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Authors: Maya Rodale

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BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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Before it stood her aunt, Lady Palmerston. She must have been in her forties, but it was only her wise eyes and the way she carried herself that belied her age. Her features were a touch angular, strong but not mannish. Her hair was a pale blonde, pulled back loosely and arranged in a bun. She wore a crimson gown in what must have been the latest style. The color was vivid and bold, but the cut was simple. A gold and ruby brooch as well as a simple gold necklace provided ornamentation.
Angela thought she was magnificent. She was so stylish, so self-assured that Angela envied her, aspired to be like her, and yet she was also acutely self-conscious about her own plain, disheveled appearance.
“Angela Sullivan,” Lady Palmerston said in acknowledgment. “I’ve been expecting you. Do sit, have some tea.” She gestured to the tea tray. Angela sat and gladly poured herself a cup of tea, wondering how this woman already knew of her.
“Did Lady Bamford write to you? Because I do have a letter of introduction from her in my case.”
“No. I’ve been waiting, oh . . .” Lady Palmerston touched one finger to her lips and paused thoughtfully for a second. “About six years now.”
“I’m sorry?” How had this woman been waiting six years for her? Six years ago was when she had been ruined.
“Your mother had written to me about your situation. So you chose life in an abbey over life in London? Interesting choice.”
“I wasn’t aware I had a choice,” Angela replied.
“Nevertheless, you have finally come to your senses.”
“I suppose that is one way of looking at it. Either that, or I have lost my mind,” Angela said.
“Ha! Happens to all of us from time to time.” She smiled wistfully, but her expression quickly became serious. “You’ll stay here, of course.”
“I couldn’t possibly intrude . . .”
“Nonsense. I have plenty of room, and you, I suspect, have nowhere else to go.”
“But the expense—”
“Is not something we talk about in polite company,” her aunt said firmly. Angela did not dare contradict her. “But never mind that, I can afford it.”
“Pardon me, but it’s been so long since I have been out in society. I’m a bit rusty.”
“Indeed,” Lady Palmerston said, eyeing her plain gray dress now. “A trip to the modiste is certainly in order. I certainly cannot take you out in that.”
“I can’t go out.”
“And why not?”
“I have been ruined. You know that.”
“Six years ago. Practically a lifetime. You have no idea of the greater scandals that have taken place since then. I assure you, people likely won’t remember.”
“You did.”
“I am gifted with an excellent memory. Something most of my peers are sorely lacking. We shall go buy you a new wardrobe—and don’t go thinking it as charity; it’s simply because I prefer not to look at that eyesore you are wearing. Then we shall go out and find you a husband.”
“Lady Palmerston, I am not looking for a husband. I am absolutely finished with men.”
“Recently heartbroken, are you?”
“How did you know?” Angela said, after sputtering on the sip of tea she had just taken.
“Because that is what we all say when we have been recently heartbroken. It happens to everyone from time to time. Never fear, it’s not a fatal condition.”
“Glad to hear it,” Angela said dryly. “I should hate to expire right here in your drawing room.”
“And I as well. Dreadful mess.” Lady Palmerston took a sip of her own cup of tea. Angela’s attention was drawn to the table of newspapers again. The title on one caught her eye.
“Is that a copy of the
London Weekly
?”
“Of course. ’Tis the bible of the ton.”
“So it is not a disreputable publication?”
“Not in the slightest. It is only the most popular, most well-read newspaper in London. I suggest you begin reading it, if you wish to understand half of the conversations at parties.”
“I was offered a job there, actually.”
“
Really?
” Lady Palmerston set her cup down in the saucer with a clink.
Angela explained about her meeting on the coach this afternoon. Lady Palmerston laughed loudly.
“We shall pay a call as soon as you have a decent gown. Just think! My niece illustrating for the
London Weekly
! It is my favorite publication, you know. Yes, you must stay. I shall definitely keep you on. We’ll convert a spare room into a workspace for you.”
“Thank you, Lady Palmerston.” It was all Angela could think to say—manage to say. A workspace? She had never had that luxury before. She had never even imagined it.
“Call me Dora. And you must show me your book of drawings.”
Angela immediately obliged, so thankful for her aunt’s benevolence. A place to stay. Gowns. A workspace! She didn’t give a thought to the subjects of her drawings or what her aunt might think of them. That is, until Lady Palmerston opened to a page at random, her eyes widened, and one brow arched.
Angela looked closely to see which page her aunt was looking at. She winced. It was the portrait of Phillip without his shirt on.
“Oh, no, you did not,” Lady Palmerston—Dora—murmured. She obviously recognized Phillip. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked closer, and Angela could see them taking in every last detail. Every muscle in his chest and arms. Oh, those arms.
“I did,” Angela said with a sigh. There was no denying it. Not even the most gifted actor in the world could talk their way out of this one.
“But how? When? Where?”
“He was injured and brought to the abbey where I was living. I was assigned to tend to him and his injuries. I think I did too good a job of it.”
“I’m sorry. But let me see if I understand you correctly. Phillip Kensington. In an abbey.”
