Have You Any Rogues? (7 page)

“I promised I would come back,” he replied, holding her chair for her. “Yet you married him. Astbury.”

Henrietta sat down quickly, for in truth, it felt as if her legs were about to give out. “I tried to come meet you . . . that morning. Christopher caught me and—”

He took his own chair and shook his head slightly before quietly saying, “It was better that you didn’t.”

For if she had succeeded, whatever would have happened to her when the Peace was broken?

And there was one other matter. That nagging question that she’d never been able to resolve, no matter how many times she recalled his kiss. Recounted his words.

Had he intended to carry her off to Paris to marry her or just ruin her?

Not that any of it mattered now. He’d come home. Safe and whole.

“I thought you were lost forever,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “Just misplaced for a time,” he replied as if he’d just got back from his hunting box in Scotland.

Misplaced, indeed! Henrietta couldn’t help herself, she smiled. How could she not when his blue eyes sparkled with mirth and his lips—oh, those wondrous chiseled lips—turned just so.

He was as roguish as ever—much to her delight.

Slanting a glance at him, desire—not the innocent sort she’d known when last they’d met but passion, raw and full of need— shot through her limbs.

As if he knew she was watching him, he turned and met her gaze with a sultry look that burned through her.

They stared at each other, lost in the wonderment of rediscovery, until the lady on the other side of Crispin, the Marchioness of Knapton, caught hold of his hand and nearly tugged him into her lap. “Dear, dear Lord Dale, I am positively dying to hear an account of your escape from France. Is it true you took the jailer’s wife as your mistress in order to effect your release?” The lady’s wicked tones implied that she would like to be the next seduction on his list.

“Lady Knapton, you know a gentleman never tells such secrets. Nor would I ever besmirch a lady’s reputation.”

“Of course he wouldn’t,” his Aunt Damaris declared from the far end of the table.

“Ah, but her husband’s honor?” a heavily jowled fellow—Lord Morton, Hen thought—from across the table chuckled. This was followed by male laughter all around.

Henrietta turned a wry eye to Crispin. “How did you manage to escape, Lord Dale?” she asked, doing her best to appear coolly indifferent to his story.

“As has been stated—with the help of a lady,” he replied. “But not as some of you would think. It was Lady Sinclair who was my savior.”

“Lady Sinclair? Why, she’s nigh on seventy some years,” Lord Morton declared.

“Eighty,” Crispin corrected. “I shared my cell with her husband. As you know, Bonaparte only ordered the arrest of Englishmen—not our ladies.”

“Only decent thing that Corsican has ever done,” one of the other lords at the table blustered.

“Hear, hear,” agreed the rest of the gentlemen.

Crispin nodded. “After Lord Sinclair was arrested, his wife came to Paris all on her own.”

“Dear heavens!” the marchioness exclaimed. “Whyever would a lady do such a thing?”

“Love, Lady Knapton,” Crispin told her. “The dear baroness loved her husband more than anything, and she couldn’t stand the thought of him in a French prison . . . Or worse, dying there alone.”

“Always was a demmed headstrong gel, that Maggie Campbell. Sinclair was a lucky bastard to have won her hand,” one of the older gentlemen added.

Crispin smiled. “She bullied and cajoled and bribed the guards daily to see that our bare necessities were met. Even then, they would only let her come to the bars of our cell for a few minutes each day.”

Henrietta looked away, as did some of the other ladies, if only to dab at their eyes in admiration of this brave lady and her unfailing love for her husband.

“Then Lord Sinclair took a turn for the worse. He had a heart ailment before we were arrested—a dank cell and wretched food didn’t help matters.”

“Poor dear,” the vicar’s wife murmured, though no one was really listening—not with every head turned toward Crispin.

“Finally it became clear he hadn’t much time left, and Lady Sinclair became even more determined.” He glanced down at the wineglass before him, as if the rich red wine was a hypnotic elixir.

“Whatever did she do?” Hen said softly, prompting Crispin out of his trance.

