Rogue in My Arms (Runaway Brides 02)

254 Pages·2010·1.39 MB·English

by  Celeste Bradley

ROGUE IN MY ARMS

Celeste Bradley

St. Martin‟s Paperbacks
St. Martin‟s Paperbacks Titles by
CELESTE BRADLEY

THE RUNAWAY BRIDES
Devil in My Bed
Rogue in My Arms

THE HEIRESS BRIDES
Desperately Seeking a Duke
The Duke Next Door
The Duke Most Wanted

THE ROYAL FOUR
To Wed a Scandalous Spy
Surrender to a Wicked Spy
One Night with a Spy
Seducing the Spy

THE LIAR’S CLUB
The Pretender
The Impostor
The Spy
The Charmer
The Rogue
“Greensleeves” credit to Henry VII

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel
are either products of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ROGUE IN MY ARMS

Copyright © 2010 by Celeste Bradley.

Excerpt fromScoundrel in My Dreams copyright © 2010 by Celeste Bradley.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin‟s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 978-0-312-94309-7

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin‟s Paperbacks edition / April 2010

St. Martin‟s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin‟s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY
10010.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to everyone in America who has lost their home due to the financial
crisis. Bless you all and best wishes for a hopeful and prosperous future for every single one of
you. Don’t let the bastards get you down!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book could not have been written without the help of Darbi Gill, Robyn Holiday, Cheryl
Lewallen, Joanne Markis, and Cindy Tharp. The crew at St. Martin‟s Press deserve a lot of credit
as well. Thanks especially to Monique Patterson, my editor, and to all the people who helped me
get it done.

Once again I must thank little Frankie Jean Baca-Lucero for inspiring madness-monkey Melody.
If you think Melody is incredible for her age, you should meet the real article!

To my own babies, who aren‟t babies anymore, I have to say thanks for putting up with me!
PROLOGUE

The money stopped coming from the mother. I can’t keep her no more. The father can take her
now. Don’t know his name. He’s a member of Brown’s.

Once upon a time, a little girl of no more than three years of age was left upon the steps of a
respectable if less than fashionable gentleman‟s club in St. James Street of London. Pinned to her
tiny coat was a note, intended for her father, who was allegedly a member of the aforementioned
establishment. Since most of the club‟s members were of the fossilized—er, elderly—persuasion,
she was assumed to be the progeny of one of the three younger, randier members of the club.

One of these three, Aidan de Quincy, Earl of Blankenship, was a sober and brooding fellow and
was the first to assume responsibility for little Melody. In order to learn the truth, he compelled
himself to face his past and once again face the only woman he‟d ever loved.

The widow Madeleine Chandler had secrets indeed—but furtively giving birth wasn‟t one of
them. Still, her secrets were dangerous enough for her to seek shelter with Aidan, even if she had
to lie.

After surviving the calamitous events which followed, Aidan and Madeleine decided to be
parents to Melody until her true father was discovered.

Wilberforce, the head of staff of Brown‟s, then felt obligated to remind everyone that ladies
could most definitely not visit the club. Upon the ensuing protest from members and staff alike,
Wilberforce did observe that the rules said not a thing about ladies living at the club.

Aidan and Madeleine wed at once, but they both regretted the fact that little Melody was not
their own.

Sir Colin Lambert, however, was beginning to hope—er, suspect—that Melody was actually his.

Twenty years later . . .

“Wait—that‟s not the end of the story, is it? That can‟t be the end! Don‟t stop there!”

Lady Melody sat up straight on the sofa, leaving the comforting circle of the storyteller‟s arm in
order to look him in the eye. “Button, tell me the rest! What happened next?”

Her companion crinkled his eyes at her, laughing puckishly at her demand. “You sound as
though you‟re three years of age, not two and twenty!”

Melody glanced warily at the wedding dress hanging expectantly nearby and then looked away,
tucking her chilled bare feet up under her dressing gown to warm them. “I feel like a child.” She
dropped her face into her hands, hiding from the momentous day before her. “How can I
getmarried ? How can I possibly know if I‟ll love him forever?”

Button tilted his head and frowned at her fondly. “Hmm. Perhaps another story is in order.
There‟s time left. Come, pet.” He tucked her into his arm once more, like the surrogate
grandfather he was to her, not the fabulous dressmaker the rest of the world knew.

