The Rogue and the Rival (28 page)

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Authors: Maya Rodale

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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Duty to something other than oneself and one’s vices. Hadn’t the old man realized, as Phillip had, that there was no one but himself? No one and nothing so constant as his vices. Except those had deserted him lately, too.
He hadn’t had a woman since Angela, and he hadn’t even made love to her.
He hadn’t had a drink since Angela.
He hadn’t played a game of cards since that night at the abbey, with Angela.
It all came back to the girl, didn’t it?
Phillip looked out the window—or rather, in its general direction, since it was too dark to see what lay beyond. He saw his own reflection in the glass, that of a lost and ruined man.
Beyond that lay a vast expanse of land that was his and which would one day belong to another.
He was only fixing up this old house so he might fetch a reasonable price for it and repay the money owed to his brother. Phillip had made remarkable progress in the past eight months. The house no longer looked in danger of falling to the ground. A good cleaning had done wonders; so had the fresh coats of paint that he had applied to the rooms himself. The tenants seemed hopeful for the next season, now that he had returned.
But still, he was in a very similar position to the one he was in when he met Angela: poor, indebted to others, and hopeless.
No, he could not go to her now.
Phillip scanned the letter once more, pausing on the last line about goodness and love within. His father thought Phillip might possess goodness and love. Phillip laughed.
The old man had been senile his last few years.
 
Phillip employed two servants, a far cry from the army of staff he had always been accustomed to. Samuels was approximately fifty years of age, looked like he was seventy, and yet had the physical strength and ability of a much younger man. He acted as butler, footman, and general repairman for anything that needed to be done, so long as it was not cooking. The latter, and all other housekeeping duties, were taken care of by Mrs. Samuels, who had maternal tendencies that had no outlet or object other than Phillip.
Samuels’s other chief occupation was annoying the hell out of Phillip.
“Still staying up late brooding over the woman?” Samuels asked, while pouring Phillip’s coffee for him in the kitchen the next morning. Phillip took his meals here, since heating the dining room was an unnecessary expense. He had never mentioned Angela to them, and yet they had assumed the truth. After all, what reason other than a broken heart would prompt a man to pour excellent brandy into the fire night after night?
“I was reviewing applications for your replacement,” Phillip lied.
“Pfff. You’re still pouring that fine brandy into the fire. If you want to get rid of the stuff, I can help you with that.”
“No you cannot,” Mrs. Samuels called from the far end of the kitchen, where she was cooking breakfast.
“Women,” Samuels muttered under his breath so that only Phillip might hear. “You really want one?”
“I heard that!” Mrs. Samuels said from across the kitchen.
Phillip merely scowled at him. The truth of the matter was that he would never, ever replace Mr. and Mrs. Samuels—not just because they came with the house and had nowhere else to go, but because they were the closest things to parents he had ever had. Samuels set a newspaper, the
London Weekly
, next to the breakfast plate that Mrs. Samuels placed before him.
“You really ought to have a look at that,” Samuels said gruffly before sitting down at the table. Mrs. Samuels brought over plates of food and joined them. When they started bickering about who snored louder the previous evening, Phillip focused his attention on the newspaper. He generally avoided reading them, but Samuels had suggested he do so, and Phillip wasn’t in the mood to listen to the same argument they had every morning. Why Samuels still even tried to win an argument with his wife, Phillip knew not. Other than, perhaps, he enjoyed it. Phillip had once enjoyed bickering with Angela, but that wasn’t something to be dwelt upon.
The first page listed the contents of the issue: theater reviews, fashion reviews, a gossip column, a different gossip column, recipes, and a list of the best dressmakers in London. It also contained the latest installment of the Darcy Darlington mystery series. Was that old story really still running? He recalled his days in London, when he still went out, and constantly overhearing young women discussing the story as if it were real. He hadn’t been interested in it then, and he wasn’t now.
But then he saw the illustration on page three. He swore.
The caption read: “
Is the Evil Lord Hartshorne the One to Hold Darcy Captive?
”
But Phillip’s own face stared at him from the page. It was not a drawing he recognized, but he knew the style. He knew it had been done by Angela’s hand. She had drawn him and his grin, the one she always said was so wicked. The one she couldn’t resist. But he was brandishing a knife in this picture, the sharp, slanting edges of the blade echoing the way she had drawn his cheekbones. Those lines made his crooked, broken nose stand out all the more. She had depicted him perfectly as if she had been staring at him as she did it. There was no mistaking it: Phillip was the evil Lord Hartshorne.
And in fine print below, he read: “
Drawing by Angela Sullivan.
”
He stared at her name for a long while, savoring even this small piece of news about her. He had wondered where she had gone. He had lain awake at night, worrying that she was in danger or in trouble. He had not known anything, other than she was better off without him. But this drawing gave him a peek into her world. He now knew that whatever her situation, she was earning recognition for and perhaps a living from her talents.
He had to admit the drawing was good. Excellent. He caught himself smiling down at her name, so proud of her for her accomplishment.
He smiled, too, because she clearly still thought of him. But his smile faded, because he could see that though he might be in her thoughts, he couldn’t imagine he was still in her heart. With equal clarity he saw that Angela despised him, for she had portrayed him as the villain. Even he knew she had every reason to.
And yet it struck him as monstrously unfair that she could hate him while he still loved her. That she had a way to express her hatred of him while he had no way of expressing his love for her.
Wearily, he rubbed his eyes and then noticed Mr. and Mrs. Samuels had fallen silent. He closed the newspaper and looked up to find them staring at him.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” Samuels said excitedly. “I thought so, since it is the spitting image of you, right down to the broken nose. Now we can sue the chit for libel or slander or whatever it is folks sue the papers for, and then use the money to make repairs to the stables.”
Phillip said nothing. He hadn’t the funds to wage a lawsuit, even if he were so inclined. Which he wasn’t.
“Unless,” Samuels continued, “she is one of those chits you had a spot of fun with for a time, and this is her revenge. Any jury will take her side against yours if that is the case.”
“It was not a ‘spot of fun,’ ” Phillip stated firmly. He would not have his one love degraded to that. “It was . . . it was . . . something else. Something more.”
“Ah. I understand. She is the woman you’ve been brooding over.”
“I have not been brooding,” Phillip protested, wondering why he even bothered. He brooded. He lamented. He held a glass of brandy that he didn’t even drink, because the burn of remorse was plenty.
“Pfff. You have been acting like the very definition of a poor, lovelorn, brokenhearted sap. A blind man could see it!”
“Should be a pity if she were the girl you have been so distraught over,” Mrs. Samuels said thoughtfully.
“Men do not get distraught,” Samuels informed his wife. “That is purely a female ailment. We merely think deeply and rationally about troubling situations.”
“You were distraught last week when you could not find your fishing rod,” she pointed out.
“I was not. I was just thinking deeply and rationally as to where it might have gotten to.”
“Yes, you were near tears because you didn’t think rationally that I might have put it in the shed, where it belongs, rather than in the kitchen where you had left it.”
“Mrs. Samuels, why would it be a pity?” Phillip cut in. They could bicker for hours.
“Why, she is being courted by another gentleman. It’s right there, on page six in the society news and gossip section,” Mrs. Samuels answered.
Phillip turned to page six and quickly scanned the page until he found her name.
Renowned
London Weekly
illustrator, Miss Angela Sullivan, was seen in an intimate tête-à-tête at Lady Carrington’s ball with Lord Frost, who has recently returned to town after the death of his wife. Is he searching for a new bride?
 
