Angel Rogue

Chapter 21

The Marquess of Wolverton had estimated that if Robin and the Sheltered Innocent decided to stop at Ruxton, it would take them three or four days to get there from Market Harborough. Giles headed south, making routine inquiries, but with a signal lack of success. The pair had evaporated like summer mist.

He had intended to spend the third night at Ruxton, but a violent storm turned the roads to mire and slowed his carriage to the pace of a walking man. Irritated, he chided himself for spending too much time on futile searching. If he had given up a few hours earlier, he could have reached Ruxton. Now he must take his chances at the nearest inn. It was a gloomy prospect.

As his carriage lurched through the mud, he found himself thinking about Desdemona Ross, who had an alarming tendency to invade his mind, both waking and sleeping. He wasn't sure what to do about her, but he certainly wanted to do something.

His pleasant daydreams ended when a sharp crack sounded below his feet. The carriage jolted to a stop, the whole vehicle tilting precariously. He sighed as he stepped into the downpour; a carriage breakdown was a perfect end to the day. Outside, he called to his coachman, Wickes, "Shall we see how bad it is?"

Wickes handed the reins to Miller, a young servant who was acting as guard, groom, and parttime valet. After he clambered from the box, they slogged through the mud to survey the damage. "Axle's broken beyond repair, my lord," Wickes said glumly. "We'll have to send Miller to find a blacksmith."

Giles tugged his hat lower, trying to stop rain from running down the back of his neck. "We're within a mile or two of Daventry. There will be a smith there." He was about to dispatch Miller to town when he heard the jangling harness and rumbling wheels of another traveler behind them.

"Here's a bit of luck," Wickes said as he stepped into the road to flag down the approaching vehicle.

It wasn't a wagon, but another private coach-a carriage with distinctive yellow trim. A smile spread across Giles's face. Whoever had said that it was an ill wind that blew no good was right; this storm was definitely blowing well.

As he headed toward the coach, a tall female form stepped out into the deluge and started toward him. His step quickened, and as they drew together he exclaimed, "Get back inside, Lady Ross. There's no reason for you to get wet, too."

"Don't worry, Wolverton. I shan't melt." She gave him a wicked smile, her long lashes clumping from the rain and water dripping from the edge of her bonnet. "This is my chance to rescue you for a change. How could I pass up such an opportunity? I presume you have a broken wheel or axle."

He nodded. "I'd appreciate it if you would send someone from Daventry to help us."

"Why don't you come with me? Your men can look after the carriage perfectly well. I was planning to stop at the Wheatsheaf, which is quite a decent inn. You can get a room there also." She pulled her sopping cloak closer around her. "This is no weather for traveling."

The thought of spending time with her splendid ladyship was too appealing to refuse. Giles told his men to wait in the carriage until help arrived, retrieved a small bag that carried a change of clothes and a few other basic items, and followed Lady Ross to her carriage.

He climbed inside and settled squishily on the seat. Seeing that they were alone, he asked, "What happened to your maid?"

"The silly wench came down with a streaming cold so I sent her home." She cocked her head to one side. "Obviously I didn't take your advice about meekly going to wait in London. I came across one or two possible sightings of our fugitives, but I don't feel any closer to finding them. How was your luck?"

"About the same." Deciding there was no reason to keep Ruxton a secret any longer, Giles said, "Robin owns an estate near Daventry. I'm on my way to see if they might be staying there for a day or two. Care to go there with me tomorrow?"

"Definitely." She smiled wryly. "There are obvious advantages to being together when we find them."

Together. He liked the sound of that.

In Daventry, they found a blacksmith who was willing to go immediately to Giles's carriage in return for a payment that was only mildly extortionate. With that accomplished, they went on to the Wheatsheaf Inn.

Giles asked for a tea tray when they entered. The landlord gave the orders, then bowed them into a private parlor.

As Giles removed his cloak, his companion went to stand by the fire. "This seems very familiar," she remarked. "We always seem to be meeting at inns." She removed her dripping bonnet and shook her head. Her red hair tumbled in a vivid mass about her shoulders, curling wildly from the moisture.

Giles watched with pleasure as she absently combed her fingers through her fiery tresses in a vain attempt at straightening. He was definitely pro redhead.

He started to make a light comment about the effect that meeting at inns could have on a reputation. Then rational thought fled as his companion removed her sodden cloak.

