?
When the door opened, he stood to face it. A redheaded woman in a rumpled green gown entered. He vaguely recalled meeting her backstage in the actress’s dressing room at the theater the previous night. “What happened?” he asked, his voice croaking.
She huffed. “I should think it bloody obvious.”
Oh, Lord. “Did we…?”
“Are you daft? You were so foxed I couldn’t wake you,” she said. “I had no one to help me undress.”
Relieved, he blew out his breath. Given his inebriated state last night, he doubted he would have been sensible enough to use a French letter. “Sorry, Lila,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “My name is Lottie.”
“Of course. How could I forget?”
“You were drunk as a sailor,” she said. “That’s how.”
He felt as if a carriage had run over him. “I must beg your pardon, but the landlord doesn’t allow women in the rooms.”
“That didn’t trouble you last night.”
Someone banged on the door, startling him. He met Lottie’s gaze. “Stay here and be silent,” he said.
She scowled. “What? You mean to hide me?”
“Well, yes. Please be quiet,” he said under his breath. “The landlord will fine me if he discovers you here.”
The knocking sounded again, this time more insistent. Colin’s temples throbbed as he walked to the door. “I’m coming,” he called out.
“Not likely,” Lottie said, snickering.
He halted at the ridiculous double entendre and glanced over his shoulder. “Go back into the bedchamber. You can’t be seen here.”
She leaned against the door and grinned. “Tell the landlord I’m your sister.”
He huffed. “I’m sure he’s heard that before.”
Her raspy laughter grated on his nerves. In a thoroughly bad mood, Colin strode across the small parlor and yanked the door open.
His oldest friend, Harry, stood there. “Sorry to wake you, old boy, but it is almost noon.”
“Thank God,” Colin said, ushering his friend inside. “I thought it was the landlord.”
Harry blinked as he clapped eyes on the actress. “Oh, I say, bad timing.”
“Don’t worry,” Colin said. “Lila is just leaving.”
“Lottie,” she said in an exasperated tone. Then she turned her attention to Harry. “You’re a looker.”
Harry took her hand and bowed over it as if she were a grand lady at a ton ball. “Enchanté.”
Colin located his purse and handed her a shilling. “This should cover the cost of a hack.”
She scowled. “You wish to be rid of me?”
“Not at all, madame,” Harry said, ogling her décolletage.
Colin released a loud sigh, rummaged in the purse, and produced another shilling.
She lifted her brows. “Is this all I can expect after staying the entire night?”
“You had the use of a soft bed,” Colin said.
She put her hands on her hips. “I had to keep my gown on.”
Harry eyed the voluptuous actress’s charms. “I suppose it’s more expedient that way.”
“He left his boots on,” Lottie said with a sniff.
Harry shook his head. “Bad form, old boy.”
Colin gave Harry a pointed look. “Is there something you wanted?”
“Yes.” Harry took a letter out of his pocket. “This was mistakenly delivered to my rooms earlier this morning.”
Colin took the letter and regarded Lottie. “I wish you many standing ovations.”
She donned her cloak. “I certainly didn’t get one last night.” With that riposte, she marched out the door.
Harry burst out laughing and collapsed on the cast-off sofa.
“Stubble it,” Colin said. He walked over to the table and broke the seal on the letter. “How much do I owe you for the post?”
“Nothing. You paid mine the last time,” Harry said. “Who sent you a letter?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.”
“Aren’t you a slow top today,” Harry said.
“I’ve got the bottle ache.” He set the letter aside and rubbed his temples. He’d suffered a lot of bottle aches lately.
“Where’s your man servant? He could make you a concoction.”
“It’s his half day.” Colin added coals to the dying fire. Afterward, he walked to the kitchen, pumped water into a kettle, and returned to the parlor. He measured leaves in the teapot and set the kettle on the hob. While he waited for the water to heat, he opened the letter and scowled.
“Well?” Harry asked.
His nostrils flared. “It’s from my father.”
“What does he say?”
“He requests my presence at Deerfield Park.” Colin rose, slapped the letter on the table, and started pacing. “Damn him.”
Harry lifted his brows. “Is something wrong?”
“There definitely is something bloody damned wrong. My father wants to sell Sommerall.” Colin gritted his teeth at the thought of strangers taking possession.
“What about the entail?” Harry said.
“Sommerall was intentionally left out. My grandfather intended the property for a younger son, but my father was the only male issue.” His parents had lived there until his mother’s death, and then his father had abruptly moved to his grandfather’s nearby estate, Deerfield.
Colin walked to the window and pushed the draperies aside. Sommerall had been his boyhood home for six years. No one had occupied it since then. He’d always assumed his father would grant him the property.
“When do you leave?” Harry asked.
He gave his friend a wry look. “At my earliest convenience.”
“Sorry about the property. Perhaps you could persuade the marquess not to sell.”
“Right,” he said, the one word full of sarcasm.
“How long will you stay?” Harry asked.
He shrugged. “Long enough to find out what prompted my father’s decision.” He meant to change his father’s mind, and he had just cause.
When the kettle started shrieking, he rescued it and poured the hot water.
