The Rogue's Reluctant Rose

E-book Edition

Copyright © 2013 Daphne du Bois

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

I owe immense gratitude to a number of people without whom this novel would not be what it is, all of whom are very dear to me. Firstly, I would like to thank my parents, Marina and Gerry, for their immense support and love, and the rest of my family for their encouragement in the many forms it took. Ali, who proofread several drafts, gave advice and made me laugh — I couldn’t have finished it without her. Richard, for proofreading, encouragement, sharing my enthusiasm and also for all his creative input and countless other things. Chantelle, for years of friendship, ceaseless support, keeping me sane and letting me bounce ideas over supper. Keith for his excellent formatting and computer wizardry, and to Keith, Elinor and Adam for sharing stories, swing dancing, and instant camaraderie. Kim, for hanging out in coffee shops with me, going on epic walks and commiserating over essays. Dominika, for her unexpected friendship and all the invaluable advice. Chris, for making fun of me whenever I got too serious. And to all my other friends who, in one way or another, contributed to the creation of this novel.

• Prologue
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Epilogue
  

For my mother

The grandfather clock, ticking away in the parlour, was the only sound to be heard in Fanshawe Hall. The servants moved through the corridors like spectres, silent and wan. A breathless stillness hung over the house. In the second floor study, two women stood at a large window, watching the stony drive below. An elegant black chaise was disappearing along the drive and behind a line of trees that soon hid it from view.

As the younger woman watched the vehicle disappear from sight, and with it Mr Davies, her late father’s man of business, a determined look erased the lines of despair the last two hours had imprinted on her delicate face. Araminta Barrington had suddenly found herself as the last Barrington alive, barring her infant nephew Henry, who was too young to do anything to save the family estate from the ruin with which it was faced. Next to Araminta, her sister-in-law twisted her hands anxiously as she watched the young woman. Lady Fanshawe had been quite as shocked as Araminta by the news lately conveyed to them, and she too had not yet recovered from the loss of Charles Barrington, the seventh Viscount Fanshawe and her much beloved husband. Charles’ death had come unexpectedly on the heels of the passing of the elder Lord Fanshawe the previous year, and it seemed as if the household would forever be swathed in mourning black.

“Oh, Minta,” implored the widow in a faint voice, “whatever shall we do?”

Mr Davies had informed them that despite Charles’ best efforts over the course of the past year, the Barrington fortune had been lost due to their father’s fondness for the horse races, and due to his poor investment in ventures which had failed before they could bring in any profit. The elder Lord Fanshawe, though a devoted father to his son and daughter, had possessed little in the way of economy and only a vague notion of the management of his fortune. Now the estate was mortgaged away and the income coming in from it was insufficient to redeem the Barrington lands. It looked as though even Fanshawe Hall would be lost to them within another year if something were not done about it soon.

“I won’t lose Fanshawe Hall, Harriet.” There was a steely determination in Araminta’s voice, and Harriet was not at all sure she liked the look in her sister’s tired eyes.

Araminta could feel the bones in her corset strain with the effort of ascending the grand marble staircase to the chamber, in which people were to mingle before the gala. The event was held in the Snowe concert hall, newly built, which the Honourable Mr Snowe had modelled after the concert halls in Vienna. Noticing her effort, Araminta’s cousin, Miss Susan Sutton, scolded her in a laughing whisper at having her stays laced quite so tightly. The young lady had been very insistent, in spite of the discouragement provided by the other ladies of her party, that her stays should be very tight this night. Tight stays were not necessary with her white muslin gown, trimmed in white velvet, but she was determined to make every effort. Araminta had never been under any illusion where her appearance was concerned. She was handsome enough, but she was certainly not one of the delicate, breath-taking, beauties celebrated by the people of the
ton
: to be admired by the elite, fashionable society was to have all of London at one’s feet. She could never aspire to the ethereal beauty that her late mother had possessed. Araminta knew that she could not hope to compare with the other young women present at the gala, all of whom would sparkle with loveliness this night. They would wear their finest silks and muslins and bejewelled hair. But
this
night, more than any other, it was imperative that she should look her best.

The beautifully carved doors were opened for them by meticulously dressed valets and the two young ladies gracefully made their way into the opulent room, followed by the Viscount and Lady Worthing, who walked at a more dignified pace behind them. Araminta felt her breath about to leave her again as she took in the crystal chandelier, golden trays laden with delicacies and gorgeous guests gliding across the dance floor to the pretty strains of a string quartet or standing in groups across the room.

Araminta turned her head this way and that, her dark blue eyes searching the guests for one in particular, but she could not seem to spot his slender frame. Sir Timothy Stanton, a gentleman who had shown a marked interest in her in the past, was nowhere to be seen. She was startled as her eyes met and held those of a stranger. Disconcerted by the intensity of his gaze, Araminta failed to look away, as would have been proper.

There was a look in those intense orbs, a dark suggestion, and she felt his eyes survey her figure, slowly, as though caressing every inch of her — as though he meant to do much more than just look. His eyes were like burning coals. Smouldering. She felt herself shiver in spite of the warmth that flooded her face.

“You look flushed, Minta. Perhaps we ought to get some punch?” Susan suggested, watching her cousin’s porcelain cheeks colour a fetching shade of pink.

“Yes, I should dearly like a glass,” Araminta stammered. She tore her beautiful eyes away from the dark haired stranger and carefully made her way to the refreshments, nodding polite greetings at acquaintances she passed on the way.

