Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] Read online

  "Bastian," said Judith, "you can't let him bribe you with horses!" Then she paused, taking it in. "Is that what he threatened you with, no more riding?"

  He glanced at her. "Not threatened. That's what he said. No riding until we got to his home, Temple Knollis."

  "And that's why you ran away?" She had to admit that it was a fair punishment, and one that would hit home.

  "No," said Bastian scrubbing at his eyes. "I ran away because I could see he didn't like me anymore. Then he was angry 'cos I'd run. And I knew I'd torn it for sure."

  "Oh darling," Judith said and gathered him in again. "Of course he likes you." It was an inane thing to say and yet she knew it was true. Leander had doubtless been disappointed in Bastian's behavior, just as she was, but his feelings in the orchard had been more worry than anger.

  She had misjudged him again, and this time emphatically put an end to the whole affair. As Bastian would have said, she'd torn it for sure.

  She gave him one last hug then rose wearily to her feet and began the walk home, an arm around each child. It was as well she hadn't worn any of her finery. Perhaps Lettie Grimsham would take the clothes back for part of the cost.

  Back at the cottage she wondered dully whether there was any point in apologizing, but despaired. He was surely pleased of a lucky escape.

  The children asked if they could open the tantalizing parcel, and she absently said yes. She mechanically set about preparing their supper, thinking about the complications and embarrassment of canceling the wedding, wondering if she could hold on to the cottage. There were new tenants ready to move in.

  She would receive her quarterly allowance from Timothy Rossiter in the New Year. Thank heavens she had not yet written to tell him it was no longer necessary. She added figures in her head, and wondered whether she should start to wear Sebastian's rings again now, or whether she could sell them to keep them all from the workhouse.

  She realized there had been no comment from the children on the package's contents, and turned. Any distraction would be welcome at the moment. "What is it, then?"

  They were using the string to play with Magpie. "Just more of Papa's books."

  Judith wiped her hands and went over, puzzled. As soon as she saw the contents she recognized the handsome editions in blue leather and gilt. Sebastian had paid for his poems to be produced in this opulent style, and then given them away as gifts. He had always sent one to the Regent, and received a brief acknowledgment from a flunkie.

  No wonder he'd never made any money. She wondered what on earth she was supposed to do with this belated batch, and picked up the letter which accompanied them.

  Dear Mrs. Rossiter,

  I hope these elegant volumes of your husband's exquisite poems are a cause for sweet remembrance, not renewed grief. It has been a cause of some distress to me that these special editions of his last opus were delayed by problems in acquiring precisely the leather he requested.

  I knew, however, that as in life his standards had been immutable, so in death he would wish to be the same.

  I know you take comfort from the warm regard in which your husband's work is held by all who read it, and who share in your loss.

  There is a small sum outstanding for these specially bound editions.

  Algernon D. Browne

  Judith appreciated the careful phrasing. So Sebastian's work was held in warm regard by all who read it. Perhaps true. What a pity it was such a small number. Probably readers were put off by having to purchase the poems in cordovan leather with heavy gilding.

  There was another sheet of paper. With horror she saw it was a bill. For twenty specially prepared issues of Sweet Light of Angels, A.D. Browne, printers, was owed one hundred and four guineas.

  Judith looked at the books as if they were a nest of vipers. A hundred and four guineas! That was nearly two quarters' allowance. Could she return them? No, even if it were legally possible, how could the Weeping Widow do that? Oh, did that matter anymore?

  Could she sell them? She laughed aloud at that thought. Would Prinny be disappointed not to receive his copy? She couldn't even afford the cost of sending it.

  Could she preserve her dignity, and pay for them? Only by destroying any chance of solvency. She wanted to weep, but fought it for the children's sake. They mustn't know how frightened she was.

  There would always be a place for her with her parents, she reminded herself, but there would be little money for training or dowry. Her throat was aching. This cruel twist of fate on top of a cruel day, was almost too much for her.