“Yes, well, one day Lady Sinclair arrived at the cell and the guard opened the cell door for her—something he had never done before—allowing her the freedom to be at her husband’s side. Poor Sinclair was failing fast and hadn’t even been able to rise the day before to greet her as he usually did.”

Crispin paused for a moment, as if the memories were too much, and it was all Henrietta could do not to cover his hand with hers and offer him whatever comfort he might find.

But how could she with his aunt right there—watching her as if she’d been a serpent at the table?

“This is so terrible,” Lady Knapton declared, sniffing indelicately into her napkin.

“Yes, it did seem the end was very near,” Crispin agreed. “After she kissed her husband’s forehead, she turned and handed me her cloak.” He paused again. “I took it, as any gentleman would, but then she said the impossible. ‘Put it on, my lord, ’she bid me. ‘Put it on and leave in my stead.’ ”

A stunned silence filled the room, as if they couldn’t quite believe it.

Crispin heaved a sigh. “Then Sinclair, weak as he was, added his own insistence. ‘Leave me alone with my wife to say a proper good-bye, you pup. Can’t do anything licentious with you lolling about.’ ”

There were a few laughs at this, especially at Crispin’s attempt to match Sinclair’s rich brogue.

“What did you do?” one of the ladies asked.

“As a gentleman, I would think you refused her,” Lord Morton insisted.

“Yes, of course I refused her,” Crispin replied. “Then she drew me aside and put my hand to her breast. ‘I haven’t much time either,’ she told me. And indeed, there was a large mass there. A cancer.” He shook his head. “ ‘There is no hope for me, ’she continued, ‘but at least let me spend my last,
our last
hours, as fleeting as they may be, together.’ ” He glanced up and looked around the table, his gaze pausing only for a second on Hen. “There was no guarantee either of us would see the end of the day if Lady Sinclair’s deception was discovered. I would still have to, by the grace of God, make it out of the prison without someone noticing that I wasn’t the baroness—but to give her more time, I gave her my jacket, and she added her hat to my costume—some grand plumed thing,” he said as he waved his hands over his head. “Good God, however do you ladies manage to balance such monstrosities atop your heads?”

His theatrics managed to break some of the somber, heavy air that had descended around the table.

“So you escaped,” Henrietta prompted.

“Of course he did,” his Aunt Damaris interjected. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

“Only because of Lady Sinclair’s ingenuity,” Crispin corrected. “For you see, the baroness was as thorough as she was brave. She’d sewn a purse filled with gold inside her cloak. Good gold coins—the likes of which the French haven’t seen since they chopped off their king’s head. And somehow she’d managed papers for me—excellent forgeries that claimed I was a merchant from Calais, giving me the perfect excuse to make for the coast.”

“You do have the look of a peddler about you, Dale,” one of the fellows joked, and everyone laughed.

After a bit, Henrietta asked the question on everyone’s mind. “What became of Lord Sinclair and his brave wife?”

“I didn’t leave Paris until I knew her ladyship was safe—one way or another.” He glanced down at the table for a moment of silence, for there wasn’t anyone who didn’t know what that meant. Then he looked up and glanced over at Hen. “They were granted the only thing they ever wanted, Lady Astbury, which was simply to be together. Against all odds. Until their final day together.”

And Henrietta had the sense that Crispin Dale was no longer talking about Lord and Lady Sinclair.

“To Lady Sinclair,” Lord Michaels said, raising his glass in a toast, and everyone at the table silently followed suit.

S
ignor Menghini’s talents were as everyone claimed—extraordinary—but Crispin heard barely a note of the man’s elegant, rich tenor.

He had eyes only for the woman seated a few feet ahead of him.

Lady Astbury.

So she’d married him. Regret filled his heart. He should never have left London without her.

Of course, in hindsight, he should never have left to begin with.

What was it Sinclair had so often said?
A man’s true fate is to acknowledge the choices he makes.

And, he supposed, the choices his Calypso made as well.

Crispin sighed and restlessly sat back, earning him a scathing glance from his Aunt Damaris.

That did nothing to diminish the myriad of questions running through his head, all of which would remain unanswered as long as the Italian continued to sing of lost love and tender reunions. The irony was not lost on Crispin, nor was there anything he could do but wait patiently for the demmed fellow to stop his endless warbling.

