Page 7 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

A pig is a pig is a pig. He may be drunk, clever, funny, or even adorable. But in the end, he is a pig. Same is true of bastards. Do not deny the essence of thething.

A virgin. Bram shifted restlessly in his bed and dreamed of debauching a virgin.

It wasn’t his usual style because innocence equaled stupidity in his mind. But one voluptuous peasant girl had him twisted up with lust like never before. So much so that he’d dreamt of her all night long when he wasn’t stroking himself while fantasizing about her. It was appalling, and yet by the time dawn colored the sky, he’d come to a reluctant conclusion.

He was going to debauch her.

Not just take her virginity, but spread her thighs and do things to her that he’d only pictured in his most lustful teenage fantasies. He was going to take her every way possible, and when he was done, he’d leave her to the ruin of her life as he returned to London. Because no vicar’s son would marry her after he was done with her.

That last part saddened him. He was a man who fought for those who could not fight for themselves. Certainly he hired himself out to whatever wealthy man could afford him, but when he had the time, he worked unpaid for the unprotected. Except now he wanted to debauch one, even though she had no defense against his practiced knowledge. Damnation, he wanted her with a fever that boiled in his blood.

And because he was a bastard in all senses of the word, he would debauch her.

Part of him hoped that Jeremy would return just for the distraction, but the man was stubbornly absent.

So in the morning, he dressed in his new country togs. Widow Dwight had gotten a good deal on his clothes. The fine linen he’d had was worth five times what he was putting on now. But that was just as well since he had decided to paint the carriage himself.

He had no interest in increasing the price of the vehicle, though that was an added bonus. It was his excuse to stay longer so he could find a way between Miss Bluebell’s thighs.

He ate his breakfast and then headed to the stable where the carriage was being repaired. Two days’ work that should be nearly done. As he entered, Mr. Grummer straightened from his crouch with a smile on his face.

“That axle’s strong as an ox now, Mr. ’Allowsby. Strong as an ox.”

“Thank you. And now I’ll—” He cut off his words as Miss Bluebell appeared around the other side. Her hair was tied back this morning with a soft gray ribbon that had seen better days. Her dress had too, but that didn’t matter since it clung to her curves whenever she twisted or moved. Tight, then soft against her, in flashes that tantalized a man and made him desperate to see her without the ugly shroud. “Miss Bluebell, what brings you here this morning?”

She gestured behind her and, moving around, he saw whitewash and brushes. “I got you these.”

“Really?” he drawled. “And how much will it cost me?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Except to talk to me as you paint. It’ll increase the price of the carriage—”

“Tenfold, so you’ve said.”

She shook her head. “Only five or six.”

He grinned. His mother was just like her, able to figure in her head with lightning speed. Although that comparison did little to endear her to him. Still, he had intended to stay, so this made it extra easy.

“You’ll need a smock to paint,” he said as he glanced at her dress. Though it would be no crime to ruin it.

She shook her head. “Not me. You’ll be doing the work, sir.”

“Don’t want to dirty your hands? How very ladylike of you.”

She blinked, clearly unsure whether to be pleased or insulted. “I’ve painted afore. And dug and carpentered, and whatever else needs doing.”

“That is definitely not ladylike.”

“But I don’t do it unless there’s a need. And you, sir, are well able to pick up a brush.”

“That I am,” he said, feeling his mood improve the longer they bantered. At this rate, he’d have her in his bed by noon.

Meanwhile, Mr. Grummer clearly had other things to do. He tipped his hat, flashed a wink at Bluebell that set Bram’s temper up, then ducked away saying something about Mr. Periwinkle’s pen.

“Fix it right,” he said as the man was nearing the door. “I’m not chasing that demon beast again.”

“Can’t rightly say you’ve been in Hull less’n you’ve chased that pig. Ain’t that right, Bluebell?”

“Most definitely.”

Bram snorted. “Then I have enjoyed the local custom and am ready to depart.”

“After a good coat of paint, yes?” pressed Bluebell.

“Yes,” he said. And as Mr. Grummer departed, Bram tried to size up his companion. She seemed both eager and conniving, which led him to ask the obvious question. “What are you up to, Miss Bluebell?”

She blinked, too innocent. “I ’ave no idea what you mean.”

He arched a brow, and she thought for a moment.

“I have no idea.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She sniffed. “That’s as may be, but it’s of no importance to me.”

