Saying I Do to the Scoundrel
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Liz Tyner
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Chapter One
The knocking on his door pounded like hooves against Brandt’s head, bringing him from ravaged dreams into the summer-baked room. He didn’t care where the hands on the clock might be—the hour was too early for him to awaken. He needed another bottle of brandy to cleanse his mouth. He called out to his valet, ‘Enter.
‘Enter,’ he commanded again when he heard no footsteps.
The door swung open.
‘Heathen.’ The word screeched into his ears as if attached to flying glass. A woman wearing a bonnet the size of a parasol stood beneath the transom. For a moment, he thought he dreamed of a butterfly, the dress fluttered so and bead trim sparkled. A pale face, with dark eyes rimmed in lashes any siren could be envious of, stared at him.
The drunken haze confused him. This was a boarding house—not his home. For a moment, he had forgotten.
Memories returned, anger flooding his body.
He rolled on to his side, and propped himself on his elbow, re-orienting himself, and feeling a breeze waft over his body. Completely over his body.
Everything came back to him. Or enough of it did. He’d shed his clothing when he’d returned from the tavern. He felt beside him for a covering. Nothing touched his fingers but a mattress so thin he could feel the ropes beneath.
‘Why did you call for the door to open?’ The woman at the door had her hand over her eyes—and her cheeks were flushed. The one behind her seemed to be taking measurements.
‘I was dreaming of—’ He could not tell her he dreamed of Mary. Of a world of servants and health and sobriety. ‘I dreamt of a swarm of annoying bees and I called for the door to be open so they might fly out,’ he said. ‘Instead one rushed in.’
How had he wronged the woman at the door? He couldn’t recall her face, and she didn’t look at all the kind he consorted with. She had the look of an outraged wife on her face, but she wasn’t his outraged wife.
He took a breath to calm himself and wished the night hadn’t been so warm he’d shed his clothing, his covers and the last threads of his dignity.
The female at the threshold looked as if she’d been snatched from Sunday services and plopped in the middle of a brothel.
But no devil had forced her to open his door.
He reached to the side of his bed, ignored his small clothes and went straight for his trousers.
With his body turned away, he pulled his clothing over his legs.
‘Perhaps you could introduce yourself.’ He spoke calmly to the daft one even as the second woman tiptoed to examine him. He was at a blasted soirée and he had not accepted the invitation. ‘You are under the impression we are acquainted. And I am under the impression we are not.’
She sputtered.
‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked, finishing the last button and turning. He would have preferred to have on his small clothes, but then he would have preferred to have drunk a lot more and fallen asleep at the tavern.
The drink had finally destroyed him, but not in the way he had expected.
‘Cover yourself,’ the young woman commanded. ‘You heathen.’
‘You can take your hand from your eyes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my trousers buttoned.’
Eyes, which reminded him of sunlight shining through sparkling glass, took a quick look at him. ‘A shirt?’
‘Oh, let’s save that until after we’ve been properly introduced.’
‘We will never be properly introduced.’
She wouldn’t be in a tavern, or on the darkened streets. And she shouldn’t be in his room. He paid little care to the society folks with their haughty stares. They didn’t interest him at all. Never had—even when he’d lived the other life.
‘Your shirt.’ She waved a finger, pointing at a direction beyond his back, and her eyes appeared to be fixed on his torn window curtain.
He looked around. The peg where he usually put his shirt stood empty. He picked up his waistcoat and slipped an arm into it, then the other. ‘Since you’ve seen me from top to bottom, this will have to do, Love.’ He fastened one button as a kindness.
‘Save your words for the lightskirts,’ Miss Butterfly Bonnet said.
Calling her love had snapped her out of her embarrassment.
‘So you are not of that business,’ he muttered. ‘Pity.’
Her eyes turned to slits. ‘Until I opened the door, I was quite innocent. Now I’m tainted for ever by what I’ve seen.’
He sat on the bed. ‘Think how it is for me. To wake up with a shrieking shrew at the door I can’t for the life of me remember how I’ve wronged.’
‘Oh, I envy you,’ she bit out the words. ‘Would that my life was so pleasant.’
They stared at each other.
‘You might tell me the nature of your visit.’ He examined his mind for a reason for this woman to search him out. ‘I truly don’t know you or know why you’re here.’ He yawned. ‘Come in.’ He waved an arm to indicate the two wooden chairs by the uneven table.
