A Rogue’s Pleasure (28 page)

She pressed her lips together. “Goodbye, Lord Montrose.”

Their gazes met and held. The others drifted away, and it was as though Chelsea and he stood alone, facing each other across the abyss. The abyss that he'd dug a bit deeper every time he'd tried to beguile her into becoming his mistress.

And now she was leaving him. Or rather she'd engineered events so that he had no choice but to leave her.

I love you, Chelsea
. “Good day, Miss Bellamy.”

He couldn't, he wouldn't, say goodbye. But it
was
goodbye, and he knew it. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she worried her bottom lip.

Phoebe looked about, face bright. “Gracious but you all sound as though this is
adieu
rather than
au revoir
.” She turned to her father and tugged his sleeve. “Certainly we'll invite the Bellamys to the wedding, won't we, Papa?”

Lord Tremont began an intense examination of his shoes. “Perfectly fine by me, of course, but we'll have to talk to your mother. Guest list all planned. Invitations already sent. Could cause quite a to-do.”

“What fustian.” Phoebe stamped her slipper on a cobble. “Of course Mama will agree once we tell her how delightful they are.” Her gaze settled on Robert. “That is, if you and your sister are available on the thirtieth?”

Chelsea opened her mouth, and then closed it. Anthony wondered if he was the only one to see her eyes fill with tears.

Robert offered Phoebe a low bow. Averting his gaze from Anthony, he replied, “I'm
afraid we must decline, Miss Tremont. My sister and I have been absent from our home overlong. So, we must bid you farewell and wish you happy all at once.”

Phoebe's face fell. “I see. Well, safe journey, then.” She gave Anthony her hand.

He helped her up the carriage steps. A frozen feeling crept over his chest. He looked back at Chelsea, but she only shook her head and turned away. He started up the steps. The coldness spread, settling in the pit of his stomach. He stopped, right foot poised on the top step.

Chelsea!
Grief gripped him. He was about to lose her as surely as if she had died. If only she would stop being so damned noble! Frustration stabbed through the frozenness, chipping it away. Raw feelings washed over him. He wanted to shout, swear, fall to the ground, and rent his clothes.

He started to climb down, but Lord Tremont was at his back. “I say, Montrose, need a hand after all that knocking about?”

“No, I'm fine,” he lied.

He ducked inside and collapsed against the velvet seat across from Phoebe. They were a week from marriage, and no one would have taken it amiss if he'd positioned himself more intimately beside her. As it was, Lord Tremont and Reggie had to step over him, for he wasn't about to relinquish the window.

It afforded him one last view of Chelsea as she turned and walked out of his life.

One week later

It had been the week from hell.

From the window of his bedchamber, Anthony watched gray drizzle fall from chalk-white skies and wondered if it was cold enough for snow. Snow in September? Why the devil not? If London's most renowned rogue could spend a week tearing his heart out over a woman who'd spurned him, then anything was possible.

Turning his back on the uninspired vista, he crossed the room to his dresser. On the way, he kicked aside an overturned brandy decanter, one of several empties littering the carpet. He'd been drinking heavily every night for the past week. Brandy mostly, although the port and claret had gone down almost as smoothly. He'd finally stopped around midnight the night before after he'd acknowledged that the pain was growing sharper, not duller, with each emptied glass.

He stared into the mirror above the bow front dresser. It was the first time he'd looked at himself,
really
looked, in a week. A brown beard hid most of his face, but the skin stretched over his cheekbones was sallow as a Spaniard's. His hair, untrimmed, curled around the velvet collar of his dressing robe. And his eyes, world-weary and shot with red, belonged to a man twice his age.

What had he expected? He'd been living on liquor and false hope for a full week. He dropped his gaze to his dresser top. Seven dead roses, one for each day, lay alongside a stack of unopened letters. His letters. Chelsea had returned them along with the flowers. Except for the seventh. That letter she'd exchanged yesterday with a note of her own. In it, she'd told him to forget her.

Forget her. As if he ever could. Did the heartless wench think he chose to feel this dull, omnipresent ache? Did she imagine he spent his every waking moment scheming to get her back because he had no other occupation?

Last night, after he'd emptied the liquor cabinet, he'd spent the predawn hours pacing. Self-reflection could be a heinous thing. It peeled away his pride, layer by layer, like the skin of an onion until only the inner bulb remained, shriveled and sickly. He'd finally seen what others saw—a spoiled, conceited dilettante who cared only for pleasure no matter the toll. Such a man didn't deserve to be happy, but Chelsea did. And so did Phoebe.

The knock at his door jarred him. He swung around. “Enter,” he called out, remembering that he'd rung for his valet only moments before.

“Good morning, milord.” Yawning, Tobias crossed the threshold with a steaming basin of water and a towel draped over one arm. “I didn't expect to find you up and about for an hour or more but, like they say, 'tis the early bird that catches the worm.”

Anthony folded his arms across his stained robe front. “Indeed? I'd only hoped to catch a shave.”