As she did so, Araminta berated herself thoroughly. She could not afford to be seen making eyes at handsome strangers. It would not do at all. Though the family and Mr Davies had done their best to hide the poor state of the Barrington finances, she was sure that the knowledge would not be long in spreading. It would make her a very undesirable match for any nobleman of rank and fortune. She had to find a wealthy match and quickly, before all her family had possessed for over six centuries was lost.

Araminta could do nothing that would potentially damage her reputation, and even a hint of gossip could bring ruin upon her desperate plan. She was in a dire situation indeed and she could afford to take no chances. By rights she ought to be at home still, mourning the passing of her brother, Charles. Harriet was not yet out of mourning. She had no choice, however, but to forsake the solitude and melancholy she longed for. Charles had been ten years older than herself, and he had always been protective of Minta. So much so that, when he had inherited the estate from their father, he made no mention to his sister of their financial woes. Lord Fanshawe had left quite a large debt at his passing, which had to be repaid. Charles had done his best to rebuild the estate and pay off the last of his father’s creditors, but he had left the world too soon to have achieved much in that vein. His widow was convinced that they would lose the estate, and while she remained home to run the house as best she could, Araminta had conceived a plan. She would not allow them to be left homeless and destitute. She would not lose the land that was her only connection to her parents, and now her brother. She had grown up on the Barrington estate, as had generations of past Barringtons, and it would break her heart to be torn away from it. She thought of Harriet and Henry — they would be left with no past and no future. If Araminta lost the estate, her only other reputable option would be to become a governess or companion. She could not face that dreaded fate, any more than she would willingly live as a poor dependant on her Aunt and Uncle Worthing, who had five of their own children to maintain, four of which were not yet out of the nursery.

Araminta’s only other living relation, apart from the Suttons, was Great Aunt Ellis, who did not approve of her. As far as Aunt Ellis was concerned Edward Barrington had brought up his daughter to be more liberal, more outspoken, than should be tolerated in a lady of quality. Such an appalling upbringing had doomed Araminta to be unmarriageable even as her father’s debts had made a good marriage necessary. Already Charles had been permitted to marry for affection to a woman of much smaller fortune and standing. With the new Lady Fanshawe’s obvious financial shortcomings, the responsibility rested solely on Araminta’s shoulders. Aunt Ellis had arrived at the house a week after her brother’s passing and had made herself most disagreeable to Araminta, while being suitably condescending to Harriet.

Aunt Ellis had freely spoken her disapproval over the course of the next two months as a grieving and outraged Araminta turned away every suitor the dowager had produced. Minta had never wished to marry for fortune or standing. She had grown up seeing her parents’ happy union and then her brother’s, and she could not bring herself to such a mercenary undertaking. Of course that had been before Mr Davies had arrived, bearing his dreadful news.

Though Minta still could not overcome her private grief, she had to marry, and time was running out. Calling the girl brash and a fool, Aunt Ellis had produced her last suitor, failing which she would consider her hands washed of the girl. Perhaps being without a roof over her head or food on her plate ‘would set her to rights’, her great aunt had said with chilly finality, before sweeping imperiously from the room, swathed in a gown of heavy mourning velvet.

Susan was chatting airily about the party, commenting on some of the guests, passing on bits of gossip which Araminta had missed during her seclusion away from London. Araminta found it difficult to concentrate on her cousin’s words. A cold shiver of despair passed through her as she held a glass of punch in her gloved hands. With an effort of will, she pushed the despair back. All was not lost yet.

***

Jasper Devereaux, Marquis of Chestleton, was taking a languid look around when his steel-grey eyes alighted upon the lovely creature making her way across the room. He watched her glide across the marble floor, her head held high. She was quite tall, he could see, made more so by her proud bearing. The skirts of her gown swirled around her legs as she moved, giving a delicious hint of her slimness. Her hair was dark as night and it shone in the chandelier-lit room. Her skin was pale and her cheeks rosy. She reminded him of a swan or a dewy rose. Jasper was no stranger to pretty women but, somehow, this one was different. He had not missed the purposeful way she walked. Their eyes met involuntarily, and she defied expectation by neither dropping her gaze nor turning away. He saw surprise and confusion flash in her eyes before disappearing just as quickly. He found the determined glint in her wide eyes intriguing. It was not the hungry look of a debutante in search of a husband, though he had no doubt she was after something. He was sure that the agreeable smile on her pretty face was a sham. But for whose benefit? His eyes followed her over to the refreshments table.

Jasper had been about to quit the party, having stayed just long enough not to cause offence to the Hon. Harold Snowe, who had been a friend of his late father’s from Cambridge. Snowe, however, could be seen talking softly to his wife near the dance floor, and would not care if Chestleton were to slip away. He did not think he could bear any more simpering debutantes or their calculating mothers. It was a party entirely devoid of entertainment or wit, aimed as it was at establishing Snowe’s own newly-presented daughter in the
ton
.

There was nothing to tempt Chestleton to endure such a dull party much longer: he was not attached to any woman present and had no matrimonial intentions whatsoever. He supposed that he would be expected to marry eventually. An heir would have to be secured for his title and estates. But he saw no reason to have himself leg-shackled just yet. Chestleton enjoyed his freedom far too much to part with it, and he did not hold with all that nonsense about love or sentiment. Romantic love was a fine enough thing, he supposed, for those who believed in it, but he had never felt any such attachment. He knew that what people often took for love was little more than a need for companionship, mixed in with a healthy dash of desire. Chestleton was no stranger to desire and he knew something of the pain a mistaken belief in love could bring.