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Authors: Maya Rodale

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BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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But she got to know him, and he got to know her. They had gone from discreetly holding hands to stealing kisses. This particular afternoon, he suggested a walk through the gardens. They happened upon a clearing in the woods, where they paused to rest on the grass. Resting became kissing, and that became something else.
“What are you doing?” she had asked in a voice that was breathless from his kisses. Lucas, lying on his side to face her, was pushing her skirts up. And then he was unbuttoning his trousers.
“I’m going to make love to you, Angela,” he said in a voice just as breathless as her own.
“Oh,” she said. That was her consent, a rush of air through her lips. He had never said he loved her, and she so wished he would. Making love, though she was not quite sure what that entailed, sounded just as good to her innocent brain. She didn’t know what they were doing, because no one had ever explained it to her. It was a talk one had the night before their wedding, and Lucas had not mentioned a wedding . . .
It hurt a little at first, but it was not an unbearable pain. And then it got quite a bit better. And then it was over.
When it was over, Lucas held her. That had been her favorite part: lying in the arms of the man she loved. The sky was blue above them, the birds sang their usual chirping songs. A warm breeze stole over them. Lucas told her he loved her. She said she loved him, too.
“I had better go talk to your father,” Lucas said finally. They dressed and returned to the house. Lucas disappeared into her father’s study, behind closed doors. Angela paced in the hall, barely able to contain her joy. She was going to be married! And to the man she loved, who loved her back.
That was, until the study doors burst open, slamming against the wall. The marks were probably still there, but she had no way of knowing for sure, since she hadn’t been home since then. She would likely never know, since she had been told not to return.
“How could you, Angela, how could you?” her father had thundered, his face—and his eyes—red. Had her father been crying?
“Papa, I—” She was so confused.
“You’re ruined now! Your sisters, too. This whole family! All because of what you did.”
“I don’t understand. We’re going to be married, Papa . . . Aren’t we? Lucas?”
“You tell her,” her father had said. She noticed then that Lucas sported a black eye.
“I’m already betrothed to another, Angela,” Lucas said quietly. She had asked him to repeat his words, just to be sure she had heard them correctly the first time. Alas, her judgment was faulty, not her hearing.
She leaned against the wall. She looked up and saw her two younger sisters, Samantha and Claire, at the top of the stairs, witnessing her shame.
“The contracts were signed before I arrived in your village. I don’t love her. I had to do it for my family. I’d break the engagement if I could afford it. But I do love you, Angela.”
“If you could afford it?” Angela questioned in a small voice.
“Apparently your dowry is not so grand as he thought,” her father said cruelly.
“Why? Why did you do to this to me?” Angela pleaded, looking at Lucas, who was staring intently at his feet. She looked up at her sisters again. She had ruined them, too.
“I thought it was the only way for us to be together. But we can still be together, Angela. Just not as man and wife.”
“Hear that, Angela? His mistress. His whore.” Her father spat out the words and refused to look at her.
“Papa, I didn’t know!”
“You will leave this house. Go with him, if you want. I don’t care. I don’t care what you do. And you,” her father said, turning to Lucas, “I will see you at dawn.”
The loss of her maidenhead was the least of it. It was the loss of her family that she grieved for the most. That and her faith in her own mind, her own feelings, her own actions. She had lost her faith in love. She had lost her faith in just about everything. And she wanted that back. That was why she went to the abbey instead of with Lucas.
Angela wiped a fleet of tears from her cheeks. It had been ages since she had relived that scene in her head. And then she was aware of someone joining her, and she was relieved to see it wasn’t Lord Invalid, but Helena.
“What did he do?” she asked, after coming to sit on the floor beside her.
“He said my sins were not that great,” Angela said, wiping tears from her eyes and even managing a wry smile. They may have devoted themselves to God and the religious order, but they were still women, they loved to talk, and thus they all knew each other’s stories. With Helena, Angela did not have to explain.
“Stupid bounder,” Helena said meanly. “And coming from a man like him!”
“What happened?” Penelope asked, joining them on the floor in the hall after setting down the linens she had been carrying.
“Lord Invalid said my sins were trivial.”
“Well, did you tell him what had occurred in your past?” Penelope asked.
“No.”
“But that doesn’t matter,” Helena said. “It just goes to show that he has no remorse for ruining all those women.”
“And to think I brought him
two
blankets,” Penelope muttered. This, coming from the girl that saw the good in everyone and everything, made Angela smile.
“Are you going to go back in there? Or shall I?” Helena offered.
“I will. It might make me feel better to torture him somehow.”
“You know it is not up to us to give judgment or punishment to others, but it is up to God,” Penelope said gravely.
“Yes, I know,” Angela said with a sigh.
“But that ointment stings like the devil, especially if you use a lot of it,” Helena added.
 