He had wondered what her appearance would be if she wasn't swaddled in layers of shapeless clothing. Now he learned the answer, and the knowledge was lightning in his veins.

He had thought her rather stout, in an attractively feminine way. Stout, however, implied being large all over.

Desdemona was large only in certain places. Her saturated muslin dress clung more closely than a damped petticoat, revealing a spectacular figure in loving detail. Her legs were gloriously long and shapely, and the slimness of her waist made her dramatic curves look downright flamboyant. In particular, she had a remarkable pair of…

Giles hastily straightened his expression. A gentleman would say she had a lovely neck, since what she did have was not a subject for polite comment. Yes, indeed, Lady Ross had a very lovely neck… and the rest of her was very fine as well.

She glanced at him, and her face froze. "You are staring at me," she said accusingly.

So he was. Giles raised his bemused eyes to her face and said with regrettable candor, "Lady Collingwood was right."

Her face flared as red as her hair.

'That was not an insult," he said hastily. "You are a strikingly attractive woman. No man could fail to notice."

"You mean that you agree with my sister inl aw that I look like a lightskirt," she snapped. "You're both right, because that is exactly how too many men have tried to treat me." She reached for her wet cloak to cover herself.

Her bitter words gave the marquess an insight into why she was so uneasy about male attention. He stood and took off his wool coat, which had been protected from the rain by his cloak. "Put this on. Unlike your cloak, it's dry."

As she hesitated, he said in his gentlest tone, "I'm sorry for what I said. I meant no disrespect. It is only that I was surprised. You've done an excellent job of disguising yourself."

Warily she accepted the coat, as if expecting him to attack her. Wrapping it around herself, she withdrew again. The coat returned her to perfect decency, to Giles's regret.

The tea tray arrived, so he poured a cup and handed it to her along with the plate of cakes. At first she perched nervously on the edge of a chair, but she began to relax as the tea warmed her and Giles maintained his distance.

Deciding that it was time to learn why the lady was so skittish, he remarked. "You must have had a difficult first season. Innocence usually arouses protective instincts, but you have the kind of beauty that can make men forget themselves, especially young men with more passion than patience."

She stared at her plate and crumbled a cake. "The first time a young man caught me away from my chaperons, I felt horribly guilty, wondering what I had done to encourage him. Eventually I realized that the fault was not in my behavior." Her mouth twisted. "To defend myself, I took to wearing a long, sharp pin in my hair."

"I see why you have a low opinion of the male half of the race," he said thoughtfully. "And your comeout… that was just the beginning, wasn't it?"

"Why do you ask, Wolverton?" She raised her head, her gaze challenging. "If you are only expressing dishonorable intentions in a more than usually genteel fashion, I can't see that my past is any of your business."

He drew in a deep breath. "My intentions are not dishonorable, so"-the words came with difficulty- "that means they must be honorable."

Her jaw dropped, and she put her teacup down with a clink. Their gazes held in one of those kaleidoscopic moments when everything changes forever. For better or worse, there would be no going back.

When she spoke, her words seemed irrelevant, but he knew they were not. "I met your wife once when she was making her comeout. She was exquisite, like a porcelain figurine."

He set his own cup down, making sure to do so soundlessly. Turnabout was fair play; if he was going to probe Desdemona, she had the right to do the same. "Yes, Dianthe was very beautiful."

"She and I could not be more unalike."

"I hope to God that is true," he said, unable to keep bitterness out of his voice. "If it isn't, this could prove to be the second great mistake of my life."

Desdemona had felt offbalance throughout this conversation, but the marquess's words steadied her. She was glad to know that he was as vulnerable as she was. "What went wrong?"

He got to his feet and began to pace restlessly. ".It isn't much of a story. I was quite besotted when I married her. I couldn't believe that she had chosen me over so many others." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Pure idiocy that I didn't recognize why: I was heir to the best title and fortune available on the marriage mart that year. But she was very skilled at pretending sweet, loving innocence. It was easy to be a fool."

"Yet surely she cared for you. No sane woman would accept a man she didn't like when she had so many other choices."

His expression became sardonic. "She didn't precisely dislike me, but during one of our charming discussions later, she revealed that she had been bored with me before the honeymoon was over. She had expected to be bored, but not quite so much, and so quickly."

Desdemona winced. The cruelty of it was far too reminiscent of her own marriage.

