Page 26 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Make a clean break when it’s time. Bastards have a way ofsticking.

M arquis de Mowles was a dead bore. But he also had an avid interest in perfumery, so his hothouse garden and attached stillroom were stunning. Together, Maybelle and the marquis discussed flowers, methods for distilling their scent, and the troublesome insects that plagued him.

That was fascinating for the first couple hours. After that, Maybelle grew restless which only made her relations more irritating. Her grandfather stressed that the marquis was a genius at money. Except for his odd flower hobby, he would make a solid husband. Her grandmother extolled the French title, one of the few remaining after those mad peasants cut off everyone’s heads. And Eleanor—who seemed to understand a great deal more than she let on—commented that the marquis was often too busy to notice what went on around him. He would be a distracted husband as the years went on, and that was always good.

Maybelle listened with a smile and a nod, pretending complete agreement. But in her heart, she screamed. Nothing so soft as a quiet sob. Nothing so unending as the ache that came from losing her mother. This was an unrelenting scream of frustration. How could the man to whom she’d given her heart calmly watch her commit herself to someone else? How could Bram have left her like that?

She knew it was the way of the ton . Marry for advantage, then take a lover. But she’d been raised differently and could not comprehend such a life. And so the hours ticked by with horticultural discussions by day and an empty bed at night.

Inside, she screamed.

*

There was a small gathering on the fifth night. In addition to herself, her grandparents, and Eleanor, the marquis welcomed a few of his closest friends. The plan was for him to formally present his ring to her so she could joyously accept.

The guests had been arriving all day from London. The trip was not that onerous, and they each arrived with good cheer and broad smiles. So much so that Maybelle fantasized about slapping the next one who punctuated his grin with a wink. She stopped herself by memorizing names and attributes. After all, as the marquis’s wife, she needed to remember them all.

Two expatriates from the Continent who were dead bores.

A bluestocking with a special interest in insects who always sported dirt somewhere.

And finally, the Duke and Duchess of Bucklynde, also known as the sailor duke and his seamstress wife. Both were Eleanor’s relations, and they were stopping here for the night before finally going back to London.

Maybelle functioned as hostess, greeting the guests as if she truly were the new marquess, and she prided herself that she’d not dropped a single h all day.

Then, as evening shadows began to gather, Maybelle dressed in her best gown, had her hair pulled and pinned with ruthless domination by a German maid, and sat down to inane conversation before an indifferent meal. Odd how after a few weeks in London, she was picky about what she consumed. As if her childhood of being grateful for every morsel had never been.

“Maybelle? Are you feeling quite the thing?”

“What?” Maybelle turned to the collection of ladies on the settee. It took her a moment to realize that her grandmother was the one who’d asked the question. “I’m terribly sorry. I must have been woolgathering.”

Her soon-to-be fiancé pranced over, his French accent thick and irritating. “I’m afraid ze country has not ze excitement of London, n’est-ce pas? ”

“Actually,” she said, simply to be contrary, “I like the quiet. It’s much more soothing—”

Bang, bang! Bang!

Everyone jumped as the door knocker slammed down with such force, it echoed within the house. Maybelle turned to the marquis with a frown. “Are we expecting anyone else?”

“ Non. We are not.” His face was pulled into a tight frown, which, she abruptly realized, was not that different from his usual face. The man was tall and gaunt. His skin tended to sag on his face, which pulled everything down, even when he was happy.

Meanwhile, everyone turned to look, but this was a large country establishment. No one could see the front entrance, though they certainly heard the commotion.

“You must let me see Miss Ballenger. Damn it, you must let us in!”

Maybelle shot to her feet. Eleanor rose a moment later. They both recognized the voice, but Maybelle was the only one to voice his name.

“Bram.”

The marquis shot her a look. “You know this man?”

She nodded, her mind whirling, and her heart—damn that organ—was beating triple time. And while the marquis was telling the butler to allow him in, her belly began to quiver, her breath grew short, and everything in her yearned for him.

He was here.

He was here.

He was…

Maybelle gaped as a man appeared in the parlor door. “Charlie?”

Bram was not the man who rounded the corner. Instead of a tall man with piercing brown eyes, she saw the vicar’s son looking disheveled and frightened as he shuffled into the room.

“Bluebell?” he answered, his gaze darting about the room as if searching for a place to land. “Are you really the granddaughter of an earl?”

“Yes,” she snapped, impatient with him already. Where was Bram?

“She’s my granddaughter,” snapped the earl. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

Which is when Bram finally entered the room. He looked haggard. His eyes were drawn, his mouth was tight, and his jaw was thrust forward in anger. But his gaze locked on hers and held. No words. Just a stare that went on and on, while the rest of the room faded away.

“Explain yourselves, maintenant! ” said the marquis.

Maybelle opened her mouth to answer. She’d gotten used to soothing the marquis’s ruffled feathers in the five days she’d been here. But no sound came out. And neither could Bram speak, though he too opened his mouth. Fortunately, Eleanor stepped into the breach.

