Page 12 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Many bastards get lost looking backward. Forward, always. Or better yet, work in the right now because that is where all thingshappen.

D id she look different? Maybelle peered into the mirror, but saw nothing unusual. Was she a little flushed? Maybe, but she was heading to London where she would finally be recognized as the granddaughter of an earl. That was significant!

And yet, that paled in comparison to the changes from the afternoon before. What she had done with Mr. Hallowsby! She had discovered a whole world of surprises regarding her own body. Such feelings! So hot, so uncomfortable. Like a thunderstorm under the skin. And yet the lightning flashes, the boom inside her belly, the explosion, and the aftermath had changed her whole world.

It was like suddenly discovering she could fly!

She’d tried to recreate the sensations last night, but she didn’t want to do it without Mr. Hallowsby. Even when she’d lain there reliving every glorious touch and stroke, it still wasn’t the same.

She wanted to do it again. Many, many times more. But that could not happen. She was going to be a respectable lady and marry Charlie, a virtuous curate, or maybe someone more exalted. Did Charlie know how to do those things? She couldn’t imagine him stroking himself, much less her.

She could look for a different husband. But how did she find out if a prospective husband knew how to give her a quickening? She wasn’t supposed to know about it.

Which left her circling back to Mr. Hallowsby. As a bastard, he wasn’t a potential husband. She wanted to be completely respectable, and therefore needed a legitimate husband.

But that was a thought for later. Right now, it was time to get to the inn. She rushed through the last details, then walked as fast as she could without appearing hasty.

She rounded the last corner before the inn and saw Mrs. Pursley and Mrs. Bray outside, whispering together. It was early to be about, and if they were talking in the middle of the street, then something strange had happened. A moment later, they turned to her, speaking loud enough for her to hear.

“In the middle of the night, can you credit it? When all decent folks is in bed.”

“What ’appened?” she asked, consciously thickening her accent so as to not give Mrs. Pursley another reason to say she put on airs.

“Why, the London gent. He up and disappeared with his fine carriage, right in the middle of the night. Rode off like a thief! Didn’t pay his shot or anything!”

Maybelle felt her blood run cold. It couldn’t be possible. He couldn’t have abandoned her like that. Not after… But of course, fancy gentlemen abandoned women all the time. Isn’t that what she’d been taught?

“Goodness, Bluebell, you’re looking awful pale.” The old biddy leaned forward maliciously. “You weren’t expecting something from that man, were you? I understand he’s been teaching you lessons.”

Maybelle gritted her teeth, Mrs. Pursley’s sly innuendo steeling her spine as nothing else could. She’d show them all as soon as she got to London and forced her father to recognize her. She’d show them all.

“Maybelle?” Mrs. Bray asked gently. She was a kind woman, so her expression was filled with concern. “Would you walk with me?”

“Oh, thank you. I’m afraid I’m a little distracted right now. I’m going to London today on the mail coach.” Though how she was going to walk to the town where the coach stopped was anybody’s guess. It would take her hours!

“What?” gasped Mrs. Pursley. “But you can’t go now that he’s left.”

And there it was. Surely by now Maybelle wouldn’t be surprised by these mean-spirited people. Mrs. Pursley obviously thought Maybelle would run off with the London gentleman.

“Well, what has that to do with anything?” Maybelle asked. Then, before she could say more, they were interrupted by a man’s call behind them.

“What ho!”

All three turned to see Mr. Bray and his daughter on his rickety cart, and right beside him was Mr. Hallowsby, smiling as he jumped down from his perch. “Miss Bluebell, a fine morning, isn’t it?”

Relief flooded her, dropping her breath straight down into her toes. It made no sense. She knew better than to rely on a man to keep his word. But he hadn’t abandoned her. He hadn’t skipped away like a thief in the night.

“Good morning, Mr. Hallowsby,” she said, keeping her voice level.

“Good morning! I hear we’ll be fellow passengers on the mail coach.”

She blinked. “You’ll be joining me?”

“Yes, indeed. Appears my carriage disappeared in the middle of the night, so I had to ask Mr. Bray here for a ride on his cart. Should make it to the coach in about an hour, yes?”

“Er, yes. But…your carriage disappeared? You don’t seem very upset about it.”

“I’m very upset, but I don’t vent my spleen at ladies. And since I must get to London, I shall travel by mail coach.”

“I see,” she murmured. Then she swallowed. “And Mina?”

His expression fell, and there was an apology in his eyes.

“Oh,” she whispered. Silly her—attached to a horse. She knew better, and yet…

He took her hand and squeezed. It was a too-familiar gesture, but she allowed it. “No worries,” he said. “I’ll recover her somehow. I promise.”

“How?” she breathed.

He chuckled. “Mina’s an ugly horse, Miss Bluebell. I’ll recover her.”

