Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (2 page)

Patrina blinked her large brown eyes, and the firm line of her lips faltered at his command. She tapped the tip of her slipper upon the wood floor the staccato rhythm muted by the floral Aubusson carpet. “Must you always do that?” she groused.

He grinned, and reached for his glass of whiskey upon the table. He raised it again in salute.

“And it is entirely too early for spirits,” his mother called, as she strode over in a flurry of silver silk skirts.

Jonathan looked to the clock and raised the glass to his lips. “It is very nearly noon.” He took a sip, welcoming the soothing warmth of the brew.

Patrina’s eyebrows dipped. “You’ve had entirely too many spirits lately, if the gossip columns are to be believed,” she scolded. “And I’ve found where you’re concerned they seem to be remarkably accurate.”

He inclined his head. “I’m wounded, Trina.” His sister’s faithlessness chafed. It was one thing for Society to view him as nothing more than the careless rogue whose name was splashed throughout the papers, and quite another when his own family held the same low opinion of him.

With the determined set to Patrina and Mother’s shoulders, he suspected he would have needed another two bottles to strengthen whatever resolve he’d need.

He took another sip.

Patrina sighed, and glided over to him. With the effortless ease of a London pickpocket, she plucked the glass from between his fingers, and passed it on to Mother, who proceeded to carry the half-drunk whiskey to the empty hearth.

A protest formed on his lips as she hurled the contents into the metal grate. Jonathan frowned. “You make a gentleman glad to have left his rooms at his clubs for your lovely company,” he muttered under his breath.

They fixed matching glares upon him. And then in a unison better suited to lieutenants in His Majesty’s infantry, they sank into the leather sofa opposite him.

As a wagering man, he considered the two women, and speculated as to which of them would be the first to reveal the reason for the missive
requesting his presence on a matter of utmost urgency
. Mother had the reserve of a mature dowager of far more years than Patrina’s mere nineteen years.

“You cannot go on like this,” Patrina began, making him wish he could have placed the wager in the book at White’s. He’d have made a fortune on his obvious prediction. She frowned. “Are you listening to me, Jonathan?”

Knowing it would infuriate his vexing sister, he grinned and reached for another glass. Her black glower stopped him. He’d be wise to choose his battles this day. “I’d wager all the servants hovering at the doorway heard you with great clarity.”

Mother’s frown deepened. “Our servants do not eavesdrop. Or gossip. They are entirely loyal…” She shook her head. “That is neither here nor there.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “And that is why you’re here. It is time you set aside your…your…” A red blush stained her cheeks.

“Womanizing?” Patrina supplied.

Mother fanned her cheeks. “Trina!” Then, “And yes. Your womanizing, Jonathan.”

“And your excess drinking,” His sister added unhelpfully.

“I do not indulge in excess drink,” he cut in. He shifted in his seat. What respectable gentleman didn’t enjoy the occasional drink, now and then? “I indulge in drink.” He strolled over to the leather winged-back chair opposite their sofa, and plopped himself into it. “Humph, and here I’d thought I was here about the whole governess business.”

“Well, that as well,” Mother said, with a touch of annoyance in her tone.

Patrina glanced pointedly at Jonathan. “There is the whole matter of his gaming, Mama. You mustn’t forget his
gaming
,” she spoke with the same passion of a county vicar blasting the villagers for their great sins.

Jonathan sat back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, long-tired with his sister and Mother’s barrage. He feigned a yawn. “No, we mustn’t forget my gaming.”

“The gossip columns report on your frequent, and outrageous, wagers at the gaming tables,” Patrina went on as though he’d not spoken.

He hooked one ankle over the other. “Do they also report on my astounding success at whist and faro?” Because he’d done remarkably well at the turn of the cards of late. There’d been that particularly fine hit with the Baronet Albert Marshville. The blasted fool hadn’t known when to turn on his heel and quit the game, and Jonathan had made out the better for it.

Patrina leaned forward in her seat. She flattened her lips into a disapproving line. “They also say—”

“I’d not taken you as one to pay attention to the gossip rags,” he said with a dry twist of humor to his words.

His mother held a hand up, staying Patrina’s response, and looked to Jonathan. “Do you find humor in this, Jonathan?” Faint disapproval underscored her quietly spoken question.