She went willingly, eager to delay that walk down the aisle still further. Snuggling into his
shoulder, she closed her eyes and sighed. “Tell me a story, Button.”

She felt the chuckle in his chest more than heard it.

“Very well, two-and-twenty Melody who feels like a child.” He dropped a kiss upon her brow
and went on.

“Once upon a time there was a scholarly fellow who thought he knew everything . . .”

The woman onstage wasn‟t simply beautiful. She was incandescent. She glowed with the purity
of the ingénue role she played as she swayed gracefully across the boards, weaving a spell over
the breathless audience. Each gesture was a dance, each word a song.

Colin Lambert, son of a prominent social scientist, was so entranced by the pale, black-haired
goddess onstage that he trod upon the toes of his closest friend, Jack, as they made their way
through the crush of the theater pit.

He received a jovial shove for his trespass. “Ger‟off, you great ass.” Then Jack realized what
had captured his friend‟s attention. “Good Lord, what a pretty bird,” he said thoughtfully.

That particular tone was the only thing that could have snagged Colin‟s attention away at that
moment. He glared at his friend. “I saw her first!”

Jack raised both hands in mock surrender. “She‟s all yours then . . . if you can get her while
wearing that suit. You dress like an accountant.”

“Better an accountant than a peacock.” Colin glanced down at his admittedly sober suit. “I could
never be taken seriously as a scholar in the rig you wear.”

Jack grinned. “Yes, but peacocks have better . . . tail.” He straightened his own stylish cuffs
smugly. “I‟m engaged anyway, if you recall.”
Colin rolled his eyes. If he had to hear Jack trolling the virtues of Miss Amaryllis Clarke one
more time he was quite certain he‟d have to find a pair of boots to vomit into—preferably boots
belonging to his rival in everything, the high-and-mighty Aidan de Quincy, Earl of Blankenship.

But for once Aidan wasn‟t tagging along soberly in Jack‟s wake, taking the gleeful edge off any
interesting trouble they might find for themselves. No, tonight would be absolutely packed with
peril if Colin had anything to say about it.

That is, after he bribed his way backstage and wangled an introduction to that radiant female.
The playbill hanging outside had named her as Miss Chantal Marchant.

Chantal.

“Jack, do you believe in love at first sight?”

Jack didn‟t reply. Colin tore his gaze away from the entrancing vision onstage to turn to his
friend. Jack‟s usual smile was gone as he gazed about the full theater.

“I‟m leaving tomorrow, you know,” Jack said, almost too softly to hear.

Colin‟s gut chilled. “You don‟t have to go to war. You‟re second in line for your uncle‟s title.”

Jack turned to him then, the brief serious moment already in the past. “Let‟s find a way to get
you backstage. The beauteous Chantal awaits!”

. . . And then there was war.

The sight before Colin‟s eyes terrified him beyond belief. Jack returned from war was not Jack
at all. Colin saw a different Jack, sitting quietly, with that half-lost, half-sick expression on his
face. It was the same expression he‟d worn home from the war, the same he‟d worn when he‟d
been jilted by the girl he‟d survived the war for. Now Colin saw Jack, just Jack, sitting on the
edge of the roof of Brown‟s Club for Distinguished Gentlemen, five stories from the cobbled
street below.

“Shh. Don‟t startle him.”

That was bloody Aidan de Quincy for you, always stating the obvious. Colin‟s shoulder
twitched backward, creating a little distance from the hovering Aidan.

“I found him like this an hour ago,” Aidan continued in a whisper. “I sent for you right away.”

And dragged him from the elegant and astonishingly hedonistic embrace of Chantal. Again. Not
that Colin wouldn‟t do anything for Jack, anything at all. For Jack, but not for Aidan.

He glanced over his shoulder. “How could you let him get drunk again?” His own whisper was
furious. “You know perfectly well he gets worse when he drinks!”

“It isn‟t the whisky, it‟s his spirit.” Aidan narrowed his eyes. “And I only lost sight of him for a
quarter of an hour. Tonight was supposed to be your turn, at any rate.”

“That‟s beside the point.” Fifteen minutes was enough time to put away a great deal of whisky if
you didn‟t care what happened to you after. And Jack didn‟t care, not in the slightest. Aidan was
fortunate he‟d found Jack before another brawl had broken out. Jack‟s guilt over not dying in
battle instead of his beloved cousin Blakely—good-hearted but foolish Blakely—seemed to
make him want to go down in some sort of fight.