He chuckled, then stopped the sound with a snort of surprise. When had he last chuckled? With true good humor? Years, if ever. And that shocked him. Was he truly so humorless? Or so cynical?

He didn’t want to answer the question, so he pulled off his coat and grabbed a smock on a peg in the corner. It was meant for cleaning out stalls, but would serve for whitewashing. Meanwhile, Bluebell perched on a barrel, her eyes bright as she watched him.

“How did you start protecting people for money?”

“What?” He jolted, though he wasn’t sure why. Of course she would ask about that.

“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Guard people? ’Cept you don’t look or act like any guardsman.”

“I’m not the militia,” he said, insulted, though he wasn’t sure why. He respected England’s soldiers. But personally, he hated following orders so he had avoided the military. “And say the full word. Except.”

“Except,” she repeated. “And there ain’t—” She grimaced. “There isn’t a thing wrong with being in the militia. But you didn’t go that way.”

Of course not. But the militia wasn’t the place for a duke’s son, even one born on the wrong side of the blanket. He squatted and looked at his carriage while trying not to think of the luscious woman a few feet away.

“That’s a complicated tale,” he said.

“I got all day.”

“You have all day.”

She rolled her eyes. “You have to start whitewashing. I have to have something to discuss.”

“Very well then. I will give you my sad tale if you tell me yours. Why do you want so much to be a lady?”

“I am a lady,” she repeated stiffly. “I just don’t sound like one.”

“Actually,” he said with a soft smile, “that haughty tone was perfect for a lady.”

“Really?” she said with a sudden bright smile. “I am a lady.”

“Yes,” he said sadly. “Just like that.” He didn’t like the idea of his Miss Bluebell putting on airs, but that was what she wanted, so he didn’t argue. “Why do you want to sound like a lady?”

She was silent for a long time. Long enough for him to turn to look at her, to read that she was considering telling him the truth—the full truth—but in the end, decided on half. Or a quarter. Or some percentage, but it definitely wasn’t one hundred percent.

“I have relations in London. I want to talk to them.”

“Relatives don’t care what you talk like,” he said, then immediately knew he lied. Good relatives didn’t care. Most Londoners would definitely turn up their noses at someone who looked and sounded as if they’d lived all their lives in Hull.

“They might care. I’d just as soon present meself—myself—in the best way.”

“Who are they?”

She buttoned her lip, and when he looked at her, she shook her head. “I only learned about them from me mum before she died.”

There was a wealth of emotion in those words, so he gave her something else to focus on rather than the pain. “Say it correctly.”

“I have only just learned of them. My mother told me before she died.”

He nodded. “Excellent. What kind of people are they? Soldiers? Merchantmen?”

“I…I’m not sure.”

“Do you know where they live?”

She shook her head.

“London is a very big city.”

“I’ll find them.”

He was sure she would, but in the meantime, there was a mystery there. “Who knows about this?” Maybe he could learn the truth from Widow Dwight.

“No one ’ereabouts.” Then she grimaced. “No one in Hull.”

“But they know in London?”

She shrugged.

“It is a delicate matter to introduce yourself as a long lost relation.”

“’At’s why you’re helping me.”

He arched a brow, and she cursed under her breath.

“That’s why you are helping me.” Then she lifted her chin. “Your tale now. I want it all.”

Like she’d shared it all? Not bloody likely. But he would give her enough to chew on. “I was scrawny as a boy, and so I was picked on at school.”

She frowned, but she didn’t interrupt. That was smart because he had no intention of letting her quiz him on his past.

“I learned how to fight to defend myself. And then when I needed money, I hit on the idea of getting paid to defend the other boys. The little ones who were like me.”

“Was Lord Linsel one you defended?”

He nodded, and a fond smile curved his lips. “I charged him double on account of him being such an ass.”

She nodded. “That’s how you got into guarding as a boy. But as a man, there are loads of other ways. Did you think of anything else?”

He wanted to correct her language, but she’d spoken correctly, so he pursed his lips and shrugged. “I tried my hand at other things.” Mostly gambling and wenching, but neither paid his bills. “In the end, an acquaintance of mine had trouble outside of school. I helped. For pay.”

“Did he deserve to be beaten?”

He arched his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, even I can see that Lord Linsel had done wrong, but you protected him anyway. You were getting paid, so no thought beyond that.”