“Will the Duke of Wycoff and his family visit for the house party as usual?” Harry asked.
“I doubt it. For all I know, the duchess and her eldest daughter are still in Paris.”
“They returned six months ago.”
He poured tea over a strainer into two cups and handed one to Harry. “How do you know this? Oh, never mind, your mother and female cousins would have told you.”
Harry sipped his tea. “You know my mother’s drawing room is famous for scandal broth. My cousins know everything about everybody. You do know Lady Angeline jilted Brentmoor over a year ago.”
“I heard.” That was all he knew of her situation, although he couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten tangled up with that roué. He didn’t want to know. Their families were close, but he’d had a falling out with Angeline years ago. His father had blamed him for supposedly breaking her heart at her come-out ball, but it was the exact opposite. When he’d requested a dance, she’d turned him down flat and accepted an offer from someone else. To be fair, he’d been nipping from a flask with friends and she’d been disgusted. Ever since they’d been like oil and water. They didn’t mix well.
Harry set his cup aside. “Supposedly the broken engagement is the reason she fled to Paris last year.”
He wasn’t surprised. Crying off an engagement was serious business. The scandal sheets had reported it, albeit with poorly disguised names. He’d never understood why her father had approved the marriage in the first place. Brentmoor’s sorry reputation was well known, after all.
Harry frowned. “Why would the marquess sell Sommerall?”
“That’s the thousand-pound question.” Colin clenched his jaw. He considered his father’s decision an insult, but he wouldn’t voice the words.
“The marquess will come around,” Harry said.
“This is no idle inclination on my father’s part.”
“Do you think he’s bluffing?”
“No, he’s serious, but so am I.”
“What are you planning?” Harry said.
Colin lifted his chin. “An offer he can’t refuse.”
Suffolk, Sommerall House, two days later
The carriage slowed six miles from Deerfield Manor and rounded the circular drive of Sommerall. Mercifully, the weather had held. When the vehicle rolled to a halt, Colin collected his hat and stepped out. The crisp autumn breeze chilled his face as he inhaled the fresh country air. It was invigorating after the filthy, choked skies of London.
He directed the driver to wait and strode off. His boots crunched in the gravel as he walked toward the sandstone house built in the early part of the eighteenth century. The darker blue hues in the sky signaled impending twilight. He was glad he’d arrived before all the light waned, as he wanted to inspect the condition of the property. When he met with his father, he intended to report any initial needed repairs. If he expected his father to consider his request, he must show that he had made a preliminary investigation.
He felt above the lintel for the key, but it wasn’t there. Frowning, he tried the door, but it was locked tighter than a virgin’s legs. There was nothing for it except to question his father about the missing key.
Colin tramped through the grass to the back of the house. The lower windows might have afforded him a view inside, but he couldn’t see much from this vantage point. Colin gritted his teeth, but frustration wouldn’t change a damned thing.
He walked west along a path that had probably once been well worn, but he couldn’t be certain. His father’s house was a mere six miles down good road, but there were reasons he seldom returned to Deerfield.
In the distance, a swing hung from a tall oak. Perhaps his late mother or father had given him a push, but he would never know, for he recalled very little of his childhood.
The papery autumn leaves crackled beneath his boots as he strode onward. Long shadows reached out from the barren birch trees. The property was far smaller than Deerfield Park, but it was excellent land. He envisioned workers in the now-fallow fields, but there was no rush. He was thirty-one years old and not ready to settle down.
The capes of his greatcoat snapped in the biting wind, but he was determined. In the distance, he saw the marble domed roof and the four Ionic columns of the mausoleum. When he reached it, he gripped the rail of the balustrade and looked down the flight of steps. Twenty-four years had elapsed, but all he had left of her was her grave and vague snatches of childhood memories.
His chest tightened. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d visited his mother’s grave, and it shamed him. He had no eloquent prayers, no memorabilia of his mother. Only a hollow place inside that had remained empty. “You will not be abandoned or forgotten,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Colin turned and strode away. He’d be damned before he let his father sell the property where his mother was laid to rest.
By the time he reached Deerfield Park, the sun had set and the Tudor house that had belonged to his family since the sixteenth century was shrouded in darkness, save for the lanterns that the servants carried. When he stepped out of the carriage, a blast of freezing wind chafed his face. A footman with a lantern led the way to the horseshoe steps while the others unloaded his trunks.
When he entered the foyer, he handed over his hat, coat, and gloves to Ames, the butler who had been with the family all of Colin’s life.
“My lord, may I be permitted to welcome you home?” Ames said.
“Yes, of course, Ames,” he said, handing over his greatcoat. Then he smiled and retrieved a small snuffbox from his inner coat pocket.
“For me, my lord?” Ames said.
“I happened upon it and know you like to collect them. This one was made in India.”
“I could not accept it, my lord. I’m sure it is quite valuable.”
“Of course you can. I would be disappointed if you did not accept it.”
“Very well,” Ames said. “Thank you for the gift, my lord. I shall put it in a special place where it will remind me of you. Now, your room is prepared, and your valet will unpack your trunk as soon as possible. The marquess, marchioness, and all of the other guests are in the blue drawing room.”