  There was a knock at the door. Judith simply couldn't take any more. "Bastian, please..."

  He went to answer it, and she saw he wasn't fooled. Both her children were very sensitive to atmosphere. Dear heavens, but only a few weeks ago they had possessed a kind of contentment, a satisfaction with so little, and a joy in simple things. Then Leander Knollis had turned their lives upside down.

  But that wasn't fair, it really wasn't.

  Bastian returned and gave her a note. "From Hartwell," he said.

  She turned the crisp white paper in her hand. It was simply addressed to Judith Rossiter. It could be from one of the Ardens, or from Leander. It could be from the butler if it came to that. She knew none of their hands.

  Her own hands were shaking as she broke the seal. She didn't know what to expect, what she hoped for.

  My dear Judith,

  We've bounced into absurdity again, haven't we? I could offer you an apology, but I am not sure what I would be apologizing for. There are clearly matters that need to be discussed, but I am convinced our separation is due to a misunderstanding rather than intent.

  If you are of the same opinion, I will be in the churchyard until the light goes.

  Leander

  Judith found that she was standing staring at the books and knew it was not by accident. She wasn't at all sure a marriage between her and Leander Knollis was practical, but now she had no choice. She had to marry him.

  She looked up and saw Rosie and Bastian watching her with solemn, fearful hope. They at least had no doubt as to the desirable outcome.

  She glanced out of the window. The light was already beginning to go. She picked up a woolen shawl and flung it around her head. "Bastian. Look after Rosie. And this time, do it."

  * * *

  He was leaning sacrilegiously against Sebastian's tomb, looking tall and formidable in a long riding cape, and solemn enough for a graveyard.

  "One can't expect much," he remarked, "from a courtship that mostly takes place around graves."

  Judith came to a halt, facing him across the grave, not knowing what to say.

  He straightened. "I gather Bastian is safe?"

  "Yes."

  "Was he terrified of me?"

  She swallowed. "No." She was aware of an atmosphere of misty gloom and ghosts.

  "I should perhaps have left the matter in your hands, but I was first on the scene, and scared by what-might-have-been. I have begun to think of myself as his father. In addition, I felt somewhat responsible as I had reintroduced him to horses."

  Judith seized on it. "He wouldn't have been so thoughtless a few weeks ago."

  He raised a brow."Are you laying that at my door? "

  Quite apart from the fact that she had to reconcile with him, that wasn't fair. "It's the excitement," she admitted, "and you are only the indirect cause."

  "Strange, I thought I was the heart of it."

  She could tell he was in a dangerous mood, and yet with his skills, she couldn't read him. She didn't know what to say or do. She was reminded that he had recently been, not a diplomat, but a soldier; that he was a veteran of that bloodiest of battles, Waterloo. She shivered, and gathered her inadequate shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  He frowned. "We shouldn't be here like this. It was the only neutral territory that came to mind."

  "It is the only peaceful spot hereabouts."

  He looked around at the ranks of graveston
es. "'The grave's a fine and private place, '" he quoted, "'But none, I think, do there embrace.'" He took out the ring and turned it in his fingers. "You're going to have to trust me a little, or this won't work at all."

  "I do trust you."

  "Do you?"

  His silence demanded some explanation for the afternoon's debacle. "I'm used to handling the children alone," she said. "I'm not used to letting anyone else decide if they are in the wrong or right, and what should be done about it."

  "You must have shared such duties with your first husband."

  She looked down. "He was very busy."

  Night was falling fast. She heard bats squeaking out from the church belfry. She looked up at him, half seen in the gloom.

  "If you say your vows to me," he said, "you will be giving me the right to help you with the children, a right I intend to claim. You will have to trust me. I won't always be right, but then neither, with respect, will you. It may be the cause of some fights between us, but I will always try to act for their good. If you cannot believe that, then we cannot marry. Which I think would be a shame."

  Judith felt her heart melt at his tone. Oh my dear, a braver, better woman would let you go. But she lacked that strength, and she had a bundle of costly useless books to pay for, and new dreams that only he could make true.