Not no thought . Just not enough to dissuade him from the job.

“So what about this acquaintance?” she pressed. “Did he deserve his trouble?”

“ She did not.” And that was all he would say on the matter. He picked up a brush. He wasn’t well versed in painting, but how hard could it be? Grab the brush. Dip it in the paint. Slap the stuff on the carriage. Before long, he had settled into the rhythm and rather enjoyed it.

“You defended a woman, then.”

“Yes.” He answered before he could shoot her a glare. The subject was closed.

“From someone bigger and stronger than ’er. Her .”

It wasn’t a question so he didn’t bother answering.

“That’s like an Arthur knight.”

“A what?”

“A knight of the Round Table. King Arthur—”

“I know,” he interrupted.

She sniffed. “You didn’t think I knew. Well, I do. I learned it young. My tutor read it to me in French to teach me the language.”

“You know French?” He couldn’t be more surprised.

She chewed her lower lip. “Not much. I can’t remember it ’cause I don’t have anyone to practice with.”

“Because you don’t.”

She nodded and echoed him. “Because.” Then she brightened. “Do you speak—”

“Not a lick. Hated anything that wasn’t English. Barely held on to enough Latin to get through school, and the Greek might as well have been chicken scratches.”

She nodded. “That’s how I felt. But French sounded so pretty the way he spoke it. And the stories were about saving the innocent and helping the poor.”

“I think you mean Robin Hood.”

“No, I don’t!” she shot back, obviously insulted. “I know my Arthur tales. Robin Hood was someone completely different. And I know ’is tale too. His tale.”

He could tell that she did. “How did you get an education all the way up here?”

“Hull isn’t China. We got tutors here.”

“That speak French and teach girls?”

She bit her lip. “Mum insisted I get a lady’s education. She said I might need it one day.”

“To meet your relations in London?”

She nodded. “I’m a lady, Mr. Hallowsby. I mean to act it in every way I can.”

Her determination was never in question, but the why of it interested him. “You mean to impress your relations in London,” he said. “Then what? Do you ask them for money?” No, he realized, nothing so crass as that. “Perhaps a life as a London shopkeeper or a seamstress?”

“Do ladies keep shops or sew clothing? If I wanted to do that, I’d stay here.”

He twisted to study her expression. “This is about the vicar’s son.”

She jerked, and he knew he’d guessed correctly.

He sighed. “You believe that London relations will make a difference to him.”

“Not to him,” she said stiffly. “His father.” She lifted her chin. “Me mum was married right and proper. I mean to prove it.”

“Say it again.”

She huffed. “My mum—mother—was married properly. In a church after the banns were read.”

“Where?”

“In her home parish.”

There was a story there. No woman got married right and proper and then suddenly appeared somewhere else pregnant and alone.

“It’s the truth,” she said, her jaw clenched tight.

“But no one here believes it?”

“Of course they believe it.” She said the words, but in her eyes he read doubt. Hurt. She’d been disparaged by the people she’d known all her life. He understood that all too well. “Why not just copy the register in the church? Prove that you’re legitimate. Then no tongues will wag.”

She snorted. “Tongues wag no matter what. But if my London relations accept me, well then, that would be a different story, wouldn’t it? I’d be a proper lady, no questions.”

Except there would be lots of questions, given her circumstances. “Seems to me it’d be much easier to get a copy of the parish register.”

She leaned forward, dropping her chin on her fist as she thought. “It’d help, wouldn’t it, to prove to my relations who I am?”

He nodded. “Of course it would.” And if there were no record in the register—as he suspected—then she would know and not be embarrassed when she found her London folk.

“But that’s all the way down in Oxfordshire,” she said mournfully.

“Which is a sight closer than London. You could visit there on the way.” Or stop and turn back around.

“But ’ow am I t’ get there? A lady doesn’t take the mail coach.”

He didn’t answer. And though he pretended to be focused on the paint, his mind was seething with thoughts. This had been her plan all along. To get him to take her to London in a fine carriage, just like a real lady. A fine, newly whitewashed carriage.

The idea that she could have planned this from the very start stunned him, but he knew ladies who could think strategically. Scores of them. It was how they survived. Still, it burned in his gut that she was one of them. That she manipulated and schemed to get what she wanted.

He was silent a long time, fighting his murderous thoughts. Just because he had been hurt by one such bitch before—nearly killed, in fact—that didn’t mean Bluebell should be damned by the same stroke.