She smiled, feeling lighter with every passing second. He was here. He would find Mina. And best of all, he’d proved Mrs. Pursley completely wrong.

“Now, I’ve got to pay my shot at the inn. No one was about when I got up, and so I ducked on over to Mr. Bray’s home. After that, we’ll be off.” Then he bowed politely to all three and headed for the inn.

Faithful man.

And Mrs. Pursley was proved a gossiping old biddy who got everything wrong. A perfect start to the morning. Meanwhile, the village had already stirred itself to gossip. Deprived of Mr. Hallowsby, it turned on her, looking for details about her family in London. They’d heard the news from the vicar who told Mrs. Pursley…who apparently told everyone.

Maybelle kept it vague, saying she hoped to return in a month with surprising news. If she didn’t, well…she’d never live down the ignominy.

Eventually, Mr. Hallowsby returned from the inn. Maybelle had already tossed her small satchel into the cart. It carried all her worldly goods—her best two dresses and underthings, plus the sketch of her mother’s face as it had been drawn by her father’s hand.

Time to go. She swallowed. This was what she wanted, so why was it hard to leave? She glanced around at faces she’d known all her life. She’d never been more than ten miles from her home. And now she was going to London? It unsettled her. Truthfully, it terrified her.

Then Mr. Hallowsby took her lax hand in his, offering to help her climb up as if she were a fine lady. But when she meant to go, her feet stayed stubbornly planted. There was an awkward silence as she stood there, willing herself to move. And then he squeezed her hand.

“There’s no shame in delaying. You need not go today.”

Which meant she need not go ever. “It has been delayed too long. I’m four-and-twenty and have never met them.”

He shrugged. “You could write them.”

Her mother had been adamant that she not write. She had to go in person if she meant to claim her parentage. Which meant she had to get in the cart.

She looked into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts. She had no idea why he mattered so much to her. She could have looked to any of the village, people who had known her all her life. But she already knew their opinions—for good or for ill. His thoughts were unknown. And so she looked into his eyes and saw patience. Neither support nor condemnation, as he awaited her decision.

That was shocking. She knew he was not shy about pressing her. Yesterday’s seduction had been proof of that. But today he was neutral. Which left her to make up her own mind, which is how it should have been anyway.

“I will go,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

His lips quirked as he raised her hand to his lips. “You are a brave woman.”

No one had ever called her that. Bold, certainly. Brassy and wild, definitely. But not brave, and not with such admiration.

How warm that made her feel. How her heart was beating now, and not in fear. She grinned at him, then flashed all the villagers an excited wave before climbing into the cart. She was Cinderella on the way to the ball. She was Red Riding Hood on the way to her grandmother’s house and a grand adventure. She was the heroine of every great tale she had never heard.

With that bold thought, she settled back on the hard wood and grinned. A moment later, Mr. Hallowsby settled between her and Mr. Bray’s eldest girl, Valerie. Then her neighbor clucked at the horses, and they were off.

She named the homes that they passed until she didn’t know the family names anymore. Soon her eyes tired from trying to see everything at once.

Why did she bother? There was nothing new to see. Perhaps she didn’t have a memory associated with the trees or the bend in the road, but it still looked the same. She smiled at her companions and listened to Mr. Bray whistle. That was lovely.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

Lord, this was tedious.

She looked to Mr. Hallowsby.

“Everything good, then?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “Perfectly.”

“Excellent.” Then he began to chat with them. He asked about their homes and their lives. Within a couple miles, they were all laughing, shy Valerie included. And in another hour, they had made it to the coaching inn.

*

She was an excellent companion, Bram realized with quiet shock. As they rode together on top of the mail coach, she peppered him with questions. She wanted to know all the things he’d done in his life. He told her nothing. His life—or his lies—were not to be shared in the open like this. So she switched to ask about London.

That passed the time for an hour or more, but he wanted to hear more of her life. Personally, he’d always run from provincial life. Let one soul discover he was a bastard, and the whole village banded together in moral outrage against him. Similarly, she and her mother had been mistreated, but they had persevered. And rather than turn bitter, her every tale suggested fondness for people who were clearly flawed.

Awareness without bitterness? How odd. And stranger, she was not trying to wheedle something from him. He’d already paid her passage to Oxfordshire, even sat atop the damned mail coach to protect her as they travelled. So there was nothing more for her to gain from him except a pleasant day in the sunshine as they rode lengthwise across England.

He knew that in time he would question her. It was in his nature to doubt, but for the moment, he simply enjoyed it.

In fact, the shock was that he had never had a better time in his life.

*

They arrived in Oxfordshire too late to do more than find an inn. Bram hoped that the place they stopped would be crowded, forcing them into a single room, but he was out of luck. Plenty of space, good fare to eat, and beds separated by a wall and thick doors.

