Page 2 of My Lord, My Rogue
Her maid pursed her lips and gave a tight nod. “I will see to everything as you have asked, m’lady.”
Bridget was as true a friend as any other. She had grown up with Honora in the Radcliff home. Honora trusted her above everyone, except Evie. She needed to trust that Evie would do one last favor for her. Ashamed and unwilling to hurt Adam any more than she already had, she sat at a small escritoire and withdrew a page of vellum. Quickly, she penned a note to her childhood friend. When it was complete, she sanded it and folded it. Melting her lavender candle, she dripped enough wax for her seal. Satisfied, she reached under her bed and withdrew her valise. Bridget would see the letter here, she thought, stuffing it inside the side pocket.
Honora found herself pregnant, humiliated, and all alone. She had already written to her parents, giving Bridget specific instructions on when she wanted the letters mailed. This was the only way she saw to gain her freedom. Loosening her wrapper’s tie, she pulled it free and watched the wrapper fall. It floated gently on a breeze before disappearing into the fog-laden haze below her feet. She took one last look at the white silk wrapper snagged on a branch partially down the side of the cliff.There were no other options. This was her only way out of a life she hated.
A black carriage rolled up behind her and stopped. She turned and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment to the driver. It was time to leave. Slowly, she backed away from the edge and walked toward the open carriage door her aunt’s footmen held for her. Bridget had a warm pelisse waiting. They needed to make haste before he returned.
Chapter 1
Bath, England
November 1817
Lady Honora Aster bolted upright in her bed and looked around.Good! It was only a dream. It had seemed so real, she thought as she hugged herself. Sweat beaded on her forehead. David had returned for her. In her dream, she had opened the front door to her home, and he was there for Oliver. He pushed past her into the room, ready to find her son, when she ended the dream.
Breathing slowly, she willed her heart to slow, forcing her attention