With Blakely gone and Jack‟s uncle, the elderly marquis, soon to follow, Jack‟s only surviving
bonds were to Colin and Aidan. Most men about to inherit a title and several grand estates would
be drunk in celebration. Jack, however, had never wished the agonizing battleground death of
Blakely, nor the subsequent heartbroken decline of the Marquis of Strickland. Therefore, Jack
was simply hard, stinking, suicidal drunk.

Rumor had it that Blakely had lost his life saving Jack. As far as Colin was concerned, it was
possibly the only worthwhile thing that poor fool had ever done.

So now here sat Jack, only ten feet away from Colin and Aidan, yet never more distant. Then
Jack rose slowly to his feet, his toes at the very edge of the roof with only a knee-high decorative
iron railing to keep him from ending his guilt forever. He gazed out into the foggy London night
as if it held some sort of answer for him.

“I think he‟s really planning on doing it this time,” Aidan whispered in horror.

Colin rubbed a hand across his face and turned to look at Aidan. “Right. You hit him high, I‟ll
hit him low.”

It was late morning before Colin could make his way back to Chantal. Although it had only been
a few hours since Colin had climbed from Chantal‟s scented sheets, it felt like days. Jack was
down off the roof and Aidan was sitting on him firmly, pouring coffee and common sense down
his throat whether Jack liked it or not.

Colin and Aidan had hopefully managed to convince Jack that suicide was selfish—that too
many people needed him to be a good master. He had responsibilities to the people of Strickland
while his uncle was unwell. This seemed to stabilize the darkness for once, but Jack remained
withdrawn and unhappy. Colin had stayed at his side, feeling awful about abandoning his friend
for Chantal the night before. It wasn‟t until Jack had dropped into a deep, quiet sleep that Colin
tore himself away to return to his lover.
Only to find himself turned away from Chantal‟s house. Weary beyond belief, Colin could only
stare at the servant who blocked him from entry. “What do you mean, she‟s not at home? She
always sleeps late on the morning of a performance!”

The servant gazed at him sourly. “I mean, sir, that my mistress is Not At Home . . . toyou. ”

Bloody hell. Chantal meant to wreak a little vengeance for his abandonment last night. Colin
rubbed the back of his neck. “Fine. Have it your way. When will your mistress be At Home to
me?”

The man actually sneered. “I wouldn‟t count on it bein‟ anytime soon, guv‟nor. Yer in the dog
house but proper.”

Colin refused to acknowledge the tendril of worry twining through his belly. All he needed to do
was make her smile. A gift, perhaps more pearls . . . or a sapphire pendant to match her lovely
eyes! Or, as he considered the state of his accounts, perhaps a confection, wrapped up in gold
paper. Something sweet, to bring out the sweetness in Chantal.

Later, when he approached the theater with the gift, the manager sourly let him pass.

In her perfumed chamber, Chantal lay half reclined upon the ivory silk-covered fainting couch
in the very center of her dressing room. The wickedly tempting curves of her perfect figure were
demurely covered by an enormous silk shawl. It clung ever so gracefully to her body, betraying
the luxurious fullness of her bountiful breasts as she gasped at his sudden entry. Her exquisite
face was pale against her black hair as she gazed up at him, her enormous blue eyes shadowed
beautifully in the faintest purple. They were the eyes of a woman who was sad beyond belief.

Colin‟s heart sank. “Chantal . . .”

A single perfect tear rolled down her perfect cheek. “You left me!”

Oh, no. Colin swallowed. “It was but a few hours—” Desperately, he thrust one hand out, the
one that held his gift. The confections looked rather tatty surrounded by the sumptuous gifts
given to Chantal by richer men.

Another perfect tear joined the first. “My dearest, my only, please understand. I need someone
upon whom I can depend. To be deserted like last night—to beabandoned —”

He went cold inside. “No. No, Chantal, I promise, it shan‟t happen again! I vow, I shall never
leave your side—”

She held up one delicate hand to halt his protest. “But my darling, that is not the only chasm
between us.”

He drew back. “What do you mean?” Jealousy heated his veins. “Is there someone else?”