“Yes.” In spite of her recent heartache, even Angela had to smile at that.
Lady Palmerston’s lips twitched. And then her eyes started to water. And then she howled with laughter. It was a full minute—Angela watched the clock on the mantel—before Lady Palmerston was able to draw a breath.
“Oh, I’m surprised the place hasn’t burned to the ground. It is still standing, is it not? That’s not the reason you left?”
“Well, the chapel roof did catch fire in a thunder and lightning storm,” Angela added with a wry smile.
“Hmmph,” Lady Palmerston said, and it was followed by a chuckle. “That is
not
funny. But it is ironic.”
“I suppose it is. At the very least, he did stay on to help repair the damage.”
“He did
what
?”
“He worked alongside the men from the village to build a new roof. It was to be in exchange for the funds to return to London.”
“Phillip Kensington
worked
?”
“Yes, I know,” Angela said sadly. He had changed so much. Just not enough.
“Either hell has frozen over, or you have some sort of magical powers. I trust it was due to your influence that the man lifted something other than a flask of brandy.”
“Well, we didn’t have any brandy at the abbey. I could flatter myself and say yes. But it doesn’t matter, because I wasn’t enough. He left. Suddenly. He didn’t even say good-bye.” Angela’s voice wavered. Once again, she wasn’t enough of something—whatever that something might be—to keep a man.
“My dear girl, he leaves
everyone
.”
“I know,” she muttered, not feeling the need to confess that for a moment there, she thought she was special. The one that he wouldn’t leave.
“You didn’t fall in love with him, did you?” Lady Palmerston asked, eyeing her warily.
“Maybe,” Angela confessed with a sigh.
“Talk about losing one’s head from time to time. How you managed to fall in love with that dull scoundrel, I’d rather not know. But I must ask. Does anyone know of your relationship with him?”
“Just my sisters at the abbey.”
“Good. Keep it that way. Merely conversing with him at a ball is enough to damage a girl’s reputation.”
“He said as much.”
“You are not with child, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. That would put a crimp in our social outings. I must also warn you that my niece, Emilia, is married to Phillip’s twin, Devon. The resemblance is stunning. Even their own father had trouble telling them apart.”
“I shall not confuse them. May I request that you do not tell them of my relationship with Phillip? I am starting a new life now, and I should hate for my past to interfere overmuch,” Angela said.
“Of course. Your secret is safe with me. We shall tell everyone that you have been at home in the country all this time.” And then Lady Palmerston returned to leafing through the sketches, saying they were quite good.
“Your relationship to this one?” she asked, pointing to the drawing of Lucas.
“The man who ruined me. The first time.”
“Viscount Lucas Frost. His wife recently passed away during childbirth.”
Oh. Angela braced herself to feel something at the news. He had gone on to marry, as was his duty, regardless of what he did or did not feel for her. That he carried on with his life did not affect her now. She merely felt the natural sadness she would upon hearing that any life had been lost.
But she could not ignore the fact that he was free now, and she was, too.
Lady Palmerston continued to flip through the book at random, until her eyes widened, then narrowed, but definitely lingered on the picture of the gentleman from the coach.
“Who is this?” Dora asked sharply.
“That is Nigel Haven. The man from the coach.”
“Nigel Haven,” Lady Palmerston repeated slowly, as if receiving the answer to a grand mystery. “The publisher of the
London Weekly.
Funny, that,” Lady Palmerston said thoughtfully.
“Why is that funny?”
“Oh, never mind that. Groves will show you to your room. Just ring if you need anything. Supper shall be at eight o’clock.”
“Lady Palmerston—”
“Dora.”
“Dora. I can’t thank you enough for taking me in. I promise not to be trouble for you, and—”
“Dear girl, I’m already glad you’re here. As I said, I’ve been waiting for you to knock on my door. Better late than never, they say.”
Two days ago, Angela had lost a fiancé. But now she had a fascinating and witty aunt, a place to stay (a really nice place to stay), and a job. If she had known that she could have all this, she might have left the abbey sooner. She might have even left before she ever met Phillip.
In her heart, she felt a hollow, empty hole that Phillip had almost filled. Did she wish that she had never known him? That she had never loved him?
Yes, she had fallen in love with him.
She had also loved Lucas, and lost him, and lived to love again.

 

Chapter 13
CLIVEDEN, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
 
Phillip
wanted to kill Pierre and François. Slowly. And painfully. He spent the long hours in the carriage with them alternately despising them and thinking of ways in which he might kill them. Slowly. And painfully.
They had taken him away from Angela. He could not imagine a greater offense. Unfortunately, he could not imagine that it was a suitable defense against murder. Twice. He couldn’t be with her if he was swinging lifelessly from the gallows. That was the only reason why he did not kill them.
They also stank, argued incessantly in French, brandished weapons about as if they were merely sticks and not loaded guns, and, to put salt in his wound, refused to allow Phillip to join in their card games. He now understood the old matrons who complained about their nerves being shredded to ribbons. He was not in the slightest bit glad to have discovered empathy in that capacity.
BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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