Page 22 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

When a bastard gives his heart, he barely misses it since it’s lain unused for solong.

B ram wasn’t a man who drank. Even in his youngest years, he’d been too afraid of what he might say. He knew some things from his mother that should not be told. And as he aged, his secrets grew more dangerous. So he didn’t drink.

Tonight he was blind, stinking drunk. So bloody pissed that he couldn’t stand himself. And yet he sat on the floor of his tiny room and swilled cheap gin, while glaring at the only person in the world he could risk this kind of drunk with: his mother. She’d come to see him, barging in, when he was already three sheets to the wind.

“Love,” he muttered into the jug. “You love me, Mum. I don’t need her.”

“Of course not, dear.”

“You love every man you take to your bed. In and out. Love him. Love her. Love this one. Love that.”

“Yes, dear. Have you eaten any supper?”

“I had her, and she tasted like…like ambrosia.”

“Of course she did. Who is this girl, exactly?”

“Bluebell. I call her Bluebell.”

“What’s her real name, dear?”

He glared at the jug, wondering if he had the strength to throw it across the room. Probably. But he hadn’t the will.

“Bram Wesley Hallowsby,” his mum said sternly. “What is her name?”

“Maybelle Ballenger,” he shot back. “The bloody Earl of Cavener’s granddaughter.”

She sniffed in disdain. “Nonsense. He’s hasn’t got a daughter named Maybelle.”

“The second son,” he shot back. “The one who died in Oxford. Of a broken heart.”

This time her sniff became a “tut!” Then she smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt. “I heard he died of the French disease.”

Bram snorted. Trust that fat-arsed earl to let his son be known as a whoremonger rather than a man who loved his wife. Bluebell’s mother. And the woman who loved Bram.

“She said she loved me.”

“She’s too young to know her mind, dear.”

“She brought me across England, Mum. Managed it just like she said she would. First to fix the carriage, next to see the registry, and then to see her grandfather. Stuffed up prig.”

His mother brought him a tepid glass of tea, forcibly replacing his empty gin jug with the weak brew. “Really? And the earl accepted her?”

Bram shook his head. “Wanted her strung up and quartered. But I forced him.”

“You what?”

“I forced him. Wasn’t hard. The marriage was real. The child is legal. And smart. And beautiful.” And she tasted like ambrosia.

“Yes, yes. Goodness, that’s quite a tale.”

“It’s true. All bloody true.” His voice broke on the last as he tried to drain the last of the gin but swallowed his mum’s tea instead. Gah. It was vile stuff. “I love her, Mum. I love her like I’ve never loved anyone.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I can see that.” Then with a sigh and a shift of her skirts, his mother sat directly in front of him. It was a surprise. He couldn’t remember a time when she’d gotten down on the dirty floor with him. Not even when he was a child.

“Mum?”

“I’m going to tell you something I swore I’d never tell a soul. Not a soul. And if you repeat it, I shall make you pay.”

And she could. He occasionally made empty threats. Had to. And with his reputation it usually worked. But not his mum. Her threats were real.

“I don’t talk,” he muttered.

“Not usually.”

His eyes narrowed. She was getting blurry around the edges. “Tell me,” he ordered.

“I loved your father. And I’m fairly sure he loved me.”

Bram stared at her. He replayed the words over and over in his brain until they slipped in past the gin. And when they did, all he could say was, “Wha—?”

“It was the happiest day of my life when I found out I was with child. Second only to the day you were born.”

He blinked twice to force her into focus. It didn’t work.

“I don’t regret any of it. The love. The sex. The scandal. None of it. And I would do it again.”

“You hate my father. You said so. Often.”

“He was dead by then. I could say what I wanted.”

Bram shook his head. It felt ten times too large, and his stomach sloshed when he did it, but he kept denying her words. “You hated him. Hated that he got you pregnant. Ruined your looks. Got a babe with no one to help.”

She sighed. “No, dear. I hated what I had to do after he let me go. I hated that he left me with so little money.”

“He gave you thousands per annum.”

She nodded and pressed a wet cloth to his mouth. He shook it away even though it did feel nice. Then he grabbed her wrist as much to steady himself as to hold her still. “You loved him?”