He paused at the mention of other guests, but of course, he would not question the butler. “Thank you, Ames.” He’d hoped to speak privately with his father straightaway, but obviously he’d have to wait until tomorrow. His boots clipped on the marble floor as he strode across the great hall.
Feminine shrieks startled him. “Colin!”
Bianca and Bernadette, his twin half sisters, ran down the stairs. When they threw their arms around him, he frowned. “Wait, who are you? What have you done with my little sisters?”
Bernadette rolled her eyes. “You’re silly, Colin.”
“I’m afraid to blink,” he said. “You might get even taller right before my eyes.”
Until this moment, he’d not realized how much he’d missed them. They were mirror images of one another, something that often took others aback. Early on, he’d learned to distinguish them by a small beauty mark. Bernadette had one on her left cheek, while Bianca’s was on her right cheek.
Bianca looked up at him. “How long will you stay?”
“A thousand years,” he said, making his sisters laugh.
“We have a dog now,” Bianca said. “We’re supposed to keep Hercules in the kitchen with the servants.”
“Hercules? He must be a big dog.”
“No, he’s not very big,” Bernadette said.
Bianca giggled. “Papa said he’s ugly.”
Colin laughed. “Are you still speaking twin gibberish?”
“We gave that up ages ago,” Bernadette said. “Next spring, we’ll be sixteen and ready for our come-out.”
His chest tightened yet again, this time with guilt. He would know about their upcoming debut if he’d made the effort to see them more often. God only knew what else he’d missed in their lives. Regardless of how difficult his relationship was with his father, he shouldn’t ignore his sisters.
“We’re not nearly as tall as Penny,” Bianca said. “Here she comes now.”
Penelope was here? He looked up at the landing where a thin, tall girl with reddish blond hair stood. She lowered her eyes and turned toward the corridor.
“Come with us,” Bianca said, taking his arm. When they gained the landing, he saw the back of a tall brunette in a brilliant green gown. His appreciative gaze slid down to the woman’s rounded bottom. When the brunette turned, she looked somewhat familiar, but the candlelight in the corridor was dim.
As he drew nearer, recognition dawned. The candlelight burnished her brunette hair and shed a mellow glow over her stunning creamy complexion. He felt as if she’d knocked the breath out of him. Hell, she’d literally done it when he’d tried to give her a chaste kiss beneath the Christmas mistletoe a few years ago. She’d always had a sharp tongue, and he’d remained wary of her with good reason.
Angeline curtsied and regarded him with a shrewd smile. “Bonsoir, mon ami.”
Their relationship had always been closer to adversary than friend, but he’d not seen her in a long time. There was no question that she’d grown even more beautiful.
Angeline offered her gloved hand, and he bowed over it. He flicked his eyes quickly over her generous bosom. Colin mentally reminded himself to keep his gaze a very safe distance above her low neckline. “I suspect you’ve had more than a few Parisian admirers.”
Her one-shoulder shrug was all Gallic. “The French have a proverb: ‘Beautiful grapes often make poor wine.’” A sly expression flitted through her green eyes. “So I avoid the grapes and drink the wine.”
“Clever,” he said.
Angeline clapped her hands twice. “Girls, repair to the drawing room. The marchioness is expecting us.”
He offered his arm to her. “Shall we?”
“I don’t know. You look as if you’re facing a prison cell rather than a drawing room.”
He said nothing, but he’d always dreaded visits to his father’s home. He’d been at Eton when his father remarried, and on his infrequent stays at Deerfield, he’d never felt he belonged. It wasn’t as if they were estranged; it was just circumstances. He’d always felt a bit awkward here, and as a result, he didn’t visit often.
They entered the drawing room to the delighted exclamations of Angeline’s mother—the Duchess of Wycoff—and his stepmother, Margaret, the marchioness. He noted the proliferation of gray in the duchess’s hair, and the fine hair on his neck stiffened. The scandal must have created a great deal of vexation.
“I daresay they make a handsome pair,” the duchess said.
Colin winced. When they were children, their deluded families had concocted the idea of a match between them, all because they were born only a week apart. But that had happened when they were mere babes, before his mother’s death and his father’s second marriage.
“Unfortunately, Colin and Angeline are about as compatible as two spitting cats,” the marquess said.
“Chadwick, please mind your words,” Margaret said. “Oh, look what you’ve started. The girls are hissing at each other. Bianca, Bernadette, you will cease.”
His father had spoken the truth. Beyond the annual house party and the spring season, Colin and Angeline had done their best to avoid each other over the years, though they had not been entirely successful. Despite her outward civility this evening, he knew her capacity for causing trouble, and he could not afford to be distracted. The fate of Sommerall hung in the balance.
He escorted Angeline to a chair and headed for the sideboard. Five minutes in her presence had been enough to send him to the brandy decanter. Admittedly, a goodly portion had to do with her womanly figure. A shrew she might be, but she was also the sort of woman men mentally undressed. At that thought, he poured himself two fingers, and then his gaze veered to his father. Show him you’re confident and unconcerned.
