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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

BOOK: A Rag-mannered Rogue
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“Excellent. I shall say farewell, then, while we are still in this state of harmonious accord.”
Miss Hampstead smiled in spite of herself. Then, forgetting that she was wearing an appallingly outmoded gown, she stood up from her high-backed chair and permitted herself a stylish curtsy. Graciously, she also extended her hand.
It was taken, so that she once again blushed, especially as it was held rather too long for strict comfort or propriety. Also, his eyes seemed to be bewitching her own, for she could not seem to remove them from his face. How odd that she should feel this way, when they had been at daggers drawn practically from their first meeting. Not that he hadn't been all kindness, of course, rescuing her from the inferences of the innkeeper's wife. No! It was not
kindness
that compelled him. Not
kindness
that made him look at her so, so that her legs trembled like the molded fruit jellies still adorning the table.
Her eyes were now released from their lock as his own traveled down, quite gently really, to her lips. These he regarded speculatively, causing curious tremors in little Miss Tessie, tremors that lasted for a hundred years at least. Or so it seemed, for Miss Hampstead's wits seemed to have gone temporarily astray. Those roguish blue eyes still hovered devilishly upon her mouth, teasing as his haughty demeanor did not.
Tessie knew, for her lips were monstrously dry and her tongue, perforce, had to moisten them softly for some relief. It was not a jelly that she felt like now, but a custard. Soft, sweet, and intolerably undisciplined. She would have disgraced herself, she was sure, by tilting her chin up and inviting those lingering kisses. Had his hands not released her own, and tilted her chin himself, she was positive she would have helped him. But how salutary that she should be so tempted by a rake! And how handsome he was, despite having such a thorny and lamentable disposition.
Yes, it is a sad fact that, virtuous as she was, Nicholas offered a most tempting prospect, and unlike the heroines of most fairy tales, Tessie was
not
valiantly immune to his abundant charms. Her earlier annoyance with him had, perversely, vanished into thin air.
For once she lived up to her assumed name. She was in
perfect
charity with him. That is, until she opened the limpid eyes that had fluttered shut like bashful butterflies. Yes, it was most mortifying to catch an expression of sublime amusement upon his perfect features. Also, the laughter lines across his sensuous mouth and the crinkling corners at the edge of those mesmerizing eyes.
“Good night, infant.”
“I am
not
an infant, but a woman grown.”
“Don't tempt me, little woman grown.”
“You are pleased to mock, sir.”
He bowed, but the bow held regret rather than mockery. Miss Tessie was too innocent to discern the difference. All she noticed was the straight lines of his jaw, and the delicious fall of his cravat. To her, they seemed practically perfect.
Everything
about Lord Cathgar was practically perfect. She sniffed.
Four
“Do you require a handkerchief?”
“No.”
“Good. It is just that you sniffed.”
“You know perfectly well I sniffed because you are provoking.”
“Provoking because I did not kiss you?”
“No!”
She was met with a quizzical glance that was annoyingly fascinating. She scowled.
“Telling farradiddles, again, Miss Charity?”
“I vow and declare you are the most odious, supercilious, overbearing, rag-mannered—”
“Yes, it is sad, is it not? Such a great catalogue of sins. . . .”
“You interrupt!”
“Indeed, for my time is not unlimited and you appear quite resourceful in your choice of synonyms.”
Blue eyes—glittering blue—held her dark ones, rather too mockingly for strict comfort. Tessie struggled to find a suitable answer but felt awkward in the face of such worldly perfection.
Lord Cathgar had no business to be so . . . incomparable. Contrarily, she found the fact of his perfection provoking.
Especially
since he regarded her as a babe from the schoolroom, which somehow was more provoking still.
She knew she was behaving like a ninnyhammer, but with her legs quaking and her heart beating far faster than was normal in a young lady of her tender years, there seemed little she could do to change matters. If his lordship chose to think of her in leading strings, she should welcome such a misguided aberration. Her sensible side was really still most sensible.
The irritating smile appeared to widen, as if he read every one of her stray and nonsensical thoughts. It was particularly galling in the light of his own obvious polish, address, and perfection. He was a paragon, marred only by the existence of a single scar that shadowed his right temple.
A dangerous scar, that. One that offered temptations to a lady seized with a sudden desire to run her fingers along it. But Tessie was not that lady, oh, no, she wasn't! She was the demure young thing who swallowed hard, placed her hands well out of harm's way, and choked on her own civility.
“Farewell. Thank you, my lord, for dinner. If we should meet again in another setting, I should be pleased. I think.”
