What a Reckless Rogue Needs By Vicky Dreiling
To my late father, Benny Gregory. Miss you, Daddy.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Michele Bidelspach for your insightful comments. You’re an amazing editor.
To Lucienne Diver for all the guidance, fantastic ideas, and fun, too. I know how lucky I am.
To everyone at The Knight Agency—you guys rock.
To Kati Rodriguez for knowing exactly what I need before I know it. You continue to wow me with your ideas and suggestions.
To all the team at Forever Romance for the fantastic covers and great ideas.
Huge thanks to Carrie Andrews—best copy editor ever!
Most important of all, I wish to thank all the readers who let me know you enjoy my books. May the Magic Romance Fairies be with you.
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 answer that?”
The duke laughed. “Sounds like an affirmative to me.”
He cleared his throat. “I try to be discreet.”
The duke raised his brows. “It’s not working.”
In an effort to change the topic, Colin said, “May I freshen your drink?”
“No, thank you,” Wycoff said. “I’ll join your father on a comfortable chair and try not to doze as I’m wont to do.”
Colin bowed and watched the duke walk away. Angeline attempted to intercept him, but he ignored her. Colin frowned. It seemed odd to him, but he shrugged it off.
He meant to remain at the sideboard, but Margaret sought him out. “Angeline has agreed to play the pianoforte,” she said. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to turn the pages for her.”
Short of claiming a sudden case of the ague, he could hardly refuse. “Yes, of course,” he said, and strode over to the instrument where Angeline removed one of her gloves. He’d forgotten her long slender fingers. Then again, why should he remember them? He shook off the odd thought and stood there waiting for her to begin playing.
“Will you set up the sheet music?” she said, fumbling with the other glove.
“Yes, I will.” He frowned. “Are you vexed?”
“Of course not,” she said.
He suspected she was lying. “What will you play?”
“Grimstock,” she said, handing the sheets to him.
He leaned over her shoulder and placed the pages side by side. “How appropriate considering you are looking rather grim,” he said under his breath.
“I haven’t played in ages. I fear this will be excruciating for me and everyone listening.”
“It’s a bit late to decline now.”
“I will play when I am ready,” she said in a testy voice.
“As you please, but there’s no need to snap at me. I might add that the sooner you play, the quicker the misery will be over.”
“I do not play that badly,” she said.
He clasped his hands behind his back and said nothing.
“I am competent,” she said.
“Of course you are,” he said, trying very hard not to laugh.
“You are perfectly horrid and so is my playing,” she said.
“At long last, something we agree upon.” He’d forgotten the ease with which they sparred with one another. It was like verbal chess.
“Do not torment me,” she said. “I might avenge myself by playing more than one piece.”
“In that case, I am overwhelmed by your talent—at least for the duration of this one exhibition.”
She pressed the ivory keys lightly. “I must concentrate.”
When he turned the page, she leaned forward a bit and pressed a discordant note, but she managed to recover.
After a few moments, he said, “I saw you speaking to my stepmother.”
Angeline kept her eyes on the sheet music. “The marchioness enumerated your many positive qualities.”
He smiled. “Did she now? What did she say?”
“Hmmm. She said you drink like a fish and have a string of previous lovers who are permanently heartbroken over losing your affections.”
“Margaret would never disparage me.”
“So you deny you’re a rake?” Angeline said, her tone challenging.
“My reputation is somewhat embellished.”
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I rather doubt it.”
“Why should you doubt me? You’ve no proof.”
“I’m well acquainted with the type,” she said. “I imagine you’ve heard.”
He leaned over her again and straightened the sheet music. “I’m not Brentmoor.”
She played a wrong note and grimaced.
“Sorry.” He shouldn’t have said that. It had probably been a painful experience for her. “You’re fine, keep playing.”
“That’s rich. Encouragement from a rake.”
He was tempted to defend himself, but it wouldn’t change the truth. Good God, he’d gotten so foxed in his rooms he’d passed out with his boots on and forgotten the actress he’d taken home. But in the world of London, there were rakes and there were disgusting scoundrels. He’d never sunk so low as the latter.
The duchess raised her voice. “Angeline, you must focus.”
Angeline’s mouth thinned as if she were struggling with her reaction. The duchess was a formidable woman, with a very strict interpretation of the proprieties. That brought to mind Brentmoor.
Colin could not fathom how Angeline had gotten involved with that roué. He wondered why Wycoff hadn’t put his foot down with his daughter. Why hadn’t he forbidden her to have anything to do with a known libertine? It made no sense.
Granted, he was a rake, but he kept his distance from virtuous ladies, mostly because he prized his bachelorhood.
Angeline faltered again.