And yet his emotions didn’t seem to care. While stroking white on the carriage wood, his insides turned darker and darker. By the time she noticed his silence, he was in such a fury, he would frighten his own mother.

“Mr. Hallowsby?”

“Miss Bluebell?”

“Do you ’ave any ideas for me?” Then she frowned. “Do you have any ideas?”

“I do,” he said, his fury merging evilly with his resolve. It had happened only a few times before, but each time, the anger had changed the course of his life.

Just as well. He’d grown tired of his current path anyway.

“What?” she said, her face lifted in innocent query.

He looked at her, seeing her milky white complexion, the sparkling blue of her eyes, and the sweet curve of her lying lips. He saw innocence there in a mask over an evil heart. He saw so many things that had nothing to do with Bluebell but everything to do with his dark past.

He slowly set down his brush. The white dripped, wasted into the dirt, but he didn’t care. He stalked slowly toward her.

She straightened up on her perch, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Mr. ’Allowsby?”

“Say the h ,” he corrected automatically.

“Hallowsby.” But her voice shook as he towered over her.

“You want me to take you to Oxfordshire and then on to London. You want me to dress up this fine carriage and let you appear before your relations like a fine lady. You’ve been planning that from the moment you met me.”

“Ooo, an’ me a simple maid from ’Ull. Wot makes ye think I could muster all that?” She exaggerated her accent such that his back molars ground together in disgust.

“Admit it. That’s what you want.”

She lifted her chin. “And what if I do? You’re free t’ say no.”

“No.”

“There. Fine. Ye’ve said it. But I can pay—”

He grabbed her chin, pulling it—and her—toward him. Part of him thrilled at finally touching her pristine skin. Part of him watched her eyes widen and the pupils darken, her mouth slipping open on a gasp. Was she afraid of him? Yes. Obviously. And he tried to care. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t want to punish her for crimes she hadn’t committed. But she was a schemer like all the others, and he damned her for it.

“I will take you to London,” he said, his voice low, his breath hot.

She didn’t answer, and he didn’t care.

“But there’s only one payment I’ll take.”

“No,” she whispered. “I’m a lady.”

“Say it all you like, Miss Bluebell, but I know the truth.”

She swallowed, trying to pull herself back. But she was still sitting on the barrel with nowhere to run. So she stilled even as strength came into her body.

“Wot truth?” she challenged. “That I want to go to London? That I want proof o’ my father? Or that you’re nothing but a man with ruttin—”

He kissed her. He wasn’t slow, and he wasn’t gentle. And the fact that she was completely untutored in kissing infuriated him even more. She was a lie. She deserved all the pain he could give her. She was…

She was an innocent, and he had to soften. He had to be gentle with her, and so he did. He didn’t want to, contradictory beast that he was. He liked his anger. Stoked it to a hot flame, but not against her.

So he softened. He gentled.

Where before he had simply wrenched her mouth to his, he now petted her chin. And though he had forced his tongue into her mouth, he eased his penetration. He teased her and then pulled back.

“You are a lie,” he said to her panting chest.

“You are a brute,” she answered, anger vibrating between them.

“Yes, and worse. I’m a bastard.”

“You’re not even ashamed.”

Oh, he was. He was riddled with shame, but he wouldn’t let her see it. She had to know the truth about him. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, Miss Bluebell. But I’ll be taking you as I do it.”

He felt the impact of his words on her body. She shuddered, but she also licked her lips. Part of her wanted him, brute though he was.

“I am a lady.”

“Ladies spread their legs for me all the time.”

“Not me.”

“Then I’ll not take you anywhere.”

He felt her accept the truth of his words. Her body bowed, and her shoulders drooped. But when she spoke, her voice was strong with conviction.

“I don’t need you to take me. I’ve coin eno’. The mail coach goes to Oxfordshire and London.”

“You’ll be prey to every bloke who sees you.”

She finally jerked her chin away from his fingers. “’At’s been true since I first filled out a dress.” And then before he could anticipate her move, before it registered that he was in danger, she lifted her knee.

How she’d maneuvered it so perfectly, he didn’t know. One moment, he was hard as a rock, still thinking of ways to make her willing. The next there was a blinding flash of white-hot pain, and he was crumpled on the ground.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He just knew pain. And one word:

Bravo.