He continued, "Dianthe was quite the little philosopher, however. Boring I might be, but she was prepared to tolerate me in return for fortune and position. She had an amazing talent for spending money, and she wanted to be a marchioness."

"She died in childbirth, didn't she, along with the baby?" Desdemona had a vague memory of reading about the deaths. She had spared a moment of regret for the beauty's untimely end.

"Yes." He braced a hand on the mantel and stared into the fire for a long time. "As she was dying, when it looked like the baby might survive, she told me that it was almost certainly not mine. She was rather apologetic. Women in her position usually try to provide a legitimate heir or two before going their own way. She had intended to do that as part of the bargain, but… mistakes do happen."

Desdemona ached for him. For the first time in her life she went to a man and made a physical gesture of comfort, not worrying whether he would react the wrong way. Laying a hand on his shirtsleeved arm, she said, "I'm very sorry. She didn't deserve you."

Though he managed to keep his voice steady, his arm was as tight as strung wire under her fingers. "I don't know about that, but it is certainly true that we had very different ideas about what we wanted of our marriage. My judgment was disastrously bad." His voice almost inaudible, he added, "The worst of it was not knowing how to mourn."

"I understand," she said quietly. "When my husband died, I felt relief, guilt, some impersonal sadness for such a pointless death. It was… complicated."

He raised his hand to rest it briefly on hers. "I never met Sir Gilbert Ross, but he had the reputation of a gamester."

"Among other things, most of them bad." It was Desdemona's turn to stare into the fire.

She had never spoken about her marriage to anyone, but the marquess's honesty deserved a like response. "He drowned in a ditch one night, drunk. Virtually the only considerate act of his life was to die when he was at high tide with his gaming, so there was enough to pay off his debts, with a bit left over. That, combined with a modest legacy from an aunt, enabled me to become independent. I found that widowhood suited me much better than marriage had."

He sighed. "A fashionable courtship is such an artificial thing. It's not surprising that you and I ended up choosing partners who were quite different than we thought."

"Very true, though in fact, I did not choose my husband."

"The match was arranged by your family?"

"No, my brother would surely have chosen better. During my London Season, Sir Gilbert was one of several serious suitors." She gave an acid smile. "My fortune was hardly on the order of yours, but I had a decent dowry, and men liked my looks, even if they didn't respect them.

"Gilbert courted me assiduously, but knew my brother would refuse permission if he made an offer. So he took me for a drive in the park one day and kept on going. He didn't bring me home until the next day."

The marquess frowned. "Did he… "

She looked into the fire again. "No, he was most respectful. He took me to an unoccupied house in the country, swearing undying love and saying that he couldn't live without me. I was furious, of course, but also rather flattered. He was very handsome, and I was young enough to think that it was romantic to have a dashing rake madly in love with me."

"I see," Wolverton said grimly. "He didn't have to lay a hand on you. The mere fact of having spent an, unchaperoned night in his company meant that you were thoroughly compromised."

"Precisely. Everyone agreed that I had no choice but to marry him." Her full lips thinned. "I was too young to realize that there is always a choice, so I accepted my fate."

"And this is why you are so determined that your niece will have a choice, no matter what has happened?"

"Exactly. I will allow no one-no one-to coerce her into a miserable marriage." Desdemoha lifted the poker and jabbed the glowing coals. "I should have resisted, but as I said, part of me was gratified that Gilbert wanted me so much that he was driven to desperate measures. I liked him well enough. He was very amusing, and I took the fact that he didn't ravish me as proof of genuine affection. Unfortunately, it was no more love than what your Dianthe felt."

"He was interested only in your dowry?"

"That was the main reason. But apart from the money…" She swallowed, not sure she could continue. The marquess put an unthreatening arm around her shoulders, and she relaxed a little.

"Gilbert told me once when he was drunk that he had made a list of girls who had decent fortunes, but who were not such great heiresses that he wouldn't be allowed near them. Then, after he had met us all, he chose me because of… because of my breasts." She spoke baldly, amazed that she could say aloud what had scarred her soul.

Wordlessly he pulled her closer to his side. She sensed that he could understand how humiliating she had found her husband's declaration; Wolverton's own experiences had been equally humiliating.

"The basic, underlying transaction in marriage is sex for money," he said reflectively. "The male supports and protects the female in return for sexual access. It's not very flattering for either party. Certainly I didn't enjoy learning that the hard way." His arm tightened. "You had the misfortune to be forced into marriage because of both lust and money. That seems particularly unfair."