He climbed to his feet, no longer able to bury his annoyance under the veneer of affected disinterest. “I’ve done nothing to merit your disapproval,” he bit out. “My actions are no different than other respectable gentleman.” He didn’t indulge in any more spirits than his fellow peers. Unlike the young gentlemen recently out of university, he knew when to quit the gaming tables.

Mother and Patrina shared a look. His neck burned at the almost pitying glance they passed between them. He gritted his teeth. He needed no one’s pity.

“I know you were hurt,” Patrina intoned quietly.

Jonathan wandered over to the window that overlooked the London streets. He tugged back the curtain and stared down into the bustling thoroughfare at the passing lords and ladies. “I wasn’t hurt,” he said. Not any of which he’d admit to, anyway, not even to his well-intending family. The fact that Patrina, his young, unwed sister had sensed the level of his disappointment when Abigail had chosen Redbrooke’s suit over his own, chafed.

Mother folded her hands at her waist. “I don’t know the circumstances surrounding your courtship of the now Viscountess Redbrooke, but I do know it is time you take your responsibilities to the title far more seriously, Jonathan.”

“I’m well-aware of my responsibilities,” he assured them.

Patrina and Mother exchanged another glance.

From within the pane he detected his mother rise from her seat, amidst a flutter of silver skirts. “This isn’t solely about your responsibilities,” she said softly. “This is about your well-being. You’re not happy.”

A smile pulled at his lips. “And you believe a wife will make me happy?” A wife would place demands upon his comfortable life. It would require him to forsake the life of pleasure he’d come to know and enjoy. No, a wife would be nothing more than a hindrance.

Patrina rushed to defend Mother’s claims. “I’ve never known you to partake in gambling, and drinking, and…and…all manners of inappropriate behaviors. Not to this recent degree.”

Well, then his sister knew him far less than she actually believed. He returned his attention to the window. “These matters are not at all appropriate discussion for respectable ladies.”

Patrina snorted. “It most certainly is appropriate. You are my brother. I care very much about your happiness.”

“Will you think on what we’ve said?” Mother prodded.

He’d think about it for the remainder of his visit, until he stepped out into the street and returned to his clubs. “Certainly,” he assured them. He was in need of a mistress. He’d not set one up in a long while. Perhaps that would alleviate some of his boredom.

Mother studied him a long moment, as if searching for the veracity of his single-word pledge. “Now, there is the matter of the governess.”

He sighed, but then, he required a governess more than a mistress at the moment. “I’m certain you’ll find another.”

She always did.

Mother shook her head. “I’m not finding another.”

“You’re not?” Patrina and Jonathan said in unison.

“No.”

He furrowed his brow. His youngest sisters were twelve, thirteen, and fifteen, and still all in need of a governess. Mother could not simply let them go on as…as…governess-less young ladies.

“
You
are, Jonathan.” she said, with great relish in that pronouncement.

He blinked as her words cut into his thoughts. “I am, what?” he blurted.

She smiled. “Why, you are finding the girls a suitable governess this time.”

Chapter 2

As she sat at the edge of the chintz sofa, Juliet Marshville knew with all the absolute certainty of one whose world had fallen apart once before, that her world was about to crumble.

“You did what, Albert Marshville?” The breathy whisper tore from her.

Her brother downed his brandy and glared at her over the rim of his now empty glass. He reached for the bottle. “Do not call me Albert Marshville, as though you are my mother and I’m nothing more than a small child.”

Juliet bit back the urge to keep from pointing out with the way he had been carrying on in London, gaming, whoring, carousing, well, he’d been behaving no better than an indolent lack-wit. She closed her eyes to dull the fury thrumming through her with a volatile life force. “Surely you did not gamble away Rosecliff Cottage.” Because the cottage, though small, had been the sole place she’d ever considered home in her twenty-two years. It had been there she’d learned to swim, ride her first mount, and all the while as the loved, favored daughter of her father, the now deceased Baronet Marshville.

Albert scoffed. “Rosecliff is insignificant. It’s no matter.”

No, to Albert it had never mattered. Nothing had mattered beyond her brother’s own selfish pleasures and desires.