The Marquess of Chadwick returned his look with an inscrutable expression.
“Welcome, Colin,” the Marchioness of Chadwick said.
He bowed. “You look well, Margaret.”
“I’m very glad you came.” For a moment, she looked as if she would say more and then seemed to reconsider. Her abrupt silence didn’t surprise him. They had always been ill at ease with each other, although unfailingly polite. Her late father had been in trade, but she’d been educated as a lady. Colin assumed his father had married her for her wealth, but he did not know for certain, and he most certainly would never ask.
Margaret faced Angeline. “Thank you for bringing the girls to the drawing room. Left to their own devices, I fear they would spend all of their time in their room engaged in idle gossip.”
“What gossip could they possibly know?” the marquess said in a gruff voice. “They aren’t even out in society yet.”
The twins immediately adopted cherubic expressions. Colin bit his lip to keep from laughing.
Margaret regarded her husband with lifted brows. “You seem to have forgotten the letter they wrote to the king six months ago.”
Colin regarded his sisters with mock gravity. “Why did you write to the king?”
The marquess released a loud sigh. “Your sisters advised him to adopt a slimming regimen.”
Colin’s shoulders shook with laughter. The poor king’s girth was the subject of many caricatures.
“Thank goodness Ames intercepted the letter before it went out with the post,” Margaret said.
Colin leaned against the sideboard. So his sisters were still scamps. He found himself glad, perhaps because soon they would be entering the adult world, before he’d even gotten a chance to catch up on their burgeoning adolescence. The fault was his, and he’d meant to do better, but somehow intention led to procrastination. In London, it was all too easy to get caught up in the clubs, the races, the fencing matches, and the loose women who pursued him.
The Duke of Wycoff approached and clapped Colin on the shoulder. “I wasn’t certain you would attend.”
He wouldn’t have done so if not for his father’s letter. From the corner of his eye, Colin saw his father watching and retrieved the decanter. “Brandy?” he asked the duke.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the duke said. “It’s been an age since we last met.”
“White’s last spring, if memory serves me right.” Colin handed him a brandy and sipped his own drink. His father always stocked the finest brandy and port. “I take it Landale could not attend?” Colin said.
“My son did not wish to travel, given that his wife is in a delicate condition.”
Colin smiled a little at Wycoff’s old-fashioned reference to his daughter-in-law’s impending childbirth.
Wycoff inhaled the brandy’s fragrance. “It has been two years since the last house party. I confess I missed the shooting with Chadwick.”
There was a reserved air about Wycoff that had never been there before. He didn’t mention Angeline’s broken engagement and subsequent journey to Paris with her mother. It wasn’t the sort of topic one spoke of openly, but Colin felt it simmering beneath the surface. One thing he noticed was that Wycoff avoided looking at his eldest daughter. Colin found it odd and told himself he was imagining undercurrents. Deep down, he suspected there was something brewing beneath the surface, but he’d no idea what it was. Perhaps that was for the best.
Wycoff drew in a breath. “Still chasing the lightskirts?”
“Am I supposed to a. . .
Eton, December 1798
Colin Brockhurst, Earl of Ravenshire, was only eight years old, but he knew bad things could happen.
He sat on a hard bench with the other boys waiting to go home. Normally, the boys were boisterous and bawdy, but under the stern eye of the headmaster, they fell silent, save for the occasional sneeze and cough. Most everyone had already left for Christmas holidays, including his friend Harry. Each time the door opened, frigid wind swirled inside, and even a warm coat and supple leather gloves were insufficient to block the miserable draft.
Footsteps stamped outside again, the sound a prelude to the door opening. Colin held his breath, but someone else’s father arrived. Where could his papa be? His chest felt hollow inside, but he mustn’t let on that he was scared, because the older boys would taunt him.
The door opened, letting in a cold blast of wind, and another boy jumped up, this time to leave with a servant. Colin’s stomach knotted up. He hoped it was Papa who came to the door, not a footman. The hollow place in his chest made him feel alone and scared, but he clasped his hands together and forced himself to hold all the fear deep down where no one could see it. He had to do it or the older boys would sniff it on him like day-old sweat and make his life hell when the term started after the holidays. He’d learned to duck the older, bigger ones and use his fists to defend himself when he couldn’t get away.
Sometimes he welcomed the fights, because it let him pound out all the fury and frustration inside of him. Two years ago, his papa had told him the angels had taken Mama to heaven. He’d been old enough to understand that she’d died and wouldn’t come back, no matter how much he’d prayed for a miracle.
Now it was getting later, and there were only three boys left, including him. What would he do if Papa died and no one came for him? Would he have to stay at school all by himself? Papa had told him there was nothing to fear, but he had to clasp his shaky hands together even harder.
He must be brave. That’s what Papa had told him when he first came to Eton. Colin made himself hold all the scared feelings inside, even though his chest hurt.
The door opened again. Colin held his breath once more and let it out in a whoosh when he saw his father. He grabbed his satchel and jumped to his feet.
“Are you ready to come home?” his father said, smiling.