“Coming, milord.” Oblivious to his master's sarcasm, Tobias carried the basin to the washstand. Slanting Anthony a sidelong glance, he began laying out the shaving things. “'Tis good to see you looking so, uh…chipper.”

Chipper
. Anthony had never felt less chipper in his life, but he cracked a smile at such an early morning display of cockney optimism. “Well, it is my wedding day after all.”

Tobias dropped the pot of shaving soap into the basin. Water lopped over the sides. He
fished out the soap and glanced at Anthony over his shoulder. “Yes, well, er, looks as if you've come through the wedding jitters.”

Wedding jitters
. So that's what they were calling it below stairs. Personally, he'd thought he was going mad.

“Indeed. I feel far less
jittery
than I have for some time.” He came up beside Tobias and reached for the razor. “Quite calm, really.”

Tobias snatched it away. “Allow me, milord.” He motioned Anthony to a chair. “Do sit, if you please.”

Anthony complied, amused that his valet didn't trust him with sharp objects. Trying not to smile, he angled his face upward and held still while Tobias draped the towel over his shoulders and used a soft-bristled brush to slather soap over his face and neck.

“That has it,” Tobias announced at length, toweling him dry. He slapped cologne on Anthony's stinging cheeks and moved to the wardrobe.

“The canary jacket and gray trousers, milord? Or will it be the burgundy frock coat?”

Anthony shook his head. “Neither. The black.”

“Are you certain, milord? 'Tis your wedding day.”

“Quite.”

The valet stared at him but knew better than to countermand an order. He removed the required articles and helped Anthony dress with a minimum of fuss.

Anthony turned to face the mirror. Raccoon-eyed, hollow cheeked, and dressed in unrelieved black, he looked more like an undertaker than a bridegroom, but the shave had restored him to respectability. The hell with that. He picked up one of the withered roses from his dresser, snapped off the stem, and tucked it in his buttonhole.

He caught Tobias staring at him in the mirror. Turning, he schooled his features to innocence and asked, “How do I look?”

Speechless, Tobias handed him his top hat and cane.

It was getting more and more difficult to retain servants with any sense of humor, he reflected, heading down the stairs. Peering over the balustrade, he saw that his entire staff awaited him in the front hall. Bloody hell.

Chambers stepped forward. “On behalf of the staff, milord, allow me to wish you happy.”

“Thank you, Chambers. I shall endeavor to try.” Inclining his head, he gritted his teeth as each servant stepped forward in turn to congratulate him.

By the time he made it through, he was drowning in well-wishes. Chambers helped him into his greatcoat and opened the front door. Outside, rain swelled the gutters and the patch of front lawn was a mud pit.

The butler shook his grizzled head. “A pity about the weather, your lordship, and on your wedding of all days.”

The damp misery of the day suited Anthony, but he made an effort to appreciate the sentiment. “Indeed,” he murmured, stepping outside.

Masters waited on the other side of the door, a large black umbrella held aloft and a daisy in his hat in honor of the day.

“Do let me see you to the carriage, milord,” he insisted, after Anthony waved the umbrella aside. “You'll be soaked through if I don't. And 'tis your wedding day.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Anthony growled as the umbrella resurfaced over his head. “You must be the twentieth person to remind me of it.”

“Mind that puddle, milord.” Unflappable, the driver steered him down the path, circumventing each and every watery pitfall. “Not to fret. I'll make the church before the bridge floods. You can depend upon it, milord.”

Anthony ducked out from the covering and smiled up at the dark, angry sky. “We've a stop to make first.”

Eyes closed, he held his face up to the deluge. The rain falling on his face felt so good, so
cleansing,
that he took off his hat and let it lave his bare head.

Master's eyes bulged. “Milord!” He opened the carriage door and almost shoved Anthony inside.

Anthony tossed his soaked hat on the seat, then climbed in. Combing wet hair from his forehead, he settled back against the squabs. “Nine Grosvenor Square.”

“Lady Phoebe's direction?” At Anthony's nod, Masters hunkered inside the open portal.

“But, milord, 'tis ill luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony.”

“Hmm,” Anthony replied. Turning to gaze out the window on the opposite side, he left the driver no choice but to close the door and climb atop the box.

No more running,
he vowed as they clattered through Mayfair's gray, rain-soaked streets. He'd spent the better part of his life shirking his duty, running away but never running to anything or anyone. Plunging headfirst into pleasure had seemed so much easier than asking for his father's respect, his mother's love, his dead friends' forgiveness. Now that he'd finally stopped, he realized it felt good to pause and savor the moment.

Even if it was the darkest one of his life.

 

“Look, Chels, a rainbow.” A clean-shaven Robert beckoned Chelsea to the parlor window.

She glanced up from the pile of clothing she'd been folding on the dining room table. “A rainbow in London. I don't believe it.”

“Believe it and hurry before it vanishes.”