“My lord, please allow me to introduce Mr. Hallowsby. He’s a good friend and means no harm, though I know things appear very odd right now.”

“And this other one?”

Maybelle managed to bark out a command. “Charlie. Make your bows.”

The man blinked, then snapped to it. He performed an adequate greeting to everyone. “Mr. Charles Ott, my lady, m’lords. At your service.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Eleanor, before proceeding to introduce everyone by their full names and titles. It was impressive, rattled off like that, and Charlie gaped with each name. Meanwhile, Maybelle gave up all hope of Bram. She addressed Charlie, her words cold.

“Why are you here?”

Charlie colored and gestured to Bram. “’E says you want to marry me. I will, if you want. Are you really related to an earl?”

“Granddaughter,” she snapped. “And…what?”

Finally, Bram pulled himself together. With a grimace, he gripped Charlie and jerked him downward. Problem was, Charlie had a solid stance—always had—and just stood there without bending.

“That’s not the way to propose to a woman,” Bram growled. “On your knee, man.”

“What?”

“What?”

It was both Charlie and Maybelle speaking at once. But then Charlie figured out what was required, and he half stumbled, half dropped to the floor.

“Can I have your hand, Bluebell?”

“Maybelle,” growled Bram. “Her name is Miss Maybelle Ballenger.”

“Oh,” said Charlie.

“No,” said Maybelle. Then she stepped right past Charlie to come nose to nose with Bram. “Why in heaven would you bring him ’ere?” And damn it, he’d made her drop her h .

“You can’t marry the marquis. He’d never take you to an apothecary shop. And he’s got a mistress.”

To which the man in question straightened in shock. “Of course I have a mistress. I am French!”

“You see!” said Bram.

“What difference does that make?” Maybelle huffed. Good God, did he not understand? One man or another, she didn’t care. They were all interchangeable if they weren’t Bram.

“Difference? You’d hate that!”

“So you got Charlie for me?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I thought he’s what you wanted. He’s placid enough, speaks Greek, and you said you missed Hull.”

“Forget what I said. I didn’t know anything then.”

Bram glared at her. “And now? What do you want now?”

“Can I get off my knee?” Charlie whined. “The floor is bloody hard.”

“Yes,” huffed the earl. “As if my granddaughter would marry just a mister.”

“He’s a decent man,” Bram shot over his shoulder. “He won’t go running off after a mistress. There’s no debt, no vices, and his biggest fault is that he’s a dead bore.” Then he drew himself up to his full height, his gaze going back to her. “And you said you wanted him!”

She stared at him. Did he really understand so little of her? She shook her head, stunned and appalled by this scene. And heartsick. So damned heartsick because he’d dragged a man all the way across England just to have her marry someone else.

Someone who wasn’t him.

She lifted her chin and pitched her voice to be as regal as possible. “Charlie, please do stay for dinner.” She glanced at the marquis. “We can have one more to dine, can we not?”

Her fiancé-to-be raised his eyebrows in surprise, but nodded. “Just one?”

“Yes,” she answered firmly. “Mr. Hallowsby was just leaving.”

“It is French food then?” asked Charlie. “I do like their cream sauces.”

Of course he did.

Which is the exact moment when Bram broke. It might have been something else. It might have been because she turned her back on him and began walking away. It might have been because two footmen had grabbed hold of his arms and were dragging him backward. It might have been a number of things, but that was not what he said.

“Cream sauces? Cream sauces!” he bellowed.

Maybelle turned to look at him. Did he really expect anything better from Charlie?

“You have a chance at the most perfect woman in the world, and you ask about cream sauces? Are you daft, man? Look at her! She’s kind and beautiful. She’s honest and doesn’t quibble about dragging a pig through the muck for a neighbor. She’s taken the ton by storm—a girl from Hull who educated herself. And she’s smarter than you, by God. Smarter than all of us!”

“Really?” asked the bluestocking. “She hasn’t seemed very intelligent.”

“Not book learning, you idiot,” snapped Bram. “But people. She understands people and how to make everyone happy. She sold her basket of food for a guinea, and everyone got what they wanted.” He looked at her, his words babbling forth without stopping. “She’s generous too. Makes miraculous potions. And so passionate.”

That was going too far. He shouldn’t say that in this company, but Maybelle couldn’t stop him. Her throat was clogged, her mind chaotic. How could he say that about her and still not…

“Damn it, Bluebell, you can’t marry Charlie. He’s not good enough for you!”

She sighed. “I’m not going to ma—”

“And you can’t marry him either!” he said, jerking his chin at the marquis. “None of them are good enough for you. And I’m the most worthless of the lot.” Suddenly, he shook off the footmen, his motions quick as he escaped their hold. The men would have grabbed him, but Eleanor stopped them.

“Let him say his piece,” she said.

At a nod from the marquis, the footmen eased back, though only a single step.