He nodded. Papa’s hand on his shoulder made him feel safe, and he hadn’t felt that way in a very long time. They walked out, and a few snow flurries swirled in the air. He tried to catch one on his tongue as they walked down the steps to the waiting carriage. He climbed inside, and Papa gave him a woolen rug to keep him warm. The carriage rolled off, and the clatter of the horses’ hooves along with the motion made him sleepy. Papa put his arm around him, and he sagged against him.
It was dark when Papa woke him in the carriage and took him inside the inn. He was so very tired he didn’t remember anything until Papa woke him the next morning. After he washed and dressed, Papa took him downstairs for breakfast. Colin’s stomach growled like a dog, and he ate every bite of his eggs and toast. Papa laughed and mussed his hair.
Then a man called a porter took their bags to the waiting carriage. Colin climbed inside, and after Papa sat beside him, he took a deep breath. “There is something I must prepare you for.”
Colin stiffened. When grown people said things like that, it meant something bad.
“There’s no need to be afraid,” Papa said.
He held his breath anyway.
“You have a new mother,” Papa said.
He let out his breath, but he was confused. “Where did she come from?”
“I met her while you were at school. She is my wife and your stepmother,” Papa said. “She will live with us.”
He didn’t want a stepmama. He wanted his mother.
“All will be well, son.”
He didn’t believe it. Nothing would ever be well again. His mama had died and left him.
“You will meet her today,” Papa said.
Colin felt as if the bottom of the carriage had dropped away.
Chapter One
London, 1821, The Albany
Colin awoke with an aching head and his tongue as dry as the Arabian Desert. He must’ve drunk enough claret last night to fill the bloody Thames.
He sat up on the edge of the mattress, only to realize he’d slept in his boots. A ray of sunshine speared through the drapes, blinding him. He shaded his eyes and turned away. The remnants of his drunken spree sat on a chest: two glasses and three bottles.
For a disoriented moment, his woolly brain refused to cooperate. He scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his face. Two glasses? In the bedchamber? Had someone else been here?
When the door opened, he stood to face it. A redheaded woman in a rumpled green gown entered. He vaguely recalled meeting her backstage in the actress’s dressing room at the theater the previous night. “What happened?” he asked, his voice croaking.
She huffed. “I should think it bloody obvious.”
Oh, Lord. “Did we…?”
“Are you daft? You were so foxed I couldn’t wake you,” she said. “I had no one to help me undress.”
Relieved, he blew out his breath. Given his inebriated state last night, he doubted he would have been sensible enough to use a French letter. “Sorry, Lila,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “My name is Lottie.”
“Of course. How could I forget?”
“You were drunk as a sailor,” she said. “That’s how.”
He felt as if a carriage had run over him. “I must beg your pardon, but the landlord doesn’t allow women in the rooms.”
“That didn’t trouble you last night.”
Someone banged on the door, startling him. He met Lottie’s gaze. “Stay here and be silent,” he said.
She scowled. “What? You mean to hide me?”
“Well, yes. Please be quiet,” he said under his breath. “The landlord will fine me if he discovers you here.”
The knocking sounded again, this time more insistent. Colin’s temples throbbed as he walked to the door. “I’m coming,” he called out.
“Not likely,” Lottie said, snickering.
He halted at the ridiculous double entendre and glanced over his shoulder. “Go back into the bedchamber. You can’t be seen here.”
She leaned against the door and grinned. “Tell the landlord I’m your sister.”
He huffed. “I’m sure he’s heard that before.”
Her raspy laughter grated on his nerves. In a thoroughly bad mood, Colin strode across the small parlor and yanked the door open.
His oldest friend, Harry, stood there. “Sorry to wake you, old boy, but it is almost noon.”
“Thank God,” Colin said, ushering his friend inside. “I thought it was the landlord.”
Harry blinked as he clapped eyes on the actress. “Oh, I say, bad timing.”
“Don’t worry,” Colin said. “Lila is just leaving.”
“Lottie,” she said in an exasperated tone. Then she turned her attention to Harry. “You’re a looker.”
Harry took her hand and bowed over it as if she were a grand lady at a ton ball. “Enchanté.”
Colin located his purse and handed her a shilling. “This should cover the cost of a hack.”
She scowled. “You wish to be rid of me?”
“Not at all, madame,” Harry said, ogling her décolletage.
Colin released a loud sigh, rummaged in the purse, and produced another shilling.
She lifted her brows. “Is this all I can expect after staying the entire night?”
“You had the use of a soft bed,” Colin said.
She put her hands on her hips. “I had to keep my gown on.”
Harry eyed the voluptuous actress’s charms. “I suppose it’s more expedient that way.”
“He left his boots on,” Lottie said with a sniff.
Harry shook his head. “Bad form, old boy.”
Colin gave Harry a pointed look. “Is there something you wanted?”
“Yes.” Harry took a letter out of his pocket. “This was mistakenly delivered to my rooms earlier this morning.”
Colin took the letter and regarded Lottie. “I wish you many standing ovations.”
She donned her cloak. “I certainly didn’t get one last night.” With that riposte, she marched out the door.
