To Tame a Rogue
Authors: Kelly Jameson
KELLY JAMESON TO TAME A ROGUE
TO TAME A ROGUE
KELLY JAMESON
KELLY JAMESON TO TAME A ROGUE
Copyright © 2012 by Kelly Jameson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
No distribution or reproduction is permitted without the written permission of the author. For more information write [email protected]
KELLY JAMESON TO TAME A ROGUE
"Sizzling with sexual tension, filled with passion, an old-fashioned romance. Fast-paced and fun to read."
—Kat Martin, New York Times best-selling author with over 11 million books in print
KELLY JAMESON TO TAME A ROGUE
| Kelly Jameson is the author of DEAD ON, which Kat Martin, NYT best-selling author, calls "Brilliant." It's the story of a medical examiner being chased through time by the same killer. | |
| | |
| Best-selling crime noir author Ken Bruen calls Kelly Jameson's psychological suspense SHARDS OF SUMMER, "The Great Gatsby for the beach generation." | |
KELLY JAMESON TO TAME A ROGUE
WHAT REMAINED OF KATRINA: A NOVEL OF NEW ORLEANS, Kelly Jameson's novella, was a Leapfrog Press Honorable Mention in fiction. "What Remained of Katrina becomes a powerful story of the city's underclass, the one seldom reported by the media, the one seldom visited by tourists. This is Jameson's third novel, and may be the best one yet." Walter Brasch, Journalist/Author
KELLY JAMESON TO TAME A ROGUE
1
Louisiana, 1816
"This grubby urchin’ is my
betrothed
?" Nicholas Branton was incredulous. His words were blunt, his look insulting.
Good
, Camille thought, watching the pair briefly in amusement before dropping her eyes to the floor. It was working. She had dressed in the plainest, baggiest clothes, had hidden her long, honey-colored hair beneath a soiled and rumpled cap, and had kept her green eyes downcast while shifting on her feet.
For all intents and purposes, she was what she appeared to be—a street wench, an unkempt nobody. It was exactly the impression she wanted to give Nicholas Branton.
Surely he would take one look at her and the arrangement would fall through. What was her uncle thinking anyway, arranging for her to marry some bootlicker? Camille fumed; despite her lack of wealth or prospects, her whole being rebelled against the idea! And what kind of man would agree to a marriage with a woman he had never even met, let alone a woman of her...ilk...as society called it?
There was still time. As far as she knew, no date had been set for the wedding, which wouldn't take place at all if Camille could help it. This was going to be too easy
.
Her mood lightened, her confidence grew.
"Genevieve, have you lost your mind?"
Genevieve stood in her brother's impressive shadow, speechless for once.
"This can’t possibly be Penley’s niece." He looked directly at Camille. “Who put you up to this?”
Camille spoke to the floor, anger building along with her confidence. "Mister, maybe you should send me on my way now....I can ride a horse and I don't need no escort. I could be back afore night fall, and we'll just forget about this whole foolish idee."
It was the first time Camille had spoken, other than a few grunts and groans and nods of her head, since the Branton coach with its black and gold piping and heavy leather doors had come to collect her that afternoon. Fortunately, Camille’s uncle had been so engrossed at the gaming tables that he hadn’t noticed her slipping out of the tavern. Not that he would have recognized her with her cap pulled low over her face. He never paid much attention anyway.
She’d borrowed the tattered cap and the shabby breeches from a lad who worked the kitchens. The homespun blouse she wore was her own, and usually reserved for kitchen drudgery—the threads of the garment held together now only by some divine force. Like the other serving girls, she had to wear more revealing clothing of a slightly higher quality when she waited on customers. Her uncle had spared coin for that; pretty serving girls meant more customers. Beyond that, she’d never owned anything lavish or fancy.
Nicholas had been too busy to meet her
himself, so Genevieve met her just outside the tavern―something Camille was sure would add to the sordid impression she sought to create.
To her credit, and to Camille’s dismay, Genevieve hadn’t looked down on her in any way. In fact, Genevieve had seemed
content to chatter away during most of the ride, filling the awkward silence as if they’d known each other a lifetime and not just a few moments.
Camille’s uncle had no idea that she’d arranged this meeting with Nicholas Branton. She hadn’t wasted much time planning it after her uncle had informed her of her impending betrothal to the man. Her uncle had been her ‘guardian’ since her parents’ deaths; he expected total obedience from her. He’d told her, on more than one occasion, that her wishes would not sway him from his plans in the least, and that she should be grateful for the match.
She hoped to be back after dusk to work her shift at the tavern with none the wiser, her goal accomplished. If she wasn’t back there would be hell to pay from Mother Stephens.
"Girl, are you Camille Hardison? Look at me."
Camille slowly lifted her head and found herself staring into the most compelling tawny eyes; they were the color of whiskey, deep and expressive, and tinged with gold flecks. The man was tall, with hair as dark and black as a cold winter’s night—a marked contrast to his eyes. His masculine lips quickly jogged into a frown. Or perhaps it was merely distaste. Indeed, though his features were stern, they looked as if they were hewn from stone, his jaw dusted by a shadow of dark whiskers.