And he was quite positive it wouldn’t be quite so interminable if only Henrietta would turn around and look at him. Dinner had been torture enough—sitting so close beside her, so close he could inhale her perfume, count the slight hint of freckles on her nose, feel the brush of her sleeve as she turned to speak to him. Torment all.

But what he desired most was her glance. One look.

The sort of look he’d only ever shared with her. A glance that told him exactly what was in her heart.

Hadn’t Sinclair told him,
You’ll never go wrong if you follow your heart, my boy.

Demmit. For to follow his heart was in many ways more perilous than a French prison.

Especially with Aunt Damaris at his side. But to his delight, his great-aunt was so overcome by the singing—a miracle in itself, given how particular she could be—that she was too busy sharing her admiration with the equally enthralled matron beside her to notice him rising from his seat at the conclusion and deliberately strolling past his Calypso, his siren.

Crispin held his breath as he glanced over his shoulder at her.

And then their eyes met.

Swift and hot, passionately. There was an intimacy that had never been there before.

Or perhaps he’d forgotten. Smiling at her, and seeing the light in her eyes spark, he knew he would not have forgotten this . . . this deep sense of belonging.

But he also realized immediately that they were no longer the starry-eyed youths who had found each other by accident.

Nor did she need any prodding to follow him this time.

He continued toward the door, and he heard her making her excuses to the lady beside her—claims of a megrim and the need for her dear Poppy to mix up a tea that would do the trick.

Crispin continued down the hall until he came to a small parlor, where he slipped inside and waited.

A few moments later, he heard her footsteps lightly pattering after him.

But then, to his dismay, she didn’t appear at the door.

“Oh, bother,” he heard her mutter out in the hallway.

And when he looked out, he spied her tugging at the hem of her long gown where it was caught on the base of one of Bletcher’s many standing suits of armor.

So much for being subtle and discreet.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me.”

Crispin laughed and hurried to her side, unhooking her skirt. “Why is it I always have to rescue you?”

Henrietta, after glancing down at the state of her gown, smiled at him. “I do believe it is your destiny.”

He shook his head. “No, this is.” Catching her hand, he tugged her inside the room, closing the door after her.

And in an instant, she was in his arms and he had her pressed against the door, their lips tangled together, hungrily—as if this quickly sparked passion between them was the first bit of air they’d been able to find in years.

Nor had the years diminished the desire that blazed between them against every bit of good sense they both possessed.

He was the Dale of Langdale, and the lady in his arms was a Seldon—no matter what name she bore.

Yet how she ignited his soul, claimed his heart with her touch, her hands splayed out across his chest, catching hold of the lapels of his jacket and tugging him closer, her hips brushing close, inviting him, calling to him, welcoming him.

After years of dreaming of this moment, so many dark, cold nights spent holding onto the hope that one day, somehow, he’d find a way back to her, here she was, as willing as he’d imagined—more so.

For now she was a woman grown.

True to her passionate Seldon nature, she’d already unbuttoned his jacket, was tugging open his waistcoat, and her hands—warm and soft—found their way to touch him, explore him, seeking him.

And all this time, they kissed. Lips forged together, tongues dancing over each other, moving over each other, prodding and teasing in anticipation of what was to come.

What they both desired.

Crispin gave in to his every fantasy, desires that had haunted him all these years, and he tugged at her skirt, pulling it up so he could catch hold of her, pull her close, press himself against her cleft.

She moaned and shifted again, a brush like a cat seeking her pleasures, begging to be stroked, petted, caressed.

He indulged her, indulged himself, stroking her soft, supple thighs, exploring the soft curls at her apex, and when she shifted again, opening up to him, he pressed forward until he found her very core—hot, wet and quaking with need as he touched her, explored her, running a finger over the nub there and teasing her to open up.

And this woman, no longer a figment of his imagination, whispered the words he’d longed to hear.

“Make me yours, Crispin. Please.”

H
en was afire with need. But then again, she’d spent the entire evening lost in what had seemed an impossible dream.