Then Bram dropped to his knees. Not one knee, but both, as he took her hand and pressed his forehead to it. “Damn it, I’ve tried and tried to let you go. I’m a bastard. A liar, and if not for you, a murderer.”

“What?” gasped the bluestocking. “What did he say?”

Eleanor shushed her with a wave of her hand. It was left to the countess to explain.

“That’s Bram Hallowsby, the spymaster. He works for the Home Office and kills Frenchmen by the legion.” Then she glanced at the marquis. “I mean the bad Frenchmen, of course.”

If the marquis had a comment, Maybelle didn’t hear it. She was busy dropping to her knees before Bram, forcing him to look her in the eye. “You’re a good man, Bram. I’ve always thought so.”

“But you don’t know the things I’ve done—”

“You saved my life against Jeremy. You force miscreant lords to face up to their responsibilities. You’ve helped Eleanor when everything was falling to pieces around her—”

“He did,” said Eleanor.

“And you’ve made a good life for yourself, despite your birth.”

“I’m still a bastard,” he said. “You could have anyone.”

“They why can’t I have the one man I want?”

He looked at her. He just looked and let everything he felt show on his face. She saw fear and desperation and a hope that he didn’t dare believe in.

“You have to say the words, Bram. You have to tell me what you want.”

“You, damn it. I’ve always wanted you.”

She touched his face. She looked into his eyes. She needed to hear the words. He had to say them aloud to her, to himself, to everyone.

It was Charlie who figured it out. “You’re supposed to tell her you love her. Even I know that.”

But Eleanor shook her head. “Love doesn’t matter to our set.”

Maybelle sighed. “It matters to me. Bram. I lo—”

“I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.”

At last. He’d said the words at last.

Everything in her body swayed forward. He caught her easily. He would always catch her. And then he was kissing her. Not her face, which was right there, but her hands and her fingertips. He was bowing before her, his body shuddering with the force of his words.

“IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.” Like a litany, the words kept repeating. The sound was all jammed together as if he couldn’t get it out fast enough.

She stopped it with her mouth. She lifted his face and kissed his lips. And when he kept murmuring the words, she thrust her tongue between his teeth. And then he was kissing her back. His arms strengthened and went around her.

And when they finally stopped, both of them gasping for breath, he recovered first. This time, his words had power behind them. And determination.

“I’m not worthy of you, Bluebell,” he said.

“Bram—”

“But you’re going to marry me anyway.” Then his expression softened. “Please, Miss Maybelle Ballenger, please redeem me. Be my wife. We can live anywhere you want, even in godforsaken Hull, if you like. I’ll drag your pig wherever you want, bathe in a frigid stream, and buy every damned one of your carrots. I’ll do anything you want. Just be my wife. Please.”

“Yes.”

One word. One simple word, and it was done. Her grandfather blustered, Eleanor was teary-eyed, and oddly enough, the marquis was intensely proud.

“I’m French, after all,” he said. “It is an honor to witness such amour. I will give away the bride, yes? If the grandfather will not.”

Which was enough to shame the earl into a grudging acceptance. That surprised Maybelle, which forced Eleanor to explain.

“It’s terrible form to have a child marry a bastard,” she said in a low whisper. “But it’s even worse to let a Frenchman be part of the ceremony. That would be too humiliating for words.”

The countess agreed with a fond smile.

Maybelle squeezed Bram’s hand. He hadn’t let go of it since the moment she’d said yes. “I’ll never understand all these rules,” she said. “I can barely remember to say my h ’s.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Eleanor with a breezy wave. “The rules don’t apply to Bram. They never have.”

“That’s not true,” said Bram with a frown. “I can’t—”

“Go to Almacks? Dance at Lady Bedford’s ball? Have you ever tried?”

He blinked. “No. I just thought—”

Eleanor smiled at them both. “After you’re married, I’ll throw a ball for you.” She glanced over at the duke and duchess, and they both nodded. “With that kind of launch—”

The countess clapped her hands. “Oh yes, we’ll see that it happens just right! You’ll be accepted everywhere.”

Maybelle looked at Bram, a bubble of laughter coming out of her at his thunderstruck expression.

“You’re not serious,” he said lowly. “I’m a bastard.”

“A duke’s bastard. That’s almost good ton ,” the ladies said together. “Besides, she’s from Hull. We knew she’d have to lower her expectations the minute that was out.”

Then Eleanor patted his hand. “If I can accept a seaman as the ducal head of my family, then the ton can allow the Home Office spy a place in their world.”

“But I’m not—”

“Tut tut. You are, if we say you are.”

He blinked and then looked to Maybelle. “What do you want? London or Hull?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter?” She touched his face. “Not as long as you say I do .”

“I do. I do love you, and I will marry you.”

“Now. Right now.”

She laughed at the ladies’ horrified gasps. “As soon as the banns are called. I love you,” he said.

And he kept saying it every day and every night for the rest of their lives.