Camille felt a fluttering in her stomach—a new uncertainty about what she was doing. Her betrothed was standing, his palms resting on the top of a massive mahogany desk littered with papers, and he was still a full head taller than she was. He continued to stare at her, slight smudges of fatigue beneath his eyes.
"She
is
Penley’s niece," Genevieve remarked. “I met her myself outside his tavern.”
Camille inched her chin up a notch, craning her neck to look into his eyes. "I’m Camille Hardison, sure enuf, not that it’s yer business to judge me mister."
A crooked smile appeared on his face. He dismissed her impatiently with his eyes and addressed his sister.
"Good, she's dirty
and
uppity. Take her upstairs Genny, let her have a good scrubbing, and for God's sake, lend her something to wear. I don't want to see her in those rags again.
"I’ll expect the urchin’ to be cleaned up for dinner," he grumbled, giving his attention back to the papers on his desk. “I’ll verify her birth records for sure,” he said, more to himself than to anyone in the room.
Camille couldn't resist speaking her mind, though with each word she spoke, the chances grew greater that she would unknowingly reveal herself. Judging by the look of his masculine study, the volumes of worn leather books on the polished shelves, the papers spread before him, Nicholas Branton was not a stupid man. How long would he be fooled? "Don't go gettin' yourself too attached to me, mister."
Nicholas looked up and arched a winged, dark brow.
“That’s not a distinct possibility.”
“She'll be cleaned up, Nick," Genevieve interjected quickly. "Follow me, Camille. I'll see you to one of the guestrooms. I'll send Lucy up with some hot water to help you with your bath. I imagine you’ll want to get...changed...for dinner? I can loan you something to wear."
“Don’t mean to be rude to you, miss, but I’ll just be on my way. I’m not changin’ out o’ these clothes, and I don’t see no reason to stay for dinner.” She stuck her small chin in the air—it was becoming a habit around this man. “I don’t stomach the thought of eatin’ with
him
no-how. He hasn’t heard a word I said
.
”
Camille moved toward the door. She stopped for a moment, nervously wringing her small hands.
“Thank you for your...hospi...hospitality, miss, and I’m truly sorry ya wasted your time. I’ll be happy to tell my uncle the uh...betrothal...is off. I’ll just see myself out.”
She whisked herself through the door.
“Bloody hell,” Genevieve sighed.
Nick cocked an eyebrow. Genevieve’s cheeks colored. “What! You say it all the time! Where do you think I learned it?”
He closed one of his ledgers and walked around the desk. “I’m not a lady, dear Sis, so I’m more easily forgiven my vices. You’d best remember that if you’re ever to catch a husband.” He playfully ruffled Genevieve’s hair then stroked his chin.
“Damn me, but that was no lady either.” He frowned. “This does complicate matters. Let me go after her.”
“What are you doing to do?” she asked. “And by the way, I don’t intend to
catch
a husband. You catch colds, dear brother, not husbands.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he replied, heading toward the doorway Camille had just slipped through. “But we’re wasting time. One way or another, she’s staying. And one way or another, she’s going to marry me. I signed a bloody contract, after all, now didn’t I?”
“What if I could turn her into a lady?” Genevieve asked.
“Then I’d say you were a damned miracle worker.” Nicholas paused between the door and the hallway.
“Don’t get any grand ideas,” he grumbled. “I’ll fulfill my obligations, but it will be a marriage in name only. Thank God the contract doesn’t state that I have to love and cherish her. The thought of tolerating that street urchin’ for the rest of my life is....”
“Just go get her already! I am quite familiar with your views on marriage, and I don’t agree in the least. Just because you had one bad experience....” Genevieve said reproachfully, but her brother’s tall form was already out the door.
2
Camille skittered down the wide hallways and out onto the massive, pillared front porch. She soon found herself standing in front of the stately mansion, late afternoon sunshine filtering through jade and ivory magnolia leaves that made a canopy above the curving entrance lane. Ancient, twisted limbs arched high above her, mantled in a thick sheen of gold and green from trailing Spanish moss. She was reminded of the gold storm in Nicholas’ eyes.
She leaned against one of the columns, which was still warm from the afternoon sun. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to do. She hadn’t planned how she would get back to the tavern after her little charade. But as the sun sank lower on the horizon, she felt her hopes rising.
She was certain she’d accomplished her goal. She and Nicholas were so different. He was almost everything she’d expected him to be; arrogant, disrespectful, a blue-blood used to getting his way.
All man
.
She did work in a tavern, but she wasn’t a lady of pleasure. It had been easy to fool him into thinking she was a wayward tramp, easy to gauge his reactions. He was cultured and refined and preferred the sort of company that never drank from tankards, or slurped their soup, or bent to some task in the garden. She was sure his table was always graced with the finest English crested china and that his servants would jump willingly from a cliff if he asked them to.