  "I, too, think it would be a shame."

  He stepped across the grave to join her, and slipped the ring back on her finger. He clasped her hand. "You're chilled." He took off his riding cape, and draped it around her shoulders. It was warm, and had a slight aroma of horse, and another she recognized, with a stir inside, as his. It was also heavy.

  "Lord, my knees are like to buckle!"

  He put an arm around her waist to support her. "I'll help you bear the weight." He turned her into his arms. "I'm glad we've only tomorrow to get through. You won't jilt me at the altar, will you?"

  She shook her head.

  His head swooped down on her and he kissed her fiercely, using his whole body to overwhelm her senses and demand a response. She felt seared. "Now my knees are buckling," she said shakily.

  "Good. Sometimes I think you mistake me, Judith, and the time for mistakes is almost over. This may be a marriage without love, but that does not mean I do not care, or that I do not desire you. I desire you very, very much. I'm looking forward to our wedding night, to when I have the right to explore your body, and learn your ways, and see you lost in the senses...."

  Her body was still humming from that kiss, and his words made her head swim. His hand was absently tantalizing her nape to devastating effect. She felt she had to warn him. "I think it's going to be a bit different with you...."

  "Good God, I hope so." He cast a grimacing look at the grave, and led her away toward the lytch gate. "You see how you've destroyed my composure? A few weeks ago, I would never have been so maladroit as to make love to a lady in a chilly graveyard."

  Not to mention over her husband's grave, thought Judith, though more with humor than with guilt. The past was the past.

  He'd ridden down, and the big gray horse stood like a patient ghost. When they reached it, Leander said, "Will you ride with me?"

  She supposed it was a kind of trust, and nodded. He took off the cape. She shivered slightly, as much from the loss of the essence of him, as from the loss of its warmth. He put his hands at her waist and lifted her onto the saddle.

  She clutched at the pommel, nervous to be alone on the horse, and surprised again at his strength. She found herself wondering what kind of body was under the covering of excellent tailoring, then suppressed such wickedness.

  On the other hand, if he expected her to be naked, perhaps he would be, too. He swung up behind her, then shifted them around until she was in his lap, and they were both enclosed in the cape. She was snuggled against him like a child, and imagined she could feel the slow beat of his heart. Perhaps she could. She could certainly feel the solid strength of him.

  He set the horse to amble slowly back down the misty village street toward her cottage. Fuzzy rectangles of light marked the houses, but the street was deserted. It was as if they were alone in the world.

  "I'm going to make you a good wife," she said suddenly.

  "That sounds dauntingly worthy."

  She glanced up at him, unable to read his tone. "I mean, the sort of wife you want."

  She saw the white of his teeth as he smiled. "That's more like it. Is that a promise?"

  She hesitated, then said, "Yes." And meant it.

  "Good. And I'll try to be the sort of husband you want." He looked down and blew gently at her forehead. "Would you care to give me some hints?"

  He was perfect as he was, but she couldn't say that. As they turned into the lane she teased, "Serious, sober, and sensible. And faithful, of course."

  He swung off the horse and helped her down. "One out of four will have to do."

  She fought a smile. "Which one?"

  He let his smile free. "You choose."

  She tilted her head on one side. "Serious," she said.

  He laughed out loud."You chose wrong." He tilted her chin and kissed her. "I'm going to hide from you tomorrow, wife-to-be. I daren't risk any other problems until we're wed. But I think I should speak to Bastian. Will you send him out?"

  She felt that pang of alarm, and yes, of possessiveness. She didn't want to share the children in this way. But she suppressed both feelings. This was where she proved her trust. "Of course. Good night."

  "Good night." He somehow invested the words with sultry promise that sent shivers down her back, and curled her toes.

  The children had laid the table, and put out the bowls for the soup that was simmering on the hob. They both looked at her with wide-eyed anxiety. They saw the ring, and their faces lit up.