The older woman, peering into the room, gave the girl a push. ‘Quick before someone recognises you.’ Then the older woman pulled the door shut.
The young one’s eyes widened, but she covered her surprise with a tightening of her jaw and squared shoulders.
She took a tiny step inside his room, but she stayed within an arm’s reach of the door.
‘Sit.’ He straightened his shoulders and adopted the look of a coddled peer. ‘I will ring the butler for tea.’ He let his eyes look thoughtful. ‘Oh, goodness, I fear it is his half-day off. We will have to make do with brandy.’
He noticed the overturned glass on the table and looked around for a bottle. He reached down to the edge of the bed and found one still standing with about three swallows left in it—for a small person.
He picked it up, held the bottle in her direction and raised his eyebrows.
Her chin moved, but she didn’t open her mouth.
‘Speak your business quickly,’ he commanded. ‘Your bonnet is giving me a headache.’
He relaxed his arm, still holding the bottle. None of this would have happened if his wife had lived. The thought of her stabbed at his chest, and he wished he didn’t breathe in the blackness with every breath.
Just the touch of Mary’s finger at his cheek had given him more pleasure than he could ever find in a bottle.
He finished the liquid, then flipped the bottle into the corner, enjoying the clunk.
The lady with the overgrown bonnet watched him and her face condemned him. Her nose wrinkled and the corners of her lips turned down.
‘Makes two of us.’ His eyes swept over her.
Her gaze narrowed as she tried to guess his meaning. He enlightened her. ‘I’m not pleased with the sight of you, either, Love.’
The words were true. But, not completely. Something about her stirred his memories. Reminding him of a time when a woman’s beauty could touch him.
She wore a matronly fichu tucked into the bodice. Surely she had a body somewhere underneath, but he couldn’t be certain. He wagered she double-knotted her corset and wouldn’t walk past a mirror unless she had her laces done to her neck.
‘I had heard...’ She paused, seemingly entranced by the torn curtain. ‘I had heard,’ she repeated, rushing the words, ‘you might be a man of a somewhat, perhaps only slightly, disreputable nature.’ When she said disreputable nature, she looked at the floor, then at his eyes. Her hand clasped into a fist. ‘That might have been an error. Your nature is less—’
‘If gambling and drinking and spending my time in a tavern constitutes, then I suppose my nature could be under question,’ he interrupted. Who was this little dash of condemnation, he wondered, to be appearing on his doorstep, discussing his life?
‘You, miss—’ he speared her with his glance ‘—seem to be a woman who frequents places where no decent woman would be found and you appear to be looking for a man of impure habits.’ He paused, narrowing his eyes. ‘Which makes you...’
She stared at him. ‘Determined.’
He couldn’t believe it. She stepped a bit closer, her hand tight at her side. ‘If a bear prowled about me and the only trap I had near was rusty, covered in the stench of ale and might not be able to snap closed fast enough to catch a turtle, I’d use it. If only to sling the weapon at the bear’s head.’
He sniffed his arm. ‘Ale would be better than the smell of me.’
She tensed her body, near snarling the words into the room. ‘Are all men beasts? I had not expected a man such as yourself to have had a father, but I am surprised you have never had a mother either as no one has taught you manners.’
‘Ah, milady,’ he said with a sweeping bow. He gave her his darkest glare. ‘I must retire and you know where you can put your manners. Or lack thereof. Leave your calling card with the butler.’
* * *
Katherine tried to take her mind from the sight she had just seen on the bed. The man had been unclothed.
She bit the inside of her lip. She had stepped into a world of wickedness unlike anything she could have ever expected. And the wicked one on the bed—she had chosen him to save her virtue. She had made an error. An error of magnificent proportions. But she couldn’t think of another choice and she had so little time left.
‘I would like to speak with you as if we are two respectable people,’ Katherine said.
‘That beetle has already left the dung heap,’ he said.
‘When you were born,’ Katherine said, although she wasn’t sure she spoke the entire truth. The rumours said he had fallen from a life of prosperity straight on to the floor of a tavern.
He didn’t look as though he spent his life sotted.
The form he had might take some getting used to. His shape had covered most of the bed and his feet had reached past the end.
He wasn’t overgrown with hair on his body either, until she looked above his shoulders. She couldn’t have described much of him to a magistrate, except for his eyes. They were shadowed into a dark, soulless stare.
