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Four

A RASCAL

A rascal, according to the Oxford English Dictionary:

An unprincipled or dishonest person; a rogue, a scoundrel.

December 23

C harles climbed into the coach and removed his beaver hat. “Happy Christmas, Will.”

“And to you, my friend.” Will leaned back against the squab, digging his fingers into his light-brown hair and massaging his scalp. “I believe I overindulged last night.”

“Thank you for the warning. I shall endeavor to sing in my loudest voice as we leave London behind.” Charles opened his mouth wide, then laughed when Will clamped his hands over his ears.

“Please, if you have ever considered me a friend, do not.” Will swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “A little nap and I’ll be fine.”

“Or a hair of the dog, as my father always said.” Charles shook his head. “I’m glad I didn’t accept your invitation last night. I don’t enjoy a belligerent stomach when I travel.”

While Will slept, Charles’s mind wandered to the dinner party the other night. When Miss Weston had entered the drawing room, he’d felt like a green boy smitten. He had watched her with the other ladies, seen how at ease she was, how accepted she was in their company. Charles had come with a friend, who said they needed an even number after another guest had cancelled. He had hoped to make a few connections, maybe find a new client or two.

Instead, he’d found the woman who had taken the wind from his sails. Or put the wind in his sails. He wasn’t sure which way suited him at the time. He only knew the woman affected him like no other. But when Miss Phoebe Weston had been introduced to him, she’d been polite and never looked at him again. Until dinner.

She was betrothed to the rascal Kendall. He was a notorious womanizer, and Charles wondered about the match. During dinner, Miss Weston had watched her betrothed and another woman flirt outrageously. Charles had seen his chance and stepped in to help her save face. She had been thankful and the following two hours had been… Well, she was exactly what he was looking for. It irked him that a beautiful and intelligent lady would be shackled to such a rogue.

When he’d asked Will and another friend about the pair, he learned her father hadn’t spent much time in London the past few years. Her chaperone during her first Season had been her aunt. A woman who had a reputation of her own and traveled often. So her guardians might not have been aware of Kendall’s character. If one only referenced Debrett’s, the man would be a standup cove.

Does she love him? he wondered. Was it arranged or a mutual agreement? She deserved so much more. Miss Phoebe Weston should be loved to distraction, not used as a pretty accessory on a man’s arm.

“Did I tell you what I found out about Kendall?”

Charles’s head snapped up. “It’s as if you read my mind. And no, you didn’t.”

“Rumor has it that his father is cutting him off until he marries and produces an heir. He likes to gamble, and his mistress is expensive. So he’s marrying for the dowry, which is quite generous.” Will sneered, disgust in his hazel eyes. “The blaggard told me that her blunt would tide him over until he gets her with child.”

“His family name may demand respect, but Kendall certainly hasn’t earned it.” Charles blew out a long breath. “It’s a shame. She’s a lovely woman.”

“Who he will neglect and let wither away.” Will leaned his head back again. “I’m almost recovered. By the time we reach the inn, I should be my old self.”

“Saints preserve us,” Charles mumbled as Will began softly snoring again.

“Are you sure about this marriage?” asked Aunt Lucy on their way to dinner. “He was deplorable the other night.”

“I think I surprised him by not allowing, er, by calling him out for his behavior. He promised to be discreet while he was ending the affair with the actress.” Phoebe had decided to forgive him for his conduct. It was true they weren’t married yet, and many men had mistresses. She would close her eyes to his past and concentrate on their future. “Besides, we’re betrothed. I can’t change my mind now.”

“Humdudgeon. Of course you can. If he demands satisfaction, Andrew will pay him off.”

She was right, of course. Her father would make restitution if she didn’t want to go through with it. Phoebe was not some helpless girl being forced into a marriage, which was all the more reason she couldn’t forfeit. It would be a scandal of huge proportions. She silenced the ugly whispering in her head. All would be well.

She had chosen a pale-blue silk dress with an indigo beaded bodice. Paste sapphires adorned her upswept hair, and authentic sapphires hung from her ears and neck. Aunt Lucy wore a turban with rose feathers poking from the top to match her light-rose dress with a sheer overlay, adorned with paste diamonds.