Harry burst out laughing and collapsed on the cast-off sofa.
“Stubble it,” Colin said. He walked over to the table and broke the seal on the letter. “How much do I owe you for the post?”
“Nothing. You paid mine the last time,” Harry said. “Who sent you a letter?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.”
“Aren’t you a slow top today,” Harry said.
“I’ve got the bottle ache.” He set the letter aside and rubbed his temples. He’d suffered a lot of bottle aches lately.
“Where’s your man servant? He could make you a concoction.”
“It’s his half day.” Colin added coals to the dying fire. Afterward, he walked to the kitchen, pumped water into a kettle, and returned to the parlor. He measured leaves in the teapot and set the kettle on the hob. While he waited for the water to heat, he opened the letter and scowled.
“Well?” Harry asked.
His nostrils flared. “It’s from my father.”
“What does he say?”
“He requests my presence at Deerfield Park.” Colin rose, slapped the letter on the table, and started pacing. “Damn him.”
Harry lifted his brows. “Is something wrong?”
“There definitely is something bloody damned wrong. My father wants to sell Sommerall.” Colin gritted his teeth at the thought of strangers taking possession.
“What about the entail?” Harry said.
“Sommerall was intentionally left out. My grandfather intended the property for a younger son, but my father was the only male issue.” His parents had lived there until his mother’s death, and then his father had abruptly moved to his grandfather’s nearby estate, Deerfield.
Colin walked to the window and pushed the draperies aside. Sommerall had been his boyhood home for six years. No one had occupied it since then. He’d always assumed his father would grant him the property.
“When do you leave?” Harry asked.
He gave his friend a wry look. “At my earliest convenience.”
“Sorry about the property. Perhaps you could persuade the marquess not to sell.”
“Right,” he said, the one word full of sarcasm.
“How long will you stay?” Harry asked.
He shrugged. “Long enough to find out what prompted my father’s decision.” He meant to change his father’s mind, and he had just cause.
When the kettle started shrieking, he rescued it and poured the hot water.
“Will the Duke of Wycoff and his family visit for the house party as usual?” Harry asked.
“I doubt it. For all I know, the duchess and her eldest daughter are still in Paris.”
“They returned six months ago.”
He poured tea over a strainer into two cups and handed one to Harry. “How do you know this? Oh, never mind, your mother and female cousins would have told you.”
Harry sipped his tea. “You know my mother’s drawing room is famous for scandal broth. My cousins know everything about everybody. You do know Lady Angeline jilted Brentmoor over a year ago.”
“I heard.” That was all he knew of her situation, although he couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten tangled up with that roué. He didn’t want to know. Their families were close, but he’d had a falling out with Angeline years ago. His father had blamed him for supposedly breaking her heart at her come-out ball, but it was the exact opposite. When he’d requested a dance, she’d turned him down flat and accepted an offer from someone else. To be fair, he’d been nipping from a flask with friends and she’d been disgusted. Ever since they’d been like oil and water. They didn’t mix well.
Harry set his cup aside. “Supposedly the broken engagement is the reason she fled to Paris last year.”
He wasn’t surprised. Crying off an engagement was serious business. The scandal sheets had reported it, albeit with poorly disguised names. He’d never understood why her father had approved the marriage in the first place. Brentmoor’s sorry reputation was well known, after all.
Harry frowned. “Why would the marquess sell Sommerall?”
“That’s the thousand-pound question.” Colin clenched his jaw. He considered his father’s decision an insult, but he wouldn’t voice the words.
“The marquess will come around,” Harry said.
“This is no idle inclination on my father’s part.”
“Do you think he’s bluffing?”
“No, he’s serious, but so am I.”
“What are you planning?” Harry said.
Colin lifted his chin. “An offer he can’t refuse.”
Suffolk, Sommerall House, two days later
The carriage slowed six miles from Deerfield Manor and rounded the circular drive of Sommerall. Mercifully, the weather had held. When the vehicle rolled to a halt, Colin collected his hat and stepped out. The crisp autumn breeze chilled his face as he inhaled the fresh country air. It was invigorating after the filthy, choked skies of London.
He directed the driver to wait and strode off. His boots crunched in the gravel as he walked toward the sandstone house built in the early part of the eighteenth century. The darker blue hues in the sky signaled impending twilight. He was glad he’d arrived before all the light waned, as he wanted to inspect the condition of the property. When he met with his father, he intended to report any initial needed repairs. If he expected his father to consider his request, he must show that he had made a preliminary investigation.
He felt above the lintel for the key, but it wasn’t there. Frowning, he tried the door, but it was locked tighter than a virgin’s legs. There was nothing for it except to question his father about the missing key.
Colin tramped through the grass to the back of the house. The lower windows might have afforded him a view inside, but he couldn’t see much from this vantage point. Colin gritted his teeth, but frustration wouldn’t change a damned thing.
He walked west along a path that had probably once been well worn, but he couldn’t be certain. His father’s house was a mere six miles down good road, but there were reasons he seldom returned to Deerfield.
In the distance, a swing hung from a tall oak. Perhaps his late mother or father had given him a push, but he would never know, for he recalled very little of his childhood.