“A gratifying change from the usual gushing sentiments. I must congratulate you on novelty. You
think,
indeed!” But the eyes were laughing again, and damnably infectious, so Miss Hampstead forgot her chagrin and took leave to laugh too.
“If you
should
ever run across me . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“You won't . . .”
“I won't?”
“You know! I daresay it is not quite respectable to be traveling unattended to London—”
“Dining with hardened rakes . . .”
“You were never invited, if I recall.”
“I was, but we shall not squabble, my little mistress of the understatement! Suffice it to say, you are
right
.
None
of your activities appear quite respectable.”
“I,
however,
am.”
“Quite respectable?”
“Indeed.” Though Tessie blushed, for if thoughts could damn her, she was no better than a common strumpet. It was unpardonable that Nicholas should cause such wayward thoughts in her pretty little head!
Surely
it was not
she
who should be blamed in the face of such provocation?
For it was apparent that he required no padding in his doeskin breeches, stretched taut across the muscles of his thighs. Nor did he require any assistance with shoulder padding, or even with corsets across his stomach such as his royal highness had most sadly become reliant upon. No, he must surely take full blame for the disturbing nature of her thoughts and the pink that tinged her cheeks just looking at him.
Yes, he looked at her now in that dry way of his that was maddening.
Once again his voice was odiously indifferent, though his eyes, such a startling shade of blue, were hooded.
“Then you must accept my compliments. And chagrin.”
“That I am respectable?”
Nicholas inclined his head.
“Oh! You are insufferable!”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And . . . and . . . !”
“Hush, hush, my dear. Much as I would dearly love to exchange witticisms of this nature, my time, sadly, is limited.”
“Then by all means leave, sir!” Tessie, contrarily, felt disappointment. She would rather die than have him know, though, so her tone was careless. Lord Cathgar eyed her keenly, then half smiled.
“I shall have to, regretfully. Though I hope to resume this fascinating conversation on my defects in the not too distant future. It is really rather salutary, I find.”
“My lord . . .”
But Lord Cathgar's appetite seemed to have returned. He was meticulously spreading some butter on a thick wedge of crusty, still-warm bread.
“Spare me, if you please, the dull explanations! I find them all sadly tedious.”
“But this tale . . . if it comes to the ears of the
ton
. . .”
Tessie watched Nicholas bite into his bread. He chewed for what seemed an age before swallowing. She could have screamed when he took a second, somewhat heartier bite. Then his eyes lit with resignation, and something more. Tessie could not tell.
“No,
Miss Charity, if it will appease your sudden qualms, I am
not
a tattletale. Your secret, such that it is, is safe with me.”
Tessie breathed. This might sound ridiculous, or too absurd to mention, but in truth she had been holding her breath, quite unconsciously, for nearly a full minute.
Certainly during the whole of the crust-eating episode. Her whole enterprise, she knew, would be for naught if this passing stranger chose to ruin her reputation. He could so easily do it. A whisper here, a passing remark there . . . Tessie chose not to let her imagination run any more riot than these two calamities. Now she exhaled slowly, and Nicholas grimly noted the small O into which her lips subsided.
I say “grimly,” for Miss Tessie was cutting up his peace, a circumstance he did not find congenial, or in any way explicable, for he was generally
quite
immune to feminine wiles. Now he glared at Miss Hampstead, and took a few moments to comprehend quite what she was talking about.
“I thought it would be. Safe, I mean. The secret. You know. I am a very good judge of character, though Finchie says . . .” She was prattling. She knew it. She knew it from the odiously smug air of the man who pinched snuff before her very eyes, who cast aside a butter dish, and who swept away a dust particle from an already immaculate sleeve. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, whether from annoyance or embarrassment, she was too naive to tell. At all events, she very thoroughly lost the thread of her discourse. It seemed perfectly natural, then, to glare at him ominously.
He merely looked quizzical, an expression Tessie found disturbing. Then, in answer to a crooked finger that somehow drew her far too close to his annoying features, she eyed him with a wary smile upon her wide lips. He touched them for a fleeting instant. Again Tessie could hardly breathe, her eyes fluttering up to meet his own.
Lord Nicholas Cathgar's expression was unreadable, yet
still
she forgot to exhale. There was a certain tension about his jaw that made it perfectly impossible to look away. The moment seemed to lengthen, until amusement crept into those sultry blue eyes of his. Wicked for a gentleman.
“Exhale, little one.”
Again the finger just touching her lips. Tessie realized she was behaving quite extraordinarily foolishly. The man was laughing at her, and still she could do no more than shiver at his touch, no, his half-touch. . . . Nicholas laughed. Then, very gently, very lightly—excruciatingly lightly—he kissed her at last. When he had, he put her from him firmly.