Dinner went well. Her fiancé was handsome in his black coat tails, gray-and-white striped waistcoat, and perfectly tied cravat. He was not a tall man but fit, and he was his usual charming self while the courses were served.

Seated next to James, Phoebe had several conversations with his mother. Short ones. The marchioness was easily distracted and often left one conversation to join another. The marquess consumed a great deal of liquor and grew louder with each drink. Phoebe had never noticed before, but the married couple didn’t seem to like each other. In fact, they rarely spoke to one another.

After dinner, she played the pianoforte but noticed James leaving the room. The guests clapped as the song ended, and James’s mother asked her to play another. When she finished, she saw her fiancé had not returned. Excusing herself to the retiring room, Phoebe made her way down the hall. As she passed a door, she heard a thud . Then a giggle. Then a growl. A growl that sounded familiar.

“Such rosy petals.”

James!

Phoebe threw open the door, hands on her hips, to find a maid with her chest bare and her fiancé’s head bent over it. “How could you?”

She slammed the door closed again, picked up her skirts, and ran for the drawing room. When she reached the door, dragging in deep breaths after her lengthy dash, she paused to calm herself. She was a Weston and would not look like a hysterical female. Digging deep to find her calm, she walked to her aunt and whispered in ear. “We must go. Now.”

Aunt Lucy took one look at her niece’s face and stood, whipping her fan back and forth in front of her face. “Oh my. I feel a monstrous megrim coming up.” She turned to Phoebe. “Would you mind dreadfully if we went home early?”

Phoebe closed her eyes, silently thanking her intuitive aunt. “Of course.”

The butler was at the door and bowed. “I shall call for your carriage, ma’am.”

A few moments later, she and Aunt Lucy made their way to the carriage, the driver already holding the door open, ready to help them up the stairs. Just as she took the offered hand to follow her aunt inside, she heard James behind her.

“Phoebe, don’t be ridiculous!” he yelled from the portico, hurrying down the steps. “It was nothing. You’re overreacting.”

She turned, eyes wide, indignation dripping from her words. “I’m overreacting? My fiancé is in a closet with a maid who is half dressed. I believe you are under reacting, Lord Kendall.” She turned to climb into the carriage, but his hand on her arm made her pause.

“Phoebe, boys will be boys, eh? My antics don’t reflect upon you.” He grinned and waggled his dark brows. “Or are you jealous?”

Fat drops of rain plopped onto Phoebe’s hat, as if the weather taunted her too.

“You promised to be discreet. Tupping a maid in a closet—during a dinner party where your betrothed is playing the pianoforte—is miles away from subtle.” The rain began a steady pummel, seeping into her pelisse, running down her neck.

“I promised to be discreet after we were married,” he said, tipping his head, confusion in his green eyes. His hair glistened wet, and he wiped a tiny rivulet of rain tracking down his forehead. “That won’t be until after Twelfth Night.”

She gasped. “You will continue your affairs after we’ve said our vows?” She raised her face to the rain, letting the droplets cool her burning face.

“Why would our arrangement change that?” James snorted. “I’m not arguing with you out here in the rain. Come inside while we sort this out.”

“Arrangement?” Phoebe’s eyes snapped open as nausea spread through her belly. Her curls had become sodden strands clinging to her skin, and she pushed them from her cheeks. “You said… you said you loved me.”

“Well—of course—yes, I love you, my sweet.” He bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers, the slick rain turning the kiss into a slippery slide of lips. “See? Now come with me?—”

James grabbed her hand and tried to pull her back toward his house. Phoebe shook her head and dug in her heels. “No! I won’t go. I cannot marry you.”

He stopped, the water soaking through his suit coat, his trousers clinging to his legs, and turned slowly. His eyes were cold, and an even chillier smile curved his lips. “You what?” His fingers gripped hers tightly, refusing to let loose her hand. He pulled her against his hard form and kissed her again. A hard and brutal kiss. “You are mine, Miss Phoebe Kendall. You must learn your place.”

Phoebe leaned back and, with her free hand, slapped his cheek as hard as she could, then wiped her mouth. Disgust boiled up inside her and spewed out her mouth. “Don’t touch me, you scoundrel. I release you from this betrothal. Never speak to me again.” She yanked her hand from his, turned on her heel, pulled her skirts up with all the dignity she had left, and climbed into the carriage.