The Dangerous Love of a Rogue

Folding the letter she reached for wax, and melted a little to seal it. She smiled when she rose from the desk.

Was she really doing this?

It appeared so.

Her feet carried her downstairs, the letter fluttering in her fingers to dry the wax.

When Mary reached the hall, avoiding Finch, and any unwanted questions, she carried on into the servants’ stairwell, heading for the stables.

There she found one of the boys who fed the horses and cleaned the stalls, gave him a half-penny and sent him to deliver the letter.

Less than an hour later, the boy burst into her private sitting room with a broad grin, waving a reply in his grubby hand. “The gent sent this back, Miss. I brought it up meself ’cause he said it was a secret between you and me. I’ve snuck through the house. No one saw me, Miss.”

Fortunately.

Mary rose and took it. Then found out another half-penny for the boy.

Drew had probably given him one too – the price of deceit.

“Wait here a moment.”

Breaking the seal, she turned and walked into her bedchamber then sat on the edge of her bed.

How may I prove it to you? Tell me, and I will do it. Anything. I will climb the highest mountain for you, swim a lake or run across a continent. Only tell me and I shall prove it, Mary, darling.

Are you alone? How long for? Look from the window.

Oh heavens! He’s outside!

She went to the window.

Carriages passed in the square below and people walked the pavements. She saw him. He stood against the central railing of the square on the far side of the street from John’s house, looking up and smoking a cigar, in a nonchalant, blasé, pose, the rim of his hat tipped forward shadowing his eyes.

She returned to the sitting room where the stable lad waited. “Let the gentleman in, Tom, please. Take him to the summerhouse and tell him to wait there. But remember this is a secret. I will reward you for your silence later. No one must see him, you understand?”

“Yes, Miss.” The lad gave an awkward bow, tugging his forelock, and then he raced out of the room.

Mary hurried back into her bedchamber, checked her hair in the mirror on her dressing table, tucked a loose strand into the comb holding up her hair, then raced downstairs, gripping her blue muslin day-dress to lift her hem from the ground.

A dozen butterflies took flight in her stomach when she saw Finch in the hall. She slowed immediately, half-way down the stairs.

He looked up and bowed, as did the footman he spoke with.

Mary stepped from the bottom stair. “I’m taking a book out to read in the summerhouse, Mr Finch. I may sleep, please don’t let anyone disturb me.”

“Of course, Miss Marlow,” the old bulldog answered. He was her family’s guardian, and now she was deceiving him too. Her parents would send her home to the country if they knew.

She went to the library and picked up a book from a side table, without even looking at its title, then let herself out through the French door into the sunshine.

Heat touched her face as she crossed the lawn. She had not put on her bonnet. But she didn’t hurry in case Finch watched from the house.

The Summerhouse was at the end of the garden, tucked away amongst tall shrubs. No-one could see it from the house and no-one could see anyone approaching it from the stables.

A beautiful Wisteria archway covered the path Drew must have walked through.

When she reached the summerhouse, he stood at the far end of the narrow wooden veranda, with his back to her. He’d removed his hat and he’d ruffled his hair.

“This is very bad of you,” she stated as she climbed the steps of the veranda. Then she leaned back against the post at the opposite end to where he stood, the book she carried tucked behind her.

He turned with a broad smile on his lips. The same smile danced in his eyes. “But exhilarating. What if we are caught? Think of the repercussions!” He was teasing. She saw laughter in his eyes. She had not seen him in daylight since the morning they had ridden together. She had forgotten how sunlight gilded his eyes, and made the hazel shine like gold.

“I would rather not,” she answered, watching him and smiling.

“But you feel the exhilaration. Otherwise you would not have ordered the lad to let me in.” He walked towards her pulling off his gloves. “How long do we have?”

“An hour, perhaps more.”

“A whole hour to ourselves…”

He threw his gloves aside. They landed beside his hat on a low table.

When she looked up, he stood a foot away.

“So tell me…” His fingers touched beneath her chin. “…how may I prove that we are meant for one another?”

She could not find any air in her lungs to answer as she looked into his eyes. But then it didn’t matter; his lips pressed to hers. It was unlike any other kiss they’d shared – it was not urgent or hurried, or persuasive. It was just a kiss, a touching of lips.

A sigh escaped his mouth when he pulled away as if he’d been longing to kiss her.

Mary leaned around him to put the book down beside his hat and gloves.

He caught hold of her hand when she straightened, and gently pinned her back against the post. “I’ve thought about you all night…” His words caressed her ear sending tremors down her spine, then his lips touched her earlobe and the sensitive skin behind her ear.

Her head tipped back, and she said to the air above them, “So we are back to this.”

His head lifted as he laughed and his hand let hers go. But then both his hands braced her waist gently and he shook her a little. “God, I love you, you have convinced me of it. You’re the only woman who can say no to me. I adore you more because you fight me. But you are tempted none the less. You just do not trust me enough…”

“Enough to do what?” She held his gaze, fighting the urge to believe him. His hands made her feel safe not in danger, but the words I love you were easily said and they’d been spoken with a pitch of frustration and laughter not from any depth of feeling, they did not sound as though they had come from his heart – and he had said in his letter he did not even know what love was…

“To become my wife. I was not talking of physical intimacy, sweetheart. I am speaking of marriage.”

“What would it be like to be your wife?” She had never looked into his eyes in the daylight this close, the hazel had now turned to the depth of light shining through amber. She looked beyond the colour trying to see into his soul.

He looked back at her with as many questions as she wished to ask. But she could not see any artifice.

Did he feel for her?

Put us together Mary, darling, make us one, a single being. I want you. I cannot say I love you, not yet, I do not even know what on earth love is, but I do know that I cannot sleep for thinking of you, or avoid dreaming of you.

Were the words true?

“I hope we would be happy. I want to make you happy. We will buy our own estate and make it a home. It needn’t be large. It will take time to become profitable, but I will make it so.”

I think of you and I lose my breath, I see you and my heart begins to pound, I hear you and my spirit wants to sing. I am yours, Mary. Be mine.

“And children?” She longed for her own life and her own family.

His smile dropped, and his gaze turned inward, no longer looking at her but lost in thought.

Didn’t that prove his earlier words true though, if he could not hide when he needed to stop and think to answer?

She touched his cheek. For the first time believing she saw something real in him, a hidden reality. This was not the Lord Framlington of dangerous rakehell fame. This was Drew, the man who had written those impassioned words.

His gaze came back to her. “I have never thought of children.” He spoke in a solemn voice, as if the thought shocked him.

She pressed her palm to his shaven cheek. He was a man, human, as vulnerable as any other, no matter his reputation.

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