“Did I say green? I was wrong. Not green.
Lime. Shockingly
lime. Lock your door, little goose. I have never seen anyone more extraordinarily ripe for the plucking.”
So saying, the gentleman traced his finger around her mouth once more, and tapped his beaver in a mocking salute. Then, while Theresa was still shaking like a blancmange at his careless touch, he had the temerity—he actually had the temerity—to take his leave.
This before she could dream up a biting enough reply, which would have included such snippets as her being a deadly shot and quite up to snuff. Miss Hampstead bridled in indignation. Quite why, she was not certain, for her feelings were all aflutter, but she definitely knew nothing—nothing—could pardon his negligent pocketing of his package of delicacies. He was definitely an unfeeling monster to leave her thus, amid the array of jellies and first removes.
For there was no doubt that left to her sweetmeats, she was suddenly not so very hungry after all.
 
A gibbous moon half lighted the courtyard below Tessie's chamber. She was tired but not yet ready for sleep, the excitements of the day still upon her and the strangeness of the chamber a sharp reminder that she had thrown caution to the winds and there would be no turning back.
No returning to the country manor that had been her home, or not, at least, until she had established her credit in town and dismissed the lazy lackabouts who were managing the estate and allowing it to grow to seed. They had told her some twisted story, interspersed with many high titterings and tut-tuttings, that she was not so very rich after all. Not, in fact, an heiress, but merely the pensioner of some town sprig or other, who had no inclination to either visit her or set the land to rights. And this, after Grandfather had worked so hard with his irrigation schemes, and had hired Nash himself to design the gardens and the topiaries and the enormous hothouses with running water. It was not to be credited. Grandfather had told her clearly the disposition of his will, knowing that she had a mind as sharp as his own.
He had not permitted her to witness the signing, when Mr. Devonshire, his solicitor, had been summoned. This, she knew, was solely because she was the primary beneficiary. It would not have been fitting. But he had told her where she might find the keys to his dueling pistols, jewels, debts of honor, and snuffboxes. He had also given her carte blanche to his stables.
Now, after a tragic carriage accident, he was dead, her half mourning was over, and she had the strength of character, at last, to discover for herself exactly what her circumstances were. She knew of a certainty that Lawson was lying. Grandfather was a rich man—he had
not
left her and her dependents destitute, as the land agent appeared to imply.
But it troubled her that Mr. Devonshire had not responded to the queries she'd penned. It worried her, too, that there seemed to have been no quarterly stipend paid, and while the farmhands all seemed to be fed, many were staying on out of loyalty to her rather than because of any wage they were earning. Lawson's books, when she asked to review them, looked perfectly acceptable, but they were based on the premise that the estate had no income. This she knew to be patently untrue. So, it was a matter to investigate. . . .
The water was cold by the time she made her ablutions, but she was used to paddling in freezing streams, so made no objection. She merely toweled herself quickly and stepped into the crisp night garments she had thrown into her valise. These nestled arrestingly among a book of “recipes, charms, and soothing tisanes”; one morning dress of unfashionable cut, one high poke bonnet, one pair of silk stockings, and her tooth powder. Mr. Dobbins had made off with her curling papers, her pins, a morning dress of pale lavender, sundry smaller items like ribbons and handkerchiefs, a selection of half boots, some Grecian sandals, and a splendid evening dress of rose pink.
She sighed for this, for it really was enormously fashionable, and that small side of herself that was still thoroughly feminine delighted in it. Still, nothing was irreplaceable. The balance of her needs, she reckoned, could be procured in London.
She tried not to think what would happen if she did not encounter Mr. Devonshire quickly or expeditiously. Her heart gave that familiar, unpleasant little jolt that she always contrived to ignore.
Worrying, as Grandfather always said, was senseless. If things went well, it was a waste of energy, and if they did not, they wasted the pleasant moments one had before knowing things were not good. Besides, Tessie had no choice.
Mr. Devonshire was not traveling to her, ergo, she had to travel to him. If she'd had the felicity of a male escort or a chaperone, she would undoubtedly have seized the chance.
Indeed, she had not acted for a full quarter, hoping that some more suitable arrangement might arise. But, apart from Mr. Dobbins, who was more lecher than protector, there had been no one traveling to London. Her maid, Elizabeth, had contracted childhood measles and besides being feverish and spotted indicated strongly her propensity to be sick even on a private post chaise, which she had twice traveled in, once to Bath, and once accompanying Miss Tessie to Astley's.

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