Chelsea dropped the shirt she'd been trying to wrap and joined him.

He moved over to make room. “Above that stand of trees. Over there.”

In profile, Robert still resembled her baby brother, but captivity had changed him. His sad eyes held a newfound wisdom, and his gauntness made him look years older. He wasn't yet twenty, but he might have been Anthony's age.

Anthony.
Blast
. Today was his wedding day. It was nearly ten o' clock. By now, the vows had been taken, the rings exchanged, the blessing given. The deed done. Even now Anthony might be seated at his wedding breakfast, toasting his bride.

She forced back tears. She was getting better and better at mastering her misery.
Life went on,
she told herself firmly. There was even a rainbow outside. Stripes of pale pink, soft yellow, and green arced above the treetops.

“You're right.” She forced a lilt into her voice. “I wouldn't have believed anything could cut through this fog.”

Jack's footsteps clanked from the stairs. He passed through the hallway, a portmanteau dangling from either hand. “Enough woolgatherin', you lot. At this rate, we'll never make the first posting inn afore dark.”

Despite the reproach, he whistled as he carried their luggage outside to the wagon. He was looking forward to going home. She wished she could capture some of his enthusiasm.

Staring back outside, Chelsea said, “It hurts, doesn't it?”

“Like the very devil. But what about you? I'll never forgive Grenville for—”

“I'm going to be fine and so are you.” She pushed away from the sill, determined to stop brooding. “Once we clear the London coal dust from our lungs and breathe the fresh Sussex air, we'll be back to her old selves. You'll see.”

Robert's somber face told her he didn't believe her for an instant. But then neither did she.

“Packing can wait.” She held out her hand. “Come, take a walk with me. Now that the rain's stopped, it's lovely outside. We've both been cooped up far too long.”

He shook his head. “You go. I'll finish up.” He attempted a smile. “You bought me all these clothes. The least I can do is help pack them.”

She sighed. “Only too true, but won't you come anyway? We're leaving in a few hours, and you've yet to see London. We can hire a hackney to drive past the sites.”

He walked into the dining room. “I've seen all of London I care to. You go on.”

Chelsea studied the rigid set of his thin shoulders and shook her head. Robert's new adult wisdom could be a discomfiting thing, but she could still read his thoughts. His animosity toward Anthony was not entirely on her behalf. She'd seen how dejected he'd looked when Phoebe had stepped inside that carriage.

Robert was in love with Phoebe, she with Anthony. Phoebe and Anthony were wed. The situation reminded her of
As You Like It,
her favorite Shakespearean comedy. Except that London was no Forest of Arden. And none of the “players” were laughing.

“I'm going to pay one last visit to Hyde Park, then. I'll be back inside of an hour.”

She grabbed her shawl from the peg by the front door and picked up her basket. Then she hurried outside to where Jack was hoisting a heavy trunk atop the others.

The mail coach would have gotten them home faster, but then she wouldn't have been able to bring Autumn. Saving the gentle horse from the glue factory had been a splendid use of her ill-gotten gains.

The mare, hitched to the wagon along with Jack's horse, whinnied when she approached. “No sugar cones left but here's a carrot.” She plucked the root from her basket and offered it.

Jack stepped away from the load he'd just balanced. “Goin' somewhere?”

“I know I'm a wretch to leave the rest of the packing to you and Robert, but I've got to get away for an hour. The truth is, I need some time to myself. Forgive me?”

He pulled on one of her curls that had escaped the lace-edged cap. “What do I tell 'im if…”

She silenced him with a look. “He won't.”

He shook his head. “'E's come every day now.”

She folded her arms across her thundering heart. “Today is his
wedding
day.”

Jaw set, Jack tested the rope he'd just tied across the stacked trunks. “I b'aint givin' up on 'im yet.”

“Well, I am.” She scratched Autumn on the withers, then started down the street.

She'd intended to hire a carriage, but the bracing air buoyed her spirits and the sun felt wonderful on her face. By the time she reached the park, the sky was a brilliant blue, birds chirped, and carriages and men and women on horseback thronged the main gate.

Avoiding the more popular walks, she found an unoccupied bench overlooking the Serpentine. As soon as she sat, ducks and geese crowded her. She took out the loaf of stale bread
she'd brought, broke it into bits, and tossed it to them, smiling at their silly antics and greedy machinations.

A young mother pushing a pram settled on the next bench. Sighting greener pastures, Chelsea's feathered friends moved on.

Inconstant creatures, waterfowl. So like…men.

Deprived of her diversion, she took out the letter she'd brought and broke the seal.

Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove.

Marlowe had certainly known how to cut to the core of a woman's heart. And so did Anthony. He'd followed the line of poetry with his own eloquent plea, begging her to reconsider.

She lifted streaming eyes from the paper. His previous six letters she'd returned unopened. Yesterday she'd weakened and kept this one. Common sense told her to burn it the moment she got back, but she was more likely to hold on to it, perhaps forever.