“Yes. And if you have to sneak around in private behind some doddering husband, then you should do that. You shall have the woman you want, even if she’s married to someone else.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Mum, no . It’ll kill her. She’s a good Christian woman. Says it often enough.”

“What does that matter? Do you know how many Christian men have graced my bed? Ladies too.”

He didn’t want to think of that. Didn’t want to sully Bluebell with those thoughts. “I already ruined her, Mum. I can’t make her live like…like…”

“Like all the other married women of the ton ? Like all the other ladies you’ve bedded? Unhappy wives who hate their husbands?”

“Yes, damn you, yes! That’s not Bluebell.”

“Isn’t that her choice? Did you seduce her, Bram? Or did she pull you into her bed?”

Bram didn’t answer, but his face must have made the truth obvious.

“She wanted this life, Bram. She brought you all the way across England for it. And everything has worked out just as she said.”

He didn’t like his own words thrown back at him. “She’s not like that. She’s pure.”

“Not anymore,” his mother drawled.

“I ruined her.”

“Or…she chose to be ruined.” She touched his face. It was so close to what Bluebell did that he nearly cried. “She wants you.”

“She’s not like you!” he snapped, then immediately regretted it when his mother’s face closed down. Her lips compressed, and she looked away.

“Mum, I’m sorry—”

“Why must men always think in extremes? I can love even as a mistress. Especially as a mistress because I choose my protector.”

They both knew that wasn’t true. She chose the man who would best keep her in gowns and jewelry. Or in food and shelter.

“I loved your father. We both understood the constraints of his title and his marriage. I wanted his child anyway.”

Bram blinked his eyes, and finally his mother came into focus. “Why did you come here, Mum? How did you even know I was back in London?”

She tapped his knee. “I pay a boy to watch your rooms.”

Of course she did. Her current protector was very flush. “What do you want, Mum?”

“There’s another girl in trouble. I need you to threaten the father of her child.”

He groaned and dropped his head against the wall.

“Why?” he moaned. “Why have the babe? Why let a child be born as a by-blow? We don’t fit anywhere.”

“Of course you do. You fit on the outskirts with us.” She caressed his arm. “I don’t understand why that hurts you. I never thought I’d have a son who was so…so…”

“Stupid?”

“Honorable. Why do you want to be like them? Marrying for money, hated by your children, saddled with appearances that can never be maintained. Why do you want that?”

Because he could have her. Because he could marry her. Because he could honestly, honorably love her.

But he didn’t say that. His mother would laugh and tell him to love her in secret. Slip into Bluebell’s bedroom when her husband was away. Pleasure her in all the improper ways he knew so well.

That was what he should do.

By the time she left, he believed it as well.

*

Maybelle shuffled into her bedroom. It was early by town standards—after two a.m.—but she could barely keep her eyes open. Worse, while Eleanor had been so excited she hummed, Maybelle was feeling completely flat.

After her first ball.

She wore a gown of pale blue with gold stitching, so beautiful she couldn’t have imagined it a month ago. She’d been announced as Maybelle Ballenger and escorted by her grandparents. The entire ballroom had gone silent in stunned shock. Then a thousand eligible gentlemen introduced themselves to her, and she’d danced until her feet ached and her head swam.

Eleanor and the countess were in alt. They said she’d been launched perfectly. Even her grandfather had nodded. And he’d lost that stiff-backed, narrow-eyed glare he usually gave her. His expression was almost fond.

So she was accepted. Lauded even. And instead of crowing at her triumph, she bemoaned Bram’s absence.

She’d expected that, of course. She’d known from the moment he’d crept out of her bedroom a week ago that she might never see him again. It didn’t seem to matter that he was in her soul. He would not break society’s rules enough to appear at a ball. Certainly not her come-out. The last thing she needed— according to Eleanor—was to be associated with a by-blow, even though he was the son of a duke.

So he had stayed away in body, but in her thoughts, he’d been everywhere. Every man she met was compared to him. This one’s shoulders were not as strong. This one’s breath was not as sweet. This one’s smile didn’t compare to Bram’s.

And none of them questioned a word she said. It didn’t matter if she claimed to be a Black Irishwoman from the Colonies or a descendent from Turkish savages. At one point, she even said her favorite drink was boiled turnips. Not a one of them looked at her oddly. Not a one noticed that what she said was complete rubbish.