Clearly, she was a great sinner, Phillip thought. Clearly, he had said the wrong thing. Clearly, he had injured her feelings. But he was not as stupid or as thoughtless as he allowed others to believe, and he knew he hadn’t been
that
difficult a patient until that moment, so it had to be something else.
Phillip wondered if they had met before, and if he had done something then. But she was a woman that a man remembered without effort. It couldn’t be that. Perhaps he was as stupid and thoughtless as everyone believed him to be.
An apology was certainly in order, if she ever returned. That much he was sure of.
He knew she was just outside the door, for he heard women’s voices, although he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Phillip knew they were talking about him; only an imbecile would think otherwise. And of course, they were discussing how awful, despicable, and thoughtless he was, and what to do about it.
They could easily poison his food. Or worse, just leave him alone in this room for days or weeks, or however long it took for him to die. Which would do him in first, starvation or boredom or loneliness? Well, that was extreme and a bit ridiculous, Phillip told himself. But the fact remained that he was entirely at Angela’s mercy, and he had hurt her.
Damn stupid thing to do.
The door opened.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. She did not reply, and in her silence he was struck by four troubling thoughts simultaneously.
The first was that she had made him, a nobleman, apologize not once, but twice.
The second was that she had made him, a nobleman, utter the word
please
, not once, but twice.
The third troubling realization was that she had obviously been crying because of something he had said. It probably wasn’t the first time he had driven a woman to tears, but it was the first time that he had seen evidence of it. And it was the first time that he felt guilty.
And that was the fourth terrible realization: he genuinely felt like less of a human being, a truly awful one, because he had hurt her. He cared. Thus when he said loudly and clearly, “Please forgive me,” he genuinely meant it.
Within a week, she had made significant alterations to his vocabulary and inflicted new emotional states upon him. What on earth would be next?
Rambling. Was that his voice going on and on, trying to make things better? It was indeed: “I did not mean to belittle your sins. I’m sure they are tremendous. And you are quite right about me; any interaction with me must be a great trial. That’s what my father always said, anyway. As well as all of our governesses. The servants, too, I’m sure, said as much behind my back. So you are right, and I am wrong and—”
“Please stop,” she said, mercifully cutting him off, sounding exasperated, and rightfully so. “You’re only making matters worse.”
“I was afraid of that.” Had he just spoken about his father? He
never
did that, not since the old man saw fit to die and leave Phillip’s inheritance to his brother instead. And did he, in effect, just call her a tremendous sinner? What had happened to him? What was wrong with him?
It wasn’t just her voice that was bewitching, it was her. He had never been like this before he met her. She was dangerous. And he was unable to leave.
“I appreciate the effort,” she said, and he was relieved.
“You’re welcome,” he answered. And then the curiosity began to grow. What had she done? He couldn’t ask. He shouldn’t ask. He bit back the words. And Angela, his angel of mercy, offered him a distraction. She bade him to lie back so she could tend to the cut on his forehead, which didn’t hurt so much today.
He was disappointed to discover that she didn’t deem his broken ribs worth checking on. He would have called her attention to it, but he knew that would be pushing his luck.
Phillip propped himself up on his elbows so he could watch her as she checked on his gunshot wound. Well, mostly he wanted to watch her hands remove all the obstacles on her way to it, pushing the blankets aside but never fully exposing him, and unraveling the bandage. It was healing nicely, he saw. Though he would certainly have yet another scar.
“Do you really need that much ointment?” he asked. “You didn’t use as much yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s necessary,” she said, dabbing it on. Yesterday it had stung, but the pain had been manageable. But today . . .
“Bloody hell, woman, I said I was sorry!”
“Yes, I know. But now I am certain of it.” There was the slightest smile of satisfaction on her full, pink mouth. But there was also a trace of sadness in her eyes that had not yet gone away. That ache of remorse returned. In silence, she gathered her things and began to leave.
“Wait,” Phillip said, and she paused and turned to look at him.
Stay here with me,
he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. And she arched her brow expectantly, and he had to say something. “You took the bell away.”
He hadn’t seen her do it, but it had vanished, and he had to admit he had abused it, ringing it incessantly, often for no good reason at all other than to see her.
“Yes, I know.”
“What if . . .”
What if I need you?
he was about to ask. Instead, he asked, “What if I need something?”
“Do you need something now?”
“No.”
“I’ll be back.”
“Even though I don’t deserve it,” he finished. But she was already out the door. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, if only to avoid thinking.
 
Claude DeRue had said, in his heavy French accent, that fleeing would be futile: Phillip owed him money, so Phillip would pay. Claude DeRue accepted coin and also a man’s life, but he preferred coin.
Phillip preferred parting with neither. He had exactly enough in his purse to settle his debt, but that would have left him without a farthing to his name and no way of getting more. Claude DeRue was the end of the line as far as money-lenders went.
It was raining when Phillip stepped off the boat and onto English soil for the first time in four years, but that was unremarkable, as it was always raining here. His eyes scanned the docks for men who might be employed by DeRue who might have been alerted that Phillip had fled. He didn’t see them, but they must have seen him.
Phillip found an inn, where he purchased a hot meal and a horse. And then he took off in a rainstorm, in the dead of the night. He headed toward London. He never made it.
The horse’s hooves pounded, thudding on as Phillip urged, even though the beast must have been tired by that late hour. The rain had not ceased nor had it gotten heavier. Just a steady,
relentless wet. The drumming of the horses became louder, because Phillip was no longer alone: DeRue’s men had caught up with him. He would never outrun them now. He would die. This was the last chance in his life to display courage.
Phillip urged the horse to stop, and he turned around to face them. He couldn’t see them, but that meant they couldn’t see him, either. Hindsight suggested he might have dismounted and silently run off into the night. But no, he turned to face the men who wanted him dead, and he waited, sitting high and still in the saddle. Waiting.
BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
3.36Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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