His face showed through locks of straight hair, which hung to his shoulders and mixed with a healthy scattering of whiskers.
This would have been a man she wouldn’t have stopped near on the street.
He would have to be harnessed to do her bidding and to save her. But she wasn’t quite sure she shouldn’t slam the door and run back to her home. His room spoke of his desperate circumstances though, so surely he could be hired to do her bidding?
Only the memory of Fillmore kept her standing firm.
Katherine couldn’t let him send her away. Her eyes darted around the room. In the morning light, shadows cloaked the furnishings. The bed was small and the covers fallen on the floor were rough, and worn. The clothing hung on pegs and he had few pegs. The stove stood in the centre of the room, its black chimney crookedly going to the roof. The table was made with the minimum of wood and had two chairs, one missing a rung in the back. Her servants would refuse such a room.
‘Don’t waste my time.’ He planted his feet firmly and opened the door. ‘I’ve got business to get back to.’ His smiled crooked at the side. ‘My pillow.’
‘Wait.’ She raised her hand to stop him from closing the door and somehow, she wasn’t quite sure how, her gloved fingers alighted on his muscled skin just above his elbow.
All words fled her thoughts. She could feel his strength, almost touch the anger in his eyes. And she could feel the blood in her veins and it moved with such speed it took her breath.
His eyes locked on hers as if she were a blackguard trying to ravish him. His jaw tensed and scornful eyes seared into her.
She jerked her hand back. ‘I got carried away in my quest. I shouldn’t, as I’ve heard you might also be considered somewhat honest.’
She had to take the burning anger from his eyes—or she would be lost. Her stepfather would have won, as he always did. He always won—even choosing the dress her mother was buried in. A dress her mother had hated.
She controlled her voice, softening it. ‘You’ve been described as a decent sort. With clear speech,’ she added, hoping to appease him. In fact, he’d been noticed because he spoke with society’s tones.
He was a man with an unknown past and the voice of a lord. He’d lived in a fine house, that was certain. And now he was no longer a part of it. People wondered whether he was a wastrel second son, a thief or the bastard child of a wealthy man, and some decided on all three.
‘And a kindness to children,’ she added softly, her eyes wide to pacify him.
She couldn’t remember any other good qualities about him without risking he might realise who’d spoken to her concerning his ways.
‘You’re good to small animals,’ she added, having no idea, but hoping.
He raised an eyebrow, lips firm. ‘Continue.’
‘You’re an excellent judge of horseflesh.’ She’d never heard of a man yet who wouldn’t agree to the statement.
He tilted his chin down a bit and she thought humour flashed across his eyes. ‘Yes...’
The silence was a bit too long and she searched her mind for things men prided themselves on. ‘You’re good with your fists.’
A barely perceptible nod of his head and he leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for her to continue listing his virtues. She suddenly lost patience.
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘You’re a saint. A man of uncommon purity and a sterling reputation about you. Statues should be erected in your honour and placed on every street corner.’
In an instant the veneer of his patience fled and the muscles in his face tightened.
‘And you—’ His face moved so close she could get foxed from the brandy on his breath and, while his body moved, his head remained close to hers. ‘You’re a miss who would never leave an embroidery stitch unfinished. You write poetry proclaiming the injustice of a world which ignores its orphans, and on Sunday you say a prayer for those less fortunate who do not have fashionable bonnets, or new cravats.’
‘I see we have an astounding awareness of each other.’ She pushed her voice to match the strength of his. ‘So before we both swoon in awe of each other’s presence, might I discuss a matter of a small bit of importance to me?’
‘Who sent you to me?’ he asked, tone soft but with an underlying bite.
‘My sister’s governess’s sister’s husband has a friend who knows you from the tavern.’ She forced herself not to step back from those eyes. ‘The friend did think you might have honour, though.’
‘Yes.’ He used both hands to tug at the hem of his waistcoat and disdain pushed his chin even higher. His voice softened, but not his face. ‘They would think I’m honourable. I’ve never stolen a mug yet from the tavern.’
She stepped closer, almost to his nose, and put confidence into her quiet words. ‘You can rest assured that is all they said you had to recommend you.’
‘Wise of them.’ He crossed his arms, increased the distance between them and leaned on the doorway. ‘And, what sort of bear do you wish to trap?’ he asked, surprised he found her lips appealing. He didn’t know why he even noticed her lips. They weren’t overly ripe. Nor thin. They were merely pleasant. But lips? Why would he notice that body part when there were so many others to peruse?