They smiled and patted her hand while looking at her décolletage. They assumed she was an empty-headed miss, and frankly, she was shocked that she preferred Bram’s way of doubting everything. At least he was listening.

Tonight’s gentlemen only heard her grandfather’s title and the amount of her substantial dowry. Which had been the biggest shock of all.

She, Eleanor, and her grandparents had been in the carriage on the way to the ball. Her stomach had been tied into knots while the countess and Eleanor kept spouting last-second advice. Then in one of the few pauses, her grandfather had cleared his throat and said, “I’ve let it out about your dowry. Twenty thousand pounds. Should be enough.”

Enough? She was an heiress. And now, no one cared if she were beautiful or stupid or disease-ridden. To them, she was twenty thousand pounds.

By the midnight supper, she’d wanted to escape. By two, it took all her will to hold in the scream. Which is when she told Eleanor she was leaving with or without her chaperone. Eleanor had agreed that staying until the end of one’s come-out ball was gauche, and it was best they departed.

And now she was home. She couldn’t wait to strip out of her whale-boned torture device of a corset. Not to mention taking down her hair. The pins had been poking her all night.

She made it to her bedroom and allowed her maid to undress her. In truth, she did little more than stand like an overly large doll. The girl did everything. And when it became clear that Maybelle wasn’t going to chatter, the girl had settled into her work in silence.

Blessed silence.

Soon she was ready for bed. Her maid bid her good night, then shut the door. Maybelle climbed in, took one last look at her window, and wished for Bram. Then, she sighed and blew out the candle.

“Is she gone, then?” A voice came from directly beneath her mattress.

She would have screamed. She should have. Imagine the man hiding under her bed until she’d settled in for the night. And then calmly speaking, as if she’d been waiting all week to hear his voice.

Imagine!

But she had been, and so she smiled. Her entire body relaxed, her breath came out on a sigh, and she thumped the bed frame hard enough to hurt her hand.

“You scared the life out of me! Why would you hide under there?”

“I had to go somewhere. I thought I’d have a good view from under here.”

“And did you?”

“No.” He sounded so disappointed that she laughed. “Nothing but dust and your slippers.”

She quickly lit the candle, then pulled the coverlet aside. “Come out.”

He was already scooting over, his head popping out an inch from her nose. His hair was mussed, his eyes bloodshot, and there was a new cut on his lip. And he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Especially when he looked at her as ardently as she stared at him.

“You were beautiful tonight,” he said. “I knew Eleanor would dress you perfectly.”

She gaped at him. “You were there? Where? Why didn’t—”

“I waited outside. I watched from the bushes until you got out of the carriage. I bet you danced the whole night through.”

“And have the blisters to prove it.” She sat back as he shook off the dust, only to realize he was dressed oddly.

Well, not oddly, but not in the first stare of fashion. Strange how quickly she’d become used to the bright colors of fresh dye, the tight waistcoats with perfect seams and no wear. He was dressed in brown, and what she’d once thought was elegant attire, she now realized was out of date. Worse, he had a stain on the cuff and a jagged line where a tear had been badly repaired.

In short, he was not a dandy. He was not even fashionable. What a difference one week had made in her perceptions.

“What? Have I got a spider on me?”

She shook her head. “A fresh bruise. What happened?”

He touched his lip and shrugged. “Lord Dunman owed his mistress some money. I had to persuade him to pay up.”

“Lord Dunman? The big one with one ear that’s…” She tilted her head and gestured with her hand.

“Oddly shaped? Yes, he’s the one.”

“He asked for a third dance tonight.”

Bram abruptly sobered. “You didn’t give it to him, did you? You must know—”

“Two dances. No more. Not until I’ve made my choice.”

“Yes.”

“Eleanor told me. So he’s having trouble paying his mistress?”

“Plus gambling debts.”

“No more dances for him.”

“Good.” His expression was light, but there was a shadow in his eyes. She scooted over on her bed, her earlier exhaustion fading.

“Sit down. Tell me what you have been doing this last week.” I’ve missed you so.

He settled beside her. “I paid off my tailor bill with the money from Dicky. I helped my mother scare off an unwelcome admirer.” He shrugged. “The usual for me. And you?”