Colin marked the way she winced and figured her mother’s reproof had rattled her. But he found it odd. Angeline had never been a wilting flower. When she played another wrong note, he leaned closer and said, “Relax, my stepmother is distracting the duchess as we speak.”
Angeline was more than a little flustered, and Colin’s presence did not help. “I do not need your reassurance.”
“I’m merely practicing being a dull, respectable fellow.”
She continued playing. “Is that like putting on an old coat to see if it still fits?”
“I’m simply wanting for temporary amusement.”
“Then I must be boring you,” she said. “There is a dearth of real amusement tonight.”
“One thing about you hasn’t changed,” he said.
“What is that?”
“You never want for a clever retort.”
Or a strategic defense. She regarded him with a cynical smile. Truthfully, she had dreaded encountering Colin, but it was foolish of her. He’d likely heard plenty of rumors about her misbegotten and short-lived engagement, but she had a low opinion of dissipated rakes like him and cared nothing for his opinion, good or bad.
Liar. You hate that he knows you were brought down low.
She had hoped to avoid attending the annual house party, but her mother had insisted that she begin entering English society again in order to “repair” her reputation, though this gathering hardly counted as such. The notion of repair was laughable. The only way she could redeem her reputation would be to make a respectable marriage, and that was highly unlikely.
Even though she yearned to start over, to change what had happened, there was no going back. She couldn’t retrieve her youth. Time had marched on like an obedient soldier, until one day she’d awakened to discover she was thirty years old and on the proverbial shelf. That had played a large part in her foolhardy courtship with Brentmoor.
Angeline played the last notes and reached for the sheet music, but Colin gathered the pages in a neat stack. When he turned to her, she was struck anew by his dark curly hair and brown eyes with amber hues that could melt butter in freezing temperatures—or more likely, a lady’s objections.
Any lady but her.
Why was so much beauty wrapped up in a she-devil package? Perhaps he wasn’t being fair. They had not spoken in ages, but given her acerbic remarks tonight, he doubted she’d changed.
She snatched her gloves. In her haste, she dropped one.
He retrieved it. “You seem a bit flustered. I hope I did not make you vexatious.”
“You flatter yourself.”
“There you are wrong. I have my faults, but excessive vanity is not one of them.”
She covered an obviously feigned yawn. “I shall refrain from asking about your other excesses.”
“Angeline,” the duchess said, “will you play again or do you intend to dawdle?”
The rosy flush staining Angeline’s face spoke volumes, but she recovered quickly and popped up from the bench. “I shall dawdle. I do it so well.”
The twins marched over to the pianoforte and set up their sheets. Colin took the opportunity to escape Angeline. “Pardon me while I turn the pages for my sisters.”
“How very charming of Ravenshire to turn the pages for the twins,” the duchess said. “He shows his care for his sisters.”
Angeline made a concerted effort not to roll her eyes. She’d always struggled to keep her thoughts from showing on her face, but it was particularly difficult when her mother made a big to-do over the simple act of turning pages. The duchess had obviously chosen to forget Colin’s dissipated reputation, but Angeline had not.
She turned her attention away and spotted Penny hunching her shoulders in the window seat. “Excuse me, Mama,” she said, and hurried off before her mother could detain her further. Penny smiled a little when she sat beside her.
“Are you enjoying seeing the twins again?” Angeline asked.
“Oh, yes. They are quite vivacious,” Penny said. “Unlike me.”
Angeline squeezed her sister’s hand. “You have many talents, Penny. You play very well and your watercolors are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Penny said, “but I wish I had the gift of conversing easily. I always think of something clever to say after I’m alone.”
“Better to think before you speak,” Angeline said. “I learned that the hard way, but let us not dwell on our faults. The grounds at Deerfield are beautiful. Perhaps we could go for a walk this week if the weather holds.”
“I would like that very much.” Penny bit her lip.
“What troubles you?” Angeline said.
“It is of no consequence,” she said.
“You know that you can tell me anything.” She worried that her mother might have inadvertently let something slip about her broken betrothal in front of Penny this evening. Angeline knew she couldn’t protect her sister forever, but she did not want to reveal the circumstances while they were away from home.
Penny clasped her hands in her lap. “Bianca and Bernadette were speaking about our come-outs next spring, and all of a sudden I realized that I would be among an enormous crowd. I just know that I’ll be a wallflower.”
She hugged Penny. “Sweet sister, you will do very well.”
“You will be there,” Penny said. “I could not possibly make my debut without you.”
“You mustn’t worry.” But even as Angeline spoke, she wasn’t entirely certain she would be able to attend. While a few of her mother’s steadfast friends had called upon them in Paris, there were more than a few English ladies who had cut their acquaintance. She dreaded broaching the topic. Her sister was sensitive, and Angeline saw no reason to worry Penny months ahead of time, but Angeline was concerned. She prayed her scandal would not touch Penny, because that would hurt far more than Brentmoor’s duplicity.