No.
It could not be. The gossip columns were wrong often enough. And yet . . .
No.
It was intolerable.
There was a howl rising within him, from the very depths of a soul he had not known he possessed.
She is mine.
Frost was the one who had ruined her. Phillip would be the one to save her.
Or perhaps she would save him once again.
She had taken away his taste for drink, tainted his pleasure in cards with the bittersweet memory of one game, and destroyed his lust for other women. She had been someone to love, other than himself. And then she had taken herself away, too. She had made him, if not good, at least better, by taking away his pleasure in his vices.
Goodness and love. Goodness and love. Goodness and love
. The words from his father’s letter swam around in his brain.
Duty. Regret. Duty. Regret. Regret. Regret.
She had taken his constant companions away from him. She had ruined him. She had left a big, gaping hole in him that he had no idea how to fill.
She was everything I needed to feel whole.
Or maybe,
maybe
, he did know how to fill that emptiness.
Phillip stood up quickly, knocking over the chair he had been sitting on, banging into the table and spilling the coffee. He could no longer deny that he
needed
her.
And if she was going to marry Frost—and Lord, he prayed she didn’t—she was going to do so knowing that she had a choice.
“I am going to London. Now.”
“You go ready the horse, dear,” Mrs. Samuels said to her husband, patting him affectionately on the hand. “I’ll pack a basket for Phillip. It doesn’t seem like he’ll take the time to stop for a meal on his way to London.”
The old man grinned and shuffled off. Phillip stormed up the stairs, jumping over the hole in the third one from the top. He pushed open the door to the master bedchamber and packed the necessary items, including his mother’s wedding ring.
Because among all of the things Angela had said and done, she had also agreed to marry him. He prayed she would forgive him for leaving and for taking so long to return. He prayed he would not arrive too late. For all he knew, it was already too late.
But he had nothing to lose, and he had everything to gain. Phillip had always been a gambling man, one who, for better or for worse, never had the ability to walk away from a chance to win.

 

Chapter 15
LONDON
 
That
drawing was threatening to be a scandal.
There were those to whom the detail of the evil Lord Hartshorne’s broken nose was utterly lost; they assumed that the illustrator, Miss Angela Sullivan, had dared to insult His Grace, the Duke of Buckingham. This was considered odd, owing to the fact that she was his relation by marriage. What inner family turmoil had provoked her? Why had they not heard of it? And why did the duke not shun her publicly? These questions were fodder for discussions in drawing rooms all over town.

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