“French lessons. Dancing lessons. Fittings. Instructions. Sit right, dress right, remember your h ’s.”

“And have you?”

She nodded. “Most of the time. They don’t really care what I say.”

“Of course they do. They’re listening to hear you say yes.”

“Yes? To what?”

“Whatever they want from you.”

She sobered. “My dowry.”

He nodded. “Your grandfather has done right by you. He may not have wanted to at first, but twenty thousand pounds is a fortune.”

“You heard.”

He chuckled, though the sound had no humor in it. “Bluebell, everybody heard. You’re the most exciting morsel of the Season so far.”

She knew it was true, and she ought to be thrilled. She was thrilled. But… She touched his bruised lip. “Does it hurt?” Kiss me.

“I’ve had worse.”

Of course he had.

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Tell me everything, Bluebell. Tell me every detail of your come-out. What you thought, what you felt, who talked to you, who looked at you wrong.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Who pinched your bum?”

“Pinched my bum! The very idea!”

“Did someone?”

She flushed. “Yes. But Lord Platner is practically a hundred years old.” Take me.

“At least. And he pinches everyone’s bum. Even the men, but that’s because he’s so blind, he can’t see who he’s got.”

She laughed while wondering at the red in his eyes and the stark cut to his jaw. Had he always looked so lean? At least in comparison to the fat nobles she’d been meeting. Or was this a new gauntness?

She reached behind her, adjusting the pillows against the headboard. Then she scooted backward, leaving a place for him to sit comfortably beside her. When he didn’t move, she tugged on his sleeve.

“Come on. There’s a lot to tell. I haven’t been lazing around getting my lip split by hulking aristocrats. I’ve been busy .”

His lips twitched in a smile, but before he could move on the bed, she tugged on his coat sleeve.

“Take it off, Bram. You don’t need it tonight.”

There. She’d said it. She wanted to make love, though obviously the words were different. He got the message anyway. A look of hunger flashed across his features, quickly replaced by a wolfish smile.

“Are you sure? Now that you’ve met all those titled gents—”

“I want to see if you measure up,” she said primly.

“What?”

“Well, haven’t I been dancing all night with them? Holding their hands and twirling about? Are your hands as big and strong as theirs?

“Everything about me is as big,” he said on a low growl. “Bigger, even.”

Yes, she knew that, but she tossed him an arch look. “Take off your coat and let me see.”

He snorted and pulled it off, setting it carefully at the base of her bed. His cravat went too after she tugged its folds open. Then he stretched out beside her, his bare feet looking large and masculine on her soft white coverlet.

He looked at her, his expression open as he extended his arm to the side, inviting her to come close. She did quickly. She settled against his shoulder and smelled the sour London scents on his shirt, but the harsher scent of lye on his skin. He’d bathed before coming to see her. She touched his jaw. He’d shaved as well.

Touch me.

“Well,” she began, “I have been terrified all week.”

“You? The woman who faced down Mr. Periwinkle without flinching? I don’t believe it.”

“A pig is one thing—”

“A massive, cantankerous pig.”

“Forgetting one of Eleanor’s instructions is something else entirely.”

He smiled, a true, honest-to-God smile. “You are quite right about that. My apologies. You’ve had a terrifying week.”

“Exactly my point.”

“And…?”

“And she has kept me so busy that I could barely think, much less worry, or be terrified. She has me studying Russian because I’m supposed to be a lost princess.”

“Russian? You don’t look anything like a Russe.”

“That’s what I said.”

He shook his head. “I heard that you were from the Colonies.”

“That’s another one. I don’t understand why I can’t be from Hull.”

“Because…”

They spoke the rest at exactly the same instant.

“No one of interest ever comes from Hull.” It was funny how they both knew what Eleanor would say.

Then he smiled. “Except you, of course.”

“Oh no,” she countered. “Eleanor says I’m not that interesting yet. So I have to be a lost princess.”

“The Colonies are more exciting.”

“I was asked a dozen times what I thought of the red savages. I haven’t the foggiest idea what that means.”

“What did you say?”

“That they were frightening. Savages would be, wouldn’t they?”

“Very clever of you.”

Kiss me.

