Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (5 page)

That, he supposed, was love. But he couldn't imagine, if either Beth or Lucien should die, them wanting the survivor to hurry to meet them.

It would be hell to be married to a woman who thought only of joining her first mate in the grave. He laughed at his situation. It appeared his choice was either a wife who drooped over him from excessive devotion, or one who did the same from excessive grief.

Really, Vienna would be a far more sensible choice....

He heard the laughter of children and turned just as they ran into view between the gravestones and headed down the hill. He thought they were the Rossiter children. They paused momentarily but then came on—startled by a stranger but unafraid.

They seemed unsure, however, as to whether to speak or not, and so he did. "Good day. Do you live around here?"

The boy gave a little bow. "Yes, sir. In the village." He was handsome, with dark curls and an attractive confidence in his manner.

"I'm staying with the Marquess of Arden," Leander offered as credentials. "He has a place farther along the river, as you doubtless know. My name's Charrington. Lord Charrington."

The boy bowed again. "Honored to meet you, my lord. I'm Bastian Rossiter, and this is my sister, Rosie."

It was them indeed. Was this an augury from the gods?

The girl, who had bewitching deep blue eyes and flaxen hair like silk on her shoulders, drew herself up. "Rosetta," she said firmly.

Her brother groaned, but Leander gave her a very proper bow. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Rosetta Rossiter."

With a grin that showed two charming dimples she returned the honor with a curtsy.

Leander looked up to find their mother had come up behind, a neutral expression on her face, but wariness in her eyes—large blue eyes, just like her daughter's, but made even finer by thick dark lashes. She didn't look lugubrious, thank God. In fact she looked sound as a ripe peach. He glanced meaningfully at Bastian and the boy took the hint.

"Mama, may I present Lord Charrington? He's staying at Hartwell. Sir, this is my mother, Mrs. Rossiter. "Then he looked between them anxiously. "Did I do that right?"

"Perfectly," said Leander, and was rewarded by a touch of warmth in the widow's expression. She held out a black-gloved hand. "My lord."

He took it making rapid inventory. She was above average height so her lovely eyes were almost on a level with his own. Her dark hair was now firmly tamed under a plain black bonnet. Other than those eyes, her face was unremarkable except for a hint of roundness in the cheeks. He suspected there'd be dimples if she ever smiled. The roundness and the eyes gave an impression of youth that most women would envy.

Perhaps that illusion of youth was what suddenly made him feel protective, or like a knight errant come to rescue the lady in the tower. He was drawn to her. He wouldn't at all mind taking her to wife. Should he seize the moment?

To achieve anything, he needed to keep her in conversation. Presumably the easiest opening would be the dear departed. "If I may be so bold," he said, "I assume you to be related to Mister Rossiter, the poet."

"That is so," she said without particular warmth, most of her attention on her children, who were walking ahead. "I am his widow."

"A sad loss. Please accept my condolences."

"Thank you."

She was clearly not thrilled by this conversation. The children had run off to investigate the shallows of the river, and she moved to follow them.

Leander went along. It was refreshing that she wasn't blushing and simpering at first acquaintance, but he found that for once in his life he was struggling for something to say. "This is a beautiful churchyard in which to take his final rest."

She glanced at him. "It is indeed a charming spot, my lord, though I can see no reason, sentimental or spiritual, why the dead should be supposed to care."

As she walked on, Leander realized he was making a fool of himself. Clearly, no matter how deep her grief, the widow was not to be reached by the sentimental route. For a moment he was annoyed by the absurd situation in which he found himself, but then he smiled and adjusted the tilt of his elegant beaver.

By her cool behavior the lady had passed the last test. There was nothing about her he found objectionable.

The wisest course now would be to seek some conventional way of courting her, but that could be difficult. Beth had told him the widow took no part in county life, and had little free time. He wanted all this settled so he could get on with his plans. He couldn't spend months hanging around Surrey.

Why shouldn't he just press his suit? He was, after all, the one who had managed to pacify the Duke of Brunswick after he had been insulted by one of the minor Bourbons, and was flirting with the idea of throwing his state behind Napoleon. Persuading a penniless widow to become a countess should be child's play.

Still, he hesitated.

He hesitated, he realized, because he cared about the outcome. There was something about this composed woman which made him want to know her better, and ease her way in life. He was attracted to her children.

Good God, he actually
wanted
to marry her!

She stopped her stroll and glanced back at him. A slight smile tugged at her lips. "Should I apologize, my lord? I fear I shocked you."

There was the faintest hint of dimples.

She was referring to her comment about the dead. He walked to join her. "No," he said, "but I fear I am about to shock you."

A flicker of wariness passed over her face and she glanced once at her children, made a move toward them.

"Please," he said quickly, "I'm not going to do anything you wouldn't like... Good heavens! Would you believe I was reputed to have a golden future as a diplomat?"

She relaxed slightly, and her lips twitched. Those dimples flickered once again. He conceived a strong desire to see them in all their glory.

"Not at this moment, no. Is there some way I can help you, my lord?"

He pulled himself together and gave her one of his best smiles. "Yes, in fact there is. I would like to talk to you about it. I see a stone over there well shaped for sitting, if it would not be too cold."

After the briefest hesitation she walked toward it. "Not at all. I usually do sit here while the children play. They call it my throne."