She wondered that he bore the same blood as their honorable, now departed father. “You must simply speak to this gentleman who you lost Rosecliff Cottage to, and explain—”

“And explain what? That my shrewish, spinster sister imagines spending the rest of her days there?” Albert snorted. “You’ll wed, Juliet.”

Her mouth went dry at this familiar topic of discussion. “Of course I will.” Or she still hoped with that foolishly optimistic sliver of her heart that still beat, that there would be a husband for her and a handful of happy babes.

“Lord Williams is growing tired of waiting for you.”

Gooseflesh dotted her arms. Lord Williams. With his noble brow and thick chestnut hair, he’d earned the oohs and aahs of nearly every lady in the county. Juliet, on the other hand, had gone to great lengths to avoid the gentleman since he’d first shown up, friend of her brother, recently of London, and visiting his recently acquired property in Kent. It was surely foolish on her part, a product of far too many Gothic novels, but something of him raised an unholy terror inside her. “I do not care to speak of Lord Williams.” She’d rather continue on the subject of Rosecliff Cottage.

Albert gestured with a hand upon his hip and his leg stuck out in front of him like he was an English version of Boney, himself. “Well, talk on him, we will. You see,” he pushed away from his spot over by the window and strolled over. “He is the sole gentleman good enough to set aside concern with your being lame.”

She winced at the mention of the leg she’d shattered as a girl of three and ten and he eleven. They’d climbed up the sturdy branches of the wych elm tree, up to the crown where the branches diverged, and he’d knocked into her. She’d tumbled to the ground and her leg had been badly broken. As she’d lain whimpering and crying on the ground with him standing above her grinning, she’d realized the extent of her brother’s hatred for her.

Juliet tipped her chin up a notch, not willing to let him see the effect his cruel taunt had upon her. “You can hardly know the thoughts of all gentlemen, Albert, and certainly not the honorable gentlemen. Not when you keep company with such odious, foul creatures.”

“Silence!” His shout boomed off the wall, more reminiscent of the young boy who’d kicked his toy soldiers around the room. Then, he seemed to remember himself. He smoothed his palms over the front of his jacket and drew in an audible breath. “As I was saying, Lord Williams would have you, if—”

“Lord Henry will never allow it,” she interjected.

“Lord Henry is dead.” He spoke so matter-of-fact; a chill stole down her spine.

“He’s not.” A captain in the Royal Navy, Lord Henry’s ship had gone lost at sea several months back.

“Yes, he is,” Albert, said mercilessly.

She’d never met Lord Henry Thine, Papa’s godson, and the Marquess of Bath’s second son, but she believed in her heart she’d know if the one last hope she held onto for freedom from Albert’s machinations was, in fact, buried at sea.

Though her wishes for his safe return were not solely self-serving in nature. Her father had spoken with great fondness of his godson.

“Either way,” she went on. “Lord Wallace would never force me to wed where I’d not want to.” Though in truth, she couldn’t say anything about her other guardian, Lord Wallace, with any real confidence. He was the brother of a mother she no longer remembered.

Albert snorted like one of the pigs in the pen at Rosecliff Cottage. “Lord Wallace is one foot in a grave and wouldn’t turn away a baron. Not for a cripple.”

Juliet leaned back in her seat and yawned into her hand, knowing it would infuriate her brother. “We will not likely know if I can make a match if you insist on denying me a Season.”

“Rubbish!” he barked. “It would be an utter waste of funds to launch a faulty ship like you off into a sea made of diamonds of the first water.”

Brava
, on that unexpected, but not unexpectedly cruel, quip from her usually lack-wit of a brother. Juliet had tired of this tedious discussion. She held a staying hand up. “I’ll not wed Lord Williams. I will, however, insist you speak to this Earl of Sinclair and manage to get back that which you’ve lost.”

He slashed the air with his hand. “Sinclair collects winnings like he collects mistresses. He’ll not part with the cottage, even if it is a horridly modest dwelling.”

Her eyebrows dipped. Yes, she but knew of the earl’s name from the scandal sheets. This Lord Sinclair sounded like just the manner of gentleman her callow brother would keep company with. A string of mistresses, indeed. Juliet took a deep, steadying breath, or else risked burning her brother’s ears with a stinging diatribe. That would result in little good. “Well, then, I shall speak to him.”