The papery autumn leaves crackled beneath his boots as he strode onward. Long shadows reached out from the barren birch trees. The property was far smaller than Deerfield Park, but it was excellent land. He envisioned workers in the now-fallow fields, but there was no rush. He was thirty-one years old and not ready to settle down.
The capes of his greatcoat snapped in the biting wind, but he was determined. In the distance, he saw the marble domed roof and the four Ionic columns of the mausoleum. When he reached it, he gripped the rail of the balustrade and looked down the flight of steps. Twenty-four years had elapsed, but all he had left of her was her grave and vague snatches of childhood memories.
His chest tightened. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d visited his mother’s grave, and it shamed him. He had no eloquent prayers, no memorabilia of his mother. Only a hollow place inside that had remained empty. “You will not be abandoned or forgotten,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Colin turned and strode away. He’d be damned before he let his father sell the property where his mother was laid to rest.
By the time he reached Deerfield Park, the sun had set and the Tudor house that had belonged to his family since the sixteenth century was shrouded in darkness, save for the lanterns that the servants carried. When he stepped out of the carriage, a blast of freezing wind chafed his face. A footman with a lantern led the way to the horseshoe steps while the others unloaded his trunks.
When he entered the foyer, he handed over his hat, coat, and gloves to Ames, the butler who had been with the family all of Colin’s life.
“My lord, may I be permitted to welcome you home?” Ames said.
“Yes, of course, Ames,” he said, handing over his greatcoat. Then he smiled and retrieved a small snuffbox from his inner coat pocket.
“For me, my lord?” Ames said.
“I happened upon it and know you like to collect them. This one was made in India.”
“I could not accept it, my lord. I’m sure it is quite valuable.”
“Of course you can. I would be disappointed if you did not accept it.”
“Very well,” Ames said. “Thank you for the gift, my lord. I shall put it in a special place where it will remind me of you. Now, your room is prepared, and your valet will unpack your trunk as soon as possible. The marquess, marchioness, and all of the other guests are in the blue drawing room.”
He paused at the mention of other guests, but of course, he would not question the butler. “Thank you, Ames.” He’d hoped to speak privately with his father straightaway, but obviously he’d have to wait until tomorrow. His boots clipped on the marble floor as he strode across the great hall.
Feminine shrieks startled him. “Colin!”
Bianca and Bernadette, his twin half sisters, ran down the stairs. When they threw their arms around him, he frowned. “Wait, who are you? What have you done with my little sisters?”
Bernadette rolled her eyes. “You’re silly, Colin.”
“I’m afraid to blink,” he said. “You might get even taller right before my eyes.”
Until this moment, he’d not realized how much he’d missed them. They were mirror images of one another, something that often took others aback. Early on, he’d learned to distinguish them by a small beauty mark. Bernadette had one on her left cheek, while Bianca’s was on her right cheek.
Bianca looked up at him. “How long will you stay?”
“A thousand years,” he said, making his sisters laugh.
“We have a dog now,” Bianca said. “We’re supposed to keep Hercules in the kitchen with the servants.”
“Hercules? He must be a big dog.”
“No, he’s not very big,” Bernadette said.
Bianca giggled. “Papa said he’s ugly.”
Colin laughed. “Are you still speaking twin gibberish?”
“We gave that up ages ago,” Bernadette said. “Next spring, we’ll be sixteen and ready for our come-out.”
His chest tightened yet again, this time with guilt. He would know about their upcoming debut if he’d made the effort to see them more often. God only knew what else he’d missed in their lives. Regardless of how difficult his relationship was with his father, he shouldn’t ignore his sisters.
“We’re not nearly as tall as Penny,” Bianca said. “Here she comes now.”
Penelope was here? He looked up at the landing where a thin, tall girl with reddish blond hair stood. She lowered her eyes and turned toward the corridor.
“Come with us,” Bianca said, taking his arm. When they gained the landing, he saw the back of a tall brunette in a brilliant green gown. His appreciative gaze slid down to the woman’s rounded bottom. When the brunette turned, she looked somewhat familiar, but the candlelight in the corridor was dim.
As he drew nearer, recognition dawned. The candlelight burnished her brunette hair and shed a mellow glow over her stunning creamy complexion. He felt as if she’d knocked the breath out of him. Hell, she’d literally done it when he’d tried to give her a chaste kiss beneath the Christmas mistletoe a few years ago. She’d always had a sharp tongue, and he’d remained wary of her with good reason.
Angeline curtsied and regarded him with a shrewd smile. “Bonsoir, mon ami.”
Their relationship had always been closer to adversary than friend, but he’d not seen her in a long time. There was no question that she’d grown even more beautiful.
Angeline offered her gloved hand, and he bowed over it. He flicked his eyes quickly over her generous bosom. Colin mentally reminded himself to keep his gaze a very safe distance above her low neckline. “I suspect you’ve had more than a few Parisian admirers.”
Her one-shoulder shrug was all Gallic. “The French have a proverb: ‘Beautiful grapes often make poor wine.’” A sly expression flitted through her green eyes. “So I avoid the grapes and drink the wine.”