"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" she said with a rueful laugh. "Is that what all the fine romantic phrases come down to: the man choosing the female who most arouses him, the woman accepting the man who can best provide for her?"

"That may be the basic transaction, but it is only a beginning. Humans are complicated creatures, and a good marriage must satisfy many needs and desires." He looked down, his slateblue eyes glinting with amusement. "But in addition to affection, companionship, and trust, it is not inherently a bad thing to find one's partner physically attractive."

She looked away, shy again but content to stay within the circle of his arm. "Are we back again to the fact that I look like a harlot?"

"Not really. I've never found such women very interesting-at least, not for more than an hour or two. You, on the contrary, are nothing if not interesting. I admire the idealism of your political work, and what you have done on behalf of a niece you have never met. I like your directness." He chuckled. "I also like the fact that your blushes make it easy to know what you are thinking."

The wave of color that went over Desdemona confirmed his last words. She found herself on the verge of scuffing her toe in the carpet like a child.

He finished his recitation of her virtues by saying, "The fact that I like and respect you as a person is the foundation. However, I am absolutely delighted that you also look like the most expensive kind of opera dancer."

She had to laugh at his absurd and marvelous chain of logic, and the way it dissolved her selfconsciousness about her unladylike appearance. For perhaps the first time in her life, a man's admiration was pleasing rather than menacing.

Then she raised her eyes, and laughter ceased. Her breath caught at what she saw in his eyes. Certainly there was desire, but also affection and kindness. When he bent over, she did not try to avoid his kiss.

It began as a light, undemanding caress, quite unlike the slavering assaults of the young men who had sometimes cornered her when she was a girl. Her husband had seldom bothered to kiss her at all, instead going directly to his satisfaction.

Giles, however,, preferred a leisurely exploration. His lips brushed hers with slow sensuality, finding pleasures she had never imagined. At first she simply accepted, but soon she began to want to respond. She slid her arms around his neck and relaxed against him. Their bodies fitted together as if designed for each other. With him, she didn't feel like a vulgar, oversized Amazon; she felt like a woman who had met her match.

He began stroking her back underneath his coat, which was still draped over her shoulders. His hands warmed her through the damp muslin of her gown. She did not realize the effort his restraint was costing him until she shyly touched her tongue to his. He made a sound deep in his throat and crushed her to him so that she felt the full force of his male strength. She stiffened, hating the feeling of being overwhelmed.. Instantly he ended the kiss and stepped back. His breath unsteady, he stroked her tangled red curls. "I'm sorry. It's perilously easy to forget myself. I didn't mean to alarm you."

"You didn't. At least, not much." Desdemona was more than a little unsteady herself. "Where do we go from here, Wolverton?"

He gave her a slanted, hopeful smile. "Perhaps a courtship? Spend time together, learn to know each other better. Decide if we might suit."

"I'd like that." As soon as she spoke, she felt a shiver of nerves. "But it will take time. As I said, I've enjoyed my independence."

"Have you also enjoyed your loneliness?" he asked quietly.

She looked down at her ruined slippers and shook her head. "But if we are courting, let us do it honestly. If I decide that I can't bear to marry again, I shall say so. And if you decide that I am an impossible virago, you must tell me. None of this nonsense about feeling obligated to marry me because you raised my expectations. They say that's why Wellington married his wife, and a sad business that has proved to be."

"Agreed. That common sense is exactly what I like about you. As the next step in this courtship, perhaps you could call me Giles." His mouth twisted. "Dianthe always called me by my title, which was appropriate since it was the lord she married."

"Fool woman. Very well, Giles." She surveyed him thoughtfully. "Do you think you can manage to call me Desdemona with a straight face?"

"Probably not." His eyes gleamed with humor. "When you came blazing into Wolverhampton, it occurred to me that Othello may have had a point when he strangled his Desdemona. The thought has returned once or twice since then."

"That is a ridiculous and unworthy comment." She tried to look severe but found herself succumbing to undignified hilarity. What a silly chit Dianthe must have been, to find Giles boring.

'True," he agreed cheerfully. "Is that why you're giggling?"

"I am a widow of mature years and serious pursuits," she stated. "I do not giggle." Then she hid her face against his shoulder in a vain attempt to muffle the sounds of her lie.