It was important to her to observe society’s rules, so he respected her wistful smile as she bid him good night and shut her bedroom door with him on the outside. He knew he’d spend the night fantasizing about her, but he’d done that every night since they’d met. Fortunately, an end to such torment was in sight.

Tomorrow they would go to the church where the vicar would take them to the registry. She would take it hard when she realized her mother’s lie. No banns had been read. No legitimate marriage had been recorded. Despite all her insistence to the contrary, Bram was sure her mother had not been legally wed.

He guessed that Bluebell’s mother had been deceived. Sometimes, gentlemen created a fake special license, then had a friend perform a “wedding” ceremony. The girl would believe it when the whole thing was a lie.

He grieved for the pain that would cause Bluebell. Everything she believed about herself would be shattered. But once she realized she was a bastard like him, a host of possibilities opened up.

If you could never be respectable, then why keep to respectable limits?

He would have her tomorrow night, he resolved. He would make her his mistress, take her to London, and then teach her such things! He pleasured himself most of the night just thinking of that glorious future.

First thing the next morning, they presented themselves to the vicar. A quick explanation of the situation from Miss Bluebell, then a shared look of dismay between himself and the holy man, before all three tromped to the rectory.

“Remember,” Bram said as the vicar found the appropriate volume. “Whatever you learn today, your mother loved you. She cared for you, raised you, and gave you everything she could. The registry will not change your childhood, your mother, or even yourself. You are still you—”

“Oh, do shut up,” Bluebell hissed. “I know you think the worst, but Mum did not lie about this.”

He exhaled harshly. “Not lie. Perhaps she was fooled.”

She cast a disparaging eye at him. “I wasn’t born canny, you know. I learned to be smart from my mother.”

He nodded, knowing when a woman would not listen. All he could do was stand braced to support Bluebell when she learned the dark truth.

“Here it is,” the vicar abruptly cried. “Right here. The banns were read on the dates you said, and they were married all right and tight.”

The man brought the record to Bluebell, and she eagerly traced the lines with her fingers. Meanwhile, the vicar smiled warmly at them both.

“It’s pleased as punch I am to show you this, Miss Ballenger. You should have told me your real name.”

“Oh,” she murmured absently. “But I have gone by Bluebell my whole life.”

“Well, you’re not in the country anymore. Down here, we like to acknowledge the granddaughter of an earl.”

What?

Bram looked down, his eyes widening as he read and reread the words. He knew that name. He knew that family.

Bloody hell. Her father was listed as Oscar Ballenger, son of the Earl of Cavener. But that couldn’t possibly be true, could it? No, no, there was only one son. A boring Ronald or Richard or something.

And then he had it. He had the awful truth.

There had been a second son who’d died of a fever at school. Could that have been Oscar? If so, then Bluebell’s father was gone, but she was still granddaughter to an earl.

But what had happened to the eldest son? Bram searched his memory. The first son had married and procreated as was expected but then died in a shooting accident. That left a boy of four or five who was heir to a vast estate. The mother, Bluebell’s aunt, was a boringly proper woman without any spark. The earl kept both daughter-in-law and heir tucked away at their country seat. All very proper, though rather cursed in terms of men.

So the parent generation was dead or hidden away in the country. What about the grandparents? The countess was a kind woman with sharp eyes and a love of fashion. She had doted on her children, and with them gone, was now lost in a vague melancholy of age.

Unless another child presented herself, one that was lively and smart, who could be dressed up and give her a reason to throw balls. The daughter of her second son, a beauty that could have a Season with all the pomp of a true English rose.

Bluebell. The legitimate granddaughter of an earl.

It boggled his mind. And it also presented an opportunity. After all, the Ballengers were wealthy people. They would, of course, dower their grandchild with a respectable amount of money.

What if he married Bluebell and presented it as a fait accompli? If he made sure she was his before she was presented to her grandfather and accepted as one of their own. If he seduced her in the right way, then it could be done. And he could have everything he’d always wanted. Money, status, and Bluebell in his bed.

The temptation burned through him. He wanted it as deeply, as sincerely, as he’d once wanted Cara. And that set him back on his heels.

Whenever things had appeared to go his way, whenever a gift came from the heavens—it had all gone sour eventually. There were no gifts, not without strings attached. Cara had been a lie wrapped in a pretty package.

Bluebell was no deceiver, but she was still a lie. She’d been thrown to Hull to be raised in ignorance, which meant the earl’s family wanted no part of her. And no matter his temptation to marry her now, no matter the urge to bed her and force the earl to recognize his granddaughter, it wouldn’t work. Because it never worked.

Which meant despite everything, he had to pack her back to Hull and her life there. She had her letter from the vicar. She had proof she was legitimate. She could leave now and go marry the vicar’s son as she’d wanted.

So that was his plan. He would send her away and be done with pretty packages wrapped around a lie.