“Clever,” he said.
Angeline clapped her hands twice. “Girls, repair to the drawing room. The marchioness is expecting us.”
He offered his arm to her. “Shall we?”
“I don’t know. You look as if you’re facing a prison cell rather than a drawing room.”
He said nothing, but he’d always dreaded visits to his father’s home. He’d been at Eton when his father remarried, and on his infrequent stays at Deerfield, he’d never felt he belonged. It wasn’t as if they were estranged; it was just circumstances. He’d always felt a bit awkward here, and as a result, he didn’t visit often.
They entered the drawing room to the delighted exclamations of Angeline’s mother—the Duchess of Wycoff—and his stepmother, Margaret, the marchioness. He noted the proliferation of gray in the duchess’s hair, and the fine hair on his neck stiffened. The scandal must have created a great deal of vexation.
“I daresay they make a handsome pair,” the duchess said.
Colin winced. When they were children, their deluded families had concocted the idea of a match between them, all because they were born only a week apart. But that had happened when they were mere babes, before his mother’s death and his father’s second marriage.
“Unfortunately, Colin and Angeline are about as compatible as two spitting cats,” the marquess said.
“Chadwick, please mind your words,” Margaret said. “Oh, look what you’ve started. The girls are hissing at each other. Bianca, Bernadette, you will cease.”
His father had spoken the truth. Beyond the annual house party and the spring season, Colin and Angeline had done their best to avoid each other over the years, though they had not been entirely successful. Despite her outward civility this evening, he knew her capacity for causing trouble, and he could not afford to be distracted. The fate of Sommerall hung in the balance.
He escorted Angeline to a chair and headed for the sideboard. Five minutes in her presence had been enough to send him to the brandy decanter. Admittedly, a goodly portion had to do with her womanly figure. A shrew she might be, but she was also the sort of woman men mentally undressed. At that thought, he poured himself two fingers, and then his gaze veered to his father. Show him you’re confident and unconcerned.
The Marquess of Chadwick returned his look with an inscrutable expression.
“Welcome, Colin,” the Marchioness of Chadwick said.
He bowed. “You look well, Margaret.”
“I’m very glad you came.” For a moment, she looked as if she would say more and then seemed to reconsider. Her abrupt silence didn’t surprise him. They had always been ill at ease with each other, although unfailingly polite. Her late father had been in trade, but she’d been educated as a lady. Colin assumed his father had married her for her wealth, but he did not know for certain, and he most certainly would never ask.
Margaret faced Angeline. “Thank you for bringing the girls to the drawing room. Left to their own devices, I fear they would spend all of their time in their room engaged in idle gossip.”
“What gossip could they possibly know?” the marquess said in a gruff voice. “They aren’t even out in society yet.”
The twins immediately adopted cherubic expressions. Colin bit his lip to keep from laughing.
Margaret regarded her husband with lifted brows. “You seem to have forgotten the letter they wrote to the king six months ago.”
Colin regarded his sisters with mock gravity. “Why did you write to the king?”
The marquess released a loud sigh. “Your sisters advised him to adopt a slimming regimen.”
Colin’s shoulders shook with laughter. The poor king’s girth was the subject of many caricatures.
“Thank goodness Ames intercepted the letter before it went out with the post,” Margaret said.
Colin leaned against the sideboard. So his sisters were still scamps. He found himself glad, perhaps because soon they would be entering the adult world, before he’d even gotten a chance to catch up on their burgeoning adolescence. The fault was his, and he’d meant to do better, but somehow intention led to procrastination. In London, it was all too easy to get caught up in the clubs, the races, the fencing matches, and the loose women who pursued him.
The Duke of Wycoff approached and clapped Colin on the shoulder. “I wasn’t certain you would attend.”
He wouldn’t have done so if not for his father’s letter. From the corner of his eye, Colin saw his father watching and retrieved the decanter. “Brandy?” he asked the duke.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the duke said. “It’s been an age since we last met.”
“White’s last spring, if memory serves me right.” Colin handed him a brandy and sipped his own drink. His father always stocked the finest brandy and port. “I take it Landale could not attend?” Colin said.
“My son did not wish to travel, given that his wife is in a delicate condition.”
Colin smiled a little at Wycoff’s old-fashioned reference to his daughter-in-law’s impending childbirth.
Wycoff inhaled the brandy’s fragrance. “It has been two years since the last house party. I confess I missed the shooting with Chadwick.”
There was a reserved air about Wycoff that had never been there before. He didn’t mention Angeline’s broken engagement and subsequent journey to Paris with her mother. It wasn’t the sort of topic one spoke of openly, but Colin felt it simmering beneath the surface. One thing he noticed was that Wycoff avoided looking at his eldest daughter. Colin found it odd and told himself he was imagining undercurrents. Deep down, he suspected there was something brewing beneath the surface, but he’d no idea what it was. Perhaps that was for the best.
Wycoff drew in a breath. “Still chasing the lightskirts?”
“Am I supposed to a. . .
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What a Reckless Rogue Needs
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