She sat on the lump of granite, gathering her black bombazine skirts neatly together. With permission he sat beside her. There was not a lot of room but she made no silly protest about them sitting so close. He liked her more by the moment.

She turned to look at him with polite expectation.

"You are going to find this a little strange..."

"And even shocking," she added quizzically.

A sense of humor as well. "I hope not too much so." He still could not quite see how to open the subject.

There was distinct amusement in her eyes. "I'm likely to be so overwhelmed with curiosity, my lord, that I'll take a fit of the vapors, and scare you to death. Have pity, please."

He laughed. "One of the first lessons a fledgling diplomat learns, Mrs. Rossiter, is how to handle a lady with the vapors." Even so, he couldn't imagine this woman in a state of collapse. For a moment he wondered if he had the wrong lady and was about to propose to the vicar's wife or such. But then he remembered that she had admitted to being the poet's widow.

He braced himself. "Despite my diplomatic background, Mrs. Rossiter, I can see no fancy way to dress this up that would serve any purpose at all." He summoned up an expression of sober worthiness. "The simple truth is that I would like to marry you."

She paled. In a second she was up and standing, looking away. "Oh, good heavens," she said. The tone was pure exasperation.

It was not a response he had expected. He rose to his feet, too. "It may be precipitate, ma'am, but it is an honest offer."

She turned back, eyes snapping. "Honest! When you don't know anything about the woman you are proposing to take to wife?"

"I know enough."

"Do you indeed? I can't imagine how. Well, so do I know enough. The answer, sir, is
no."

She was marching away. Leander hurried after, feeling more like a green boy than he had since he was sixteen, when he'd tried to kiss a daughter of the Duke de Ferrugino and had his face soundly slapped. If the Rogues ever heard of this they'd die laughing.

He caught up to her. "Mrs. Rossiter. Please listen to me! I can offer you all kinds of advantages."

She whirled around in a swirl of black skirts to face him almost nose to nose. "Name one. And no, I do
not
need any more odes to my eyes!"

He stared at her. Those eyes were so magnificently filled with rage that he was tempted to try. But he said, "That's as well. I wouldn't know where to start."

She took a step back. "You are not a poet?"

He extended his hands. "Diplomat. Linguist. Soldier. Earl. No odes on any subject, I give you my word."

"Earl?" she asked dazedly.

He bowed, thinking that at last they were making progress. "Leander Knollis, at your service, ma'am. Earl of Charrington, of Temple Knollis in Somerset."

"Temple Knollis?" she queried faintly, showing the awe with which he was all too familiar. At the moment, however, he'd take any advantage he could get.

"Yes. There's a London house, too, and a hunting box. An estate in Sussex, and a place in Cumberland I've never seen."

Damnation. I sound like the veriest mushroom listing off my properties like this.

Perhaps she thought the same. Color flushed her cheeks. "I don't know what game you are playing, sir, but I think it unconscionable of you to amuse yourself at my expense. Bastian! Rosie!" she called out. "Come along. We must leave."

The children ran over. Bastian took one look at his mother and turned on Leander pugnaciously.

Leander backed off. "Don't fight me, lad. I'd have to let you win or your mother will never marry me."

The children stared at them both wide-eyed.

Judith Rossiter, however, glared as if she'd like a mill herself. He saw her hands were clenched into serviceable fists. "Good-day!" she snapped and stormed off up the hill, her children running behind.

She was like a ship of the line with a pair of pinnaces in tow. He could quite imagine that at any moment she would turn and broadside him into oblivion.

Leander watched them go, wondering ruefully what had possessed him to so mishandle matters.

Chapter 3

By the time Leander arrived back at Hartwell, he had reluctantly decided he would have to tell Lucien and Beth all about it. He needed help.

After dinner he related the incident. Despite all their efforts his hosts burst out laughing at his description of the scene.

"Gads!" said Lucien. "And you were always the one with the winning ways. The one we'd send to turn cook up sweet. Lost your talents, Lee?"

"They certainly seem to have deserted me in my hour of need. What do I do now?"

Lucien frowned. "You mean you want to go through with it? Why?"

There was a distinct withdrawal. "Rather an impertinent question, ain't it?"

"Probably," said Lucien, unmoved. "When have we ever bothered about such things?"

Leander abandoned his momentary hauteur, wondering why he felt so prickly about the matter. "I like the woman. She has spirit, and strength, and good humor. I like her children, too, which is helpful and argues to her advantage. I think she'll be a good mother to mine. And she needs me as much as I need her." He fiddled idly with his signet ring. "I think that is the most attractive feature, to be needed. It all seems to add up to a sound basis for a practical marriage."

Lucien grimaced. "I still don't understand why
you
need
her."

Leander was tired of ducking this very obvious question. "I have come back to England to stay. I decided a few years ago that my parents' rootless life did not appeal, but it was at Waterloo that I made the firm decision." He glanced up at them. "I almost died, you know. I was trapped under my horse, and if I hadn't fallen into a dip I'd have been crushed. My men managed to get me out just before the French swept over that spot. Strange as it may seem, through the years of the war I'd never really thought of my own mortality. Then I did. Life suddenly became very precious. And life, at that moment, came to mean a home. A permanent place. In England."