“I thought so.” She continued to chatter, telling him of every possible thing that had been on her mind. Every feeling, every impression, every second of the last miserable week without him. Everything except for the way she’d longed for him. How she’d relived every caress, every kiss, and wished to do it again.

And then, right when she thought she’d go mad from the wanting, he started laughing. It was a low chuckle, but so warm that it set her heart to fluttering. Stretching up to see his face, she noted the lines around his mouth had eased. The shadow was gone from his eyes. And that…

And that he was looking at her.

Then she finally said her true thoughts out loud.

“Love me.”

He paused for a moment. A stretch of time that made the knots in her belly quiver. She stretched against him, bringing her mouth close. And finally, wonderfully, she was rewarded.

He kissed her.

And not any kiss. He plundered her mouth while his free hand undid the ties of her nightrail. Then he stroked her skin, sliding over her breasts, and pinching her nipples.

Finally! She reveled in every sensation, her body more than ready.

Her hands were equally busy, pulling off his shirt, exploring the contours of his chest. And when he pressed her into the bed, she slid her hands to his back, then lower.

She tugged at his clothing, and he didn’t need more encouragement. He broke their kiss, pulling back to strip off everything. She was equally fast as she lifted off her nightrail.

Then they were naked on her bed, letting their eyes feast on one another. His cock was thick as it stretched toward her. Her breasts were peaked, her legs restless, as his gaze went to the juncture of her thighs.

Then he started to move toward her, but she stopped him. “Bram,” she said, and had to say it again because the word was too husky to be understood. “Bram, last time you…you licked…”

“Yes?”

She smiled at him. “Can I do the same to you?”

He blinked. “Yes.”

“Teach me how?”

“It’s not hard.”

“How you like it best.”

He nodded and repositioned. He leaned back against the headboard and spread his legs. His cock bobbed between his thighs, and she went gingerly to kneel between his knees.

“Wait—” he rasped. “Let me see you first. I have dreamed of seeing it again.”

“What?”

“Stay right there,” he said.

She was on her knees before him, her legs slightly spread.

“Men love to look,” he said. “Touch your breasts. Squeeze them however you like.”

It took a moment, but the heat in his eyes overcame her shyness. He leaned forward, guiding her so that she straightened, her bottom thrust toward him. Then he put her hand on her breasts.

“Lift them. Squeeze them.”

She did. She squeezed herself just how he did, and her mouth parted on a gasp.

“Just like that. Don’t stop.”

She looked at him, seeing his gaze riveted to her body. Then he reached between her legs and began to stroke her. Her legs tightened, but they didn’t close. They couldn’t. And still he watched her while she kneaded her own breasts, and he thrust his fingers into her and rolled his thumb over that higher spot.

She moaned. She couldn’t help it. Her breath was coming in short pants now, and the feel of him pushing between her folds was both wonderful and not enough.

“Bram,” she moaned.

“Come for me. Right now.”

His fingers were so clever as he pushed on a place deep inside.

Right.

There.

Yes!

Her back arched as her body shuddered in ecstasy. She would have fallen, but he caught her. Even with one hand still inside her, he managed to wrap the other around her waist and draw her close. She fell forward, shuddering in pleasure.

He pressed kisses to her skin. Tiny presses of his lips to her shoulder, her neck, the line of her jaw. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “My Bluebell.”

Yes. Yours.

It took a while for her breath to recover. It took even longer for the strength to come back to her legs. He held her the whole time, his grip sure, his mouth pressing those tiny kisses to her body.

But eventually, she straightened. In time she pulled back and looked at his cock. It was wet on the tip, the color a dark red in the candlelight.

“You will teach me now?” she asked.

“If you want.”

She did.

And he did.

And when his cock was wet from her kiss and his breath was ragged, he abruptly flipped her onto her back. He put her legs on his shoulders and plowed into her. Over and over until she came for him again.

He shuddered his release into her.

Such bliss.

Her legs flopped down while he recovered his breath. And then he pressed tender kisses into her belly, her breasts, and finally her lips.

She knew what he was doing, but she had no strength to fight him. And no idea what she would say anyway to keep him by her side.

So she lay silent as he rolled off the bed and dressed. Then he blew out her candle and climbed silently out her window.