Colin bid the guests good night as they retired for the evening. The marquess had not moved from his spot on the sofa. As usual, Margaret was straightening the cushions, something she ought to leave for the servants. Then she pulled a stool over to her husband.
“Margaret,” the marquess said in a warning tone.
She hesitated. “I thought you might wish to put your feet up now that the guests are gone.”
Colin sat in a winged chair and leaned forward. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”
“I’ll keep it,” the marquess said.
Good Lord. His father was like a child. He hadn’t wanted the stool until he realized someone else did.
Margaret curtsied. “Well, I’ll leave you to your discussion.”
“You may expect me in half an hour, Margaret.”
Colin brushed at the nonexistent lint on his trousers. Did his father have to announce his intention to bed his wife in front of him?
After she left, the marquess polished off a brandy and regarded him with amusement. “Did you think I’ve become so ancient that I’ve lost my virility?”
He turned his head aside. “I don’t want to know your intimate business.”
“Are you blushing?” Of course he wasn’t, but damnation, no man wanted to know about his father’s marital relations. “I’m here because you requested my presence to discuss the sale of Sommerall.”
The marquess clasped his hands over his slight paunch. “You are curt this evening. Perhaps you have forgotten who supports your lavish lifestyle.”
His quarterly funds hardly counted as a “lavish” lifestyle, but Colin refused to be distracted. “I stopped at Sommerall earlier today. Are you aware the key is missing?”
“It is not missing,” the marquess said. “I retrieved it some time ago to keep vagrants out.”
Colin nodded. “I’ll come to the point. I want Sommerall.”
The marquess huffed. “For what? You spend all of your time in London. The property has remained unoccupied for years. The furnishings and paintings are covered with sheets. God only knows what sort of nests are in the chimney. The place needs to be occupied. I see no reason to let it rot when I have an offer.”
Colin clenched his jaw and reminded himself to hold his temper. A row would serve no purpose. “I have a plan—”
“Not tonight.” The marquess groaned after he moved his feet off the stool and stood.
Colin’s eyes widened. “Are you unwell?”
“Of course not,” the marquess said. “Go on now. I’ll meet you in my study after breakfast.”
“If you will listen—”
“Tomorrow,” the marquess said.
“I only want a few minutes of your—”
“You will meet me as directed,” the marquess said.
His father had always insisted upon having control of everything, including the last word. Colin gritted his teeth, stood, and bowed. “Good night,” he said.
After Colin left, the marquess winced when his knees creaked. Little wonder. He’d tramped all over the property with Wycoff earlier today. He’d always been active, either riding or walking along the property. He personally inspected repairs and drainage issues. Only a fool would allow others to make the decisions, and he was no fool.
He was doubly glad that he was as fit as ever, as he didn’t want anything to interfere with the shooting. Every autumn, he and Wycoff had a fine time shooting birds—or rather attempting. Aiming their guns at birds was a better description. They rarely ever bagged one, but that didn’t matter. He enjoyed spending time with his oldest friend. He thought about inviting Colin, but the marquess knew it was time to teach his son a lesson. That was the reason he’d requested his reckless son’s presence at the house party.
The marquess sighed. He had heard more stories than he could count about his son’s debauchery, gaming, and dissipation. He should not be surprised. After all, he’d been quite the rakehell in his day, but he had decided it was past time that Colin settled down. Once the marquess made a decision, he stood by it.
He’d known his threat to sell Sommerall would infuriate his son, but he’d been fairly certain that Colin would have made excuses to avoid the house party and Angeline. The pair had never gotten along since her come-out. Margaret had told him in confidence that Colin had reserved the first dance, but there had been a dustup when he’d shown up late and foxed. That was years ago, but they had remained estranged all these years. Seemed ridiculous to him, but what was he to do about it?
But now his old friend Wycoff was worried about his eldest daughter. She’d gotten herself in a tangle over jilting a beau, and Wycoff worried about her future. The marquess sympathized, as he had his own problems with Colin.
Reason told him that Colin wanted Sommerall because his mother was buried there, God rest her soul. The marquess assumed his son wanted the property badly or he would have stayed in London to continue his typical rakehell pursuits.
His son had a plan. No doubt it was quite inventive. Colin, for all of his reckless ways, was shrewd. The marquess was interested to see exactly what his son had devised in such a short period of time. Of course, he would not make matters easy on Colin. In truth, matters could take a wrong turn, but he figured he had a decent chance of succeeding.
He chuckled softly, remembering how his own father had given him a blistering lecture many years ago. God knew he’d been as wild as the proverbial March hare in his day, but like his father before him, the marquess intended to force his son to leave behind his raking for good.