Taming an Impossible Rogue
Read Taming an Impossible Rogue Online
Authors: Suzanne Enoch
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency
For Bryna Dambrowski, a
very
patient and generous woman.
Contents
Chapter One
Keating Blackwood came awake with the sharpness of gunfire. Someone was in the room with him. Someone he hadn’t invited. Keeping his eyes closed, he stirred enough that he could slip his hand under the pillow and curl his fingers around the hilt of the knife resting there.
“You do know it’s the middle of the day, don’t you?”
Straightening his fingers again, Keating opened his eyes and sat up. In the near total blackness of the room, he could just make out the dark figure walking to the nearest set of heavy, dark curtains. “Wait. Don’t…”
Blinding light filled the room. The sun seemed to spear directly into his skull and lodge there, thrumming.
“Goddammit, Fenton,” he growled, squeezing his eyes closed again. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. I need your help.”
“Then close the bloody curtains and go sit in the drawing room until I join you there.”
“Very well. That’s a lovely black eye you’re sporting, by the way.”
“You should see the other fellow.” With a rustling of material, the room behind his eyelids darkened again. When he opened his eyes, blinding red dots still swam across his vision, but at least for the moment he didn’t feel the pressing need to cast up his accounts. “And have Barnes fetch you a very large pot of tea,” he added, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple.
“I don’t want tea.”
“I do. Go away.”
Once he was alone again in his bedchamber, Keating dug a shirt and trousers out of his wardrobe and shrugged into them. His boots were by the door, but he ignored them, just as he did the jacket and waistcoat Pidgeon had laid out for him sometime yesterday. Sending a dubious glance at his door, he did pick up the freshly pressed cravat and knot it tightly around his forehead. If he was lucky, it might hold his brain inside his skull. God, he needed to stop drinking Russian vodka—or whatever it was he’d been imbibing last night.
“Are you supposed to be a pirate?” Fenton asked, as Keating made his way into the drawing room with liberal help from the walls on either side of the hallway. “You might at least have put on slippers.”
“I don’t own any.” Keating limped over to the far window and closed the curtains, then sat opposite his cousin. “At the risk of sounding incredulous, why do you need
my
help? And make it quick, will you? I may pass out at any moment.”
“Why do I need your help?” Stephen Pollard, the Marquis of Fenton, repeated, eyeing him. “I know you’ve been avoiding London, but surely you’ve been reading the newspaper.”
“I’m avoiding London. Why the devil would I wish to read about it?” The tea tray arrived, and without being asked, Barnes poured a cup, dropped in five lumps of sugar, and carried it to him. “My thanks,” he said to the butler, taking a long, slow swallow.
“Why bother with the tea?” Fenton asked, sitting forward to pour himself a cup and making a show of adding a solitary sugar.
Ignoring the question, Keating sipped carefully at the too hot, too sweet brew. “I thought you didn’t want any tea.”
His cousin looked down at the cup in his hand, then with a grimace set it aside. “I don’t. I was attempting to make a point, I suppose. About sugar.”
“Yes, I noticed that. I was positively wounded by the jab.”
“The morning—or midday—after being three sheets to the wind, I would think sweet tea would do you in.”
“I’ve had a great deal of time and opportunity to experiment. Sweet tea helps. A little. Occasionally.” With a breath he swirled the tea around in the full cup. “So do you actually wish to discuss tea, then?” Keating took another swallow, trying not to anticipate the dulling of the hollow chasm of pain in his skull.
“No, I don’t.”
“Good. Because otherwise you’ve traveled a great distance for a very poor reason. Let’s get to your point, shall we?”
Fenton hung his hands between his knees. “Yes, of course. Do you remember Lord and Lady Montshire? The idiotic agreement they made with my parents?”
Finally Keating cracked a grin. “God, she’s one-and-twenty now, isn’t she? You getting the shivers over being leg-shackled to a chit you’ve never met? I suggest closing your eyes and thinking of England.”
“She’s two-and-twenty now.” The marquis scowled. “The thing is, I actually enjoyed not spending the past eight years having to court chits, forgoing all that wooing nonsense. What could be more convenient than just setting a date, going to the church, and then simply getting on with fathering an heir?”
“You make domesticity sound exciting as a tombstone.” More interested now despite himself, Keating kneaded a knuckle against his bruised eye. The swelling was going down a bit now. Yesterday he hadn’t even been able to open the thing. “What’s your trouble, then?” he prompted. “Or should I guess? You did meet her, and she has the face of a harpy. She squints. She’s missing a leg. She—”
“Do shut up, Keating, will you?”
“I’m merely attempting to scribble something in the blank spots you’ve left.”
“She’s pretty enough. Just over a year ago my solicitor took the paperwork to her, she and her parents signed in all the proper places, we placed an announcement in the newspaper, and I went to the church. I even invited you to attend the ceremony.”
“Fancy that.” The invitation must have been buried in the middle of one of Fenton’s ten-page sprawling letters. As if he had the least bit of interest in who’d invited his cousin to dine or which duke had nodded in his direction. “Last year? What happened, then?”
“The chit fled.”
Despite the fact that he expected to hear that some calamity or other had occurred, Keating blinked. “She fled? Do you mean she balked at marrying you?”
“I mean she appeared in the church doorway wearing a lovely white gown, and then she turned around and ran. Knocked over a candelabra and nearly set the church ablaze.”
Keating gazed at his cousin for a long moment. They’d grown up nearly as brothers, but in the past decade or so had drifted apart. The difference in destiny between the son of a marquis and the son of a marquis’s younger brother, Stephen had always said. To Keating it had meant that once Stephen had realized he was to inherit a title and wealth and lands, he’d become so insufferably high in the instep that none of his lessers could stand to be in the same room with him. As for him, he’d inexorably become one of those lessers.
“Well, you’re a fairly … pleasant-looking fellow,” he returned, fighting the urge to squint his eyes even in the dim room, “and you’re a marquis with a fortune you keep bragging about and then refusing to lend me, so I have to ask if you said something to frighten her.”
“Frighten her? Why would I frighten her?
How
could I frighten her, when I’ve never spoken a word to the chit?”
“Not a single word?”
“I saw her on several occasions, from a distance, but I…” Fenton flung up his hands. “You know me; I’m not glib. I don’t have a charming conversation like you do.”
“You would, if you could be bothered to remove the broomstick from your arse and do more than look down your nose at everyone else.”
“There’s no need to be insulting. I am as I am. And you are as you are.”
That
didn’t sound promising. In fact, it sent a belated alarm coursing through his already throbbing skull. “Considering that she’s been signed over to you, Fenton, I would assume she won’t have gone far. Perhaps you should attempt writing her a letter or—I’m merely speculating here—
speaking
with her to discover what happened.”
“I would do so, except that my bride-to-be did go far. She disappeared, and when she emerged again, she’d … found employment.”
If his cousin hadn’t been sitting there, anger and frustration and embarrassment etched into his expression, Keating would have laughed. He was tempted to do so anyway, but he’d only just gotten both eyes open. Two or three days between brawls seemed more reasonable than beginning another one immediately. “Employment as what? A lady’s companion? Surely not as an actress. That would be too—”
“At The Tantalus Club.”
“What the devil is The Tantalus Club?” From Stephen’s tone alone it didn’t sound promising, and the name was certainly evocative. Had London become even more sinful in his absence? That was unexpected. He’d thought that after he left everyone would have turned into saints simply out of fear of being compared to him.
“Good God, you
have
become a hermit.”
And abruptly Keating wasn’t amused any longer. Setting aside his tea, he pushed to his feet. “Considering that you know why I’m here,” he ground out, “I can only wish you luck in your pursuit. If I may suggest, attempt a small measure of … well, if you can’t manage compassion, then at least humanity. Now get out of my home.”
“Damnation, Keating. It’s been six years. I hadn’t realized the subject was still so raw. You…” Fenton cleared his throat. “I apologize. It’s only that everyone knows about The Tantalus Club. It’s the newest rage in London. Lady Cameron—or rather, Lady Haybury now—opened a damned gentlemen’s club just under a year ago, and she only hires chits.”
With a breath, Keating returned to his chair. Fenton had never been concerned with anyone but Fenton, and the present fiasco certainly didn’t point to the fact that the marquis had altered his behavior. Expecting Stephen to be different would simply be an error on his own part. And if the marquis needed assistance … well, that could benefit his wayward cousin in several ways. “Haybury’s married?”
“Yes, to the former Earl of Cameron’s widow.” Fenton scowled. “Don’t alter the subject. This is about
my
bride, not Oliver Warren’s.”
Keeping his jaw clenched, Keating nodded. “Very well. The Tantalus Club. Is it a brothel, then?” he commented, deciding it wouldn’t be that far-fetched for the Marquis of Haybury to be involved with such a thing. “If that’s where your betrothed has gone, then you’d best look elsewhere for a bride.”
The marquis’s face reddened. “It’s not a damned brothel. But you’re not the first to think it is.”
“Perception, my friend. It is what everyone thinks it is. Look elsewhere for your Lady Fenton.”
Slamming his fist on the arm of his chair, Fenton scowled. “If she had become … soiled, I
would
look elsewhere. But the place is wildly popular, very exclusive, and members swear it’s aboveboard. And I’m a laughingstock, because the daughter of the Earl of Montshire would rather work for a living, serving my peers, than marry me. She didn’t even have the decency to go hide away in the country somewhere where everyone could forget her—and what she did to me.”
“Then go fetch her.”
“I’ve considered that, as well. Firstly, Lady Haybury has refused to grant me admission to The Tantalus Club even as someone else’s damned guest. I’ve been blackballed.
Me.
Secondly, I have no idea how to approach such a … rebellious, self-absorbed chit, and thirdly I’m not even certain that’s how I should proceed. I want her back in that church—any church—beside me, and I want her to be grateful to be allowed a second opportunity to live the kind of life she should be thankful for.”
“Ah. So a bit humbled, then.”
“She made a mistake. A very large one. I am willing to give her a second chance for the sake of her future and—”
“And to stop everyone from laughing at you.”
“Yes, that, as well,” Fenton snapped. “But you, of all people, should appreciate the rarity of second chances. She could return to her family’s good graces, have a comfortable, pampered life, and see her children enjoy the same. I’m not a cruel man; yes, I suppose I’m a bit pompous, but if a ninth-generation marquis cannot be proud of that fact, then he may as well be a farmer.”
Keating refrained from glancing about the morning room of his small, comfortable house. Havard’s Glen might not be a farmhouse, but it was close enough. And he’d certainly sheared enough sheep to earn the title of gentleman farmer himself. “Indeed.”
“All I’m saying is that she would be wise not to squander a second chance. There won’t be a third.”
That, he did understand. And it bothered him immensely that his cousin knew precisely how to manipulate him and seemed to have no hesitation at all about doing so. Clearly he needed to bury his scars more deeply if he didn’t want anyone else picking at them. For a moment Keating gazed toward the darkened window. “I want something in return,” he said.