She wasn’t sturdy, as Mary had been. She wasn’t quiet, as Mary had been and he preferred, but that kind seemed to have disappeared before Eve. Once Eve had started talking, the world had gone downhill quickly. Adam should have made peace with the asp and stayed in the garden.
‘I wondered...’ she took her time with her words ‘...if you might consider a business dealing which might be considered to be against the law—although some of it isn’t. And it truly isn’t unlawful to the conscience.’
He wondered what she wanted him to do. Bad enough she’d woken him suddenly.
‘You compliment me to suggest I’ve got a conscience. But I dare say you should look somewhere else for that.’
He walked to the door, opened it and the woman outside took one look at his face and stepped back.
He paused, stared back at the young wench, pointed to the door and said, ‘Find someone who doesn’t mind being awoken before dusk.’
The miss stood nearly a head shorter than he and had more bluff in her face than any card player he’d ever seen, but none of the bravado reached the end of the reticule hanging from her wrist. The beads at the end of the tie were bobbing like—he pushed that image from his mind.
‘And what might you be wanting me for?’ He spoke before he could stop himself. ‘The chore which might interest a magistrate?’
Her lips parted slightly, but she closed them again.
Her lips. When he realised where his mind wandered, he gave a disgusted grunt. His mind had rotted just as he’d wanted, but he wished it had waited one more day.
Her eyes widened as she stared at his face. She tightened her shoulders.
‘I can’t state my exact needs,’ she interrupted his thoughts, ‘until I know you’ll take on the task.’ She waved her hand to the doorway. ‘I am a respectable woman, with a chaperon, and it is intensely important that I be able to sneak back into my house soon. I would never seek out a person...’ and here she floundered a bit for words ‘...such as yourself, if I had another choice.’
‘I am pleased you’re so virtuous.’ He lessened the space between them. The soft scent of her touched him—not perfume—but plain soap. The miss nearly reeked with her purity. Forget putting statues of him on corners. This one should have convents erected in her honour. ‘You realise your virtue means you might not offer as much as another woman might.’
The narrowing of her eyes pleased him. She should never wake a rusty trap unless she expected to see its teeth.
She stared at him and he could see thoughts flittering behind her eyes. The beads on the reticule clicked together.
‘You’ll be paid,’ she grumbled. ‘Then you can buy...’ she paused ‘...whatever services you need.’
He wouldn’t need any services if Mary had lived.
And as the darkness closed tightly around him, he didn’t care to do what she wanted, but he doubted he would be able to go back to sleep in such heat and he had nothing else to do. ‘I could be interested in whatever business you might bring to me.’ His voice mocked her with a false sweetness. ‘Tell me what you have in mind.’
She leaned in so close he could almost taste her soap. Something inside of him froze and then began to unfurl warmth in his body. He bit it back.
‘You must kidnap someone.’ Her voice vibrated with excitement.
This Miss, untouched as newly fallen snow, wanted him to kidnap someone? He gaped at her. ‘I’m guessing it would be someone you find annoying.’
‘Not really,’ she muttered.
‘My skin has an aversion to rope burns—’ he touched his neck ‘—so even though I am honoured to be selected, I decline.’ He clasped the door, knowing he would have to send her on her way quickly and not really wanting to.
He just needed to be left alone. ‘Out.’
‘You must listen.’ She held up both palms.
He shook his head and reached for her arm. The simple touch of her brought back the memories he lived with, blurring his vision. He had to get the woman out of his life. Now. He backed away, not wanting to stir any memories of a woman’s softness. Those memories had taunted him, wrapping their dark, nettled cloak around him, until he discovered they would not sting so much if he appeased them with drink.
He stepped around her and touched the door.
‘You would get away with it, I’m sure,’ her voice pleaded.
He stilled. Before he could stop anything, the soap aroma tangled around him. His throat contracted and, for a second, he couldn’t speak.
‘Get out and don’t come back.’ His voice returned with force.
Her eyes widened and he pushed the thought of her fear away.
‘Leave,’ he snarled, snapping his teeth together on the word. ‘You.’ His voice spoke with the authority of a hammer on an anvil. ‘Must leave.’ His arm slashed in the direction of the door. ‘Go.’
She stared at him and he realised her cheeks had no colour.
‘You must do this.’ Her eyes begged. ‘I’ll die if you don’t.’