  "It's going to be all right!" Rosie squealed.

  Judith hushed her. "Yes, it's going to be all right." She turned to her son. "Bastian, you are not to think this quarrel between Leander and me was your fault, for it wasn't. On the other hand, you hurt him by not believing that he will care for you even if you disappoint him by your behavior. He wishes to speak to you. I wish you to apologize."

  "Is he still angry?"

  She hugged him. "Not at all."

  He came back in a few minutes. "He says I'm to apologize to you for causing you distress!" Despite his exasperation at the ways of adults, his apology sounded heartfelt. He improved on it by apologizing to Rosie for leaving her, assuring Judith that it was his own idea entirely.

  Not to be outdone, Rosie apologized for getting in the boat and almost drowning.

  Judith hugged them both. It would be all right.

  Chapter 9

  Rosie woke Judith on her wedding morning, bubbling over with excitement at the day, her part in it, and the future. Rosie had followed the pattern of all young ladies and fallen head over heels in love with Leander Knollis. But for Rosie he was Papa.

  Or rather, Papa Leander.

  And here the day was upon them all. The banns had been read. The church was decked with garlands and flowers, mostly courtesy of Hartwell. Her family would be on the road.

  Judith thought back to her first wedding day, when she'd woken in her old room at home, sharing the bed with her sister, Anne, vibrating with nerves and excitement, unable to think of the future for thinking of the night ahead when she would experience the mysterious wickedness that was the marriage bed.

  And then Sebastian had done nothing for weeks until she'd prodded him to it.

  It had hurt the first time, but she'd expected that. What she had not expected was that it be so dull, and that it never become pleasant. Nor had Sebastian appeared to enjoy it. He had seemed to be every bit as embarrassed about what he was doing as she was, even in the dark.

  In time, Judith had overcome her self-consciousness about the act, though she was not sure Sebastian ever had, but she had never understood why people could be so excited about it.

  Tonight could hold few
surprises, and there was no reason for nervousness. Despite twelve years of marriage, however, she felt as if she was once more embarking upon unknown waters, and was unable to think of the future for wondering about the night.

  She acceded to Rosie's excited pleading and got up. It was early and there was little to do other than dress, for all the packing had been taken care of. She had no intention of putting her lovely dress on so early and getting it creased or soiled, so she dressed in black. Soon Bastian was up, too, equally full of nervous energy.

  They all made a last check of the cottage to be sure nothing was left behind, though they'd done it before. There were surprisingly few boxes, and she wished she hadn't been quite so ruthless. What harm would there have been in taking those old Christmas baubles, even if they just ended up decorating the schoolroom at Temple Knollis?

  It had been much that way at Mayfield House. Judith's attempts to introduce her family's boisterous Christmas traditions there had met with frosty disapproval from Sebastian, and had been reserved for the nursery.

  Christmases with Sebastian had followed a bleak pattern. There had never been any guests. When the village carolers came to the door, Mrs. Polk, the housekeeper, took them into the kitchen for a slice of cake and, Judith suspected, some rum punch. Sebastian didn't keep any spirits, but Mrs. Polk established that she could not make a Christmas cake without rum. When Judith did the accounts she saw that it took a quite remarkable amount of rum to make the cake, but she made no issue of it.

  Judith had often longed to spend more time down in the servants' quarters where there was laughter, and singing, and rum punch. She made her elderberry wine, as her mother always had, and that was the only wine in the house. At Christmas, she insisted in drinking a toast with it, and Sebastian relented so far as to take one small glass.

  On Christmas morn, she and Sebastian exchanged gifts, and they then gave each member of the small staff a present. It was always something practical such as stockings, or a length of cloth, but that was common enough. Sebastian would also give them a copy of his latest book of poems, though the kitchen maid at least was not a good enough reader to enjoy them. The staff had been pleased to get them, though. Upon his death, the servants' grief had been rather more substantial than her own, for they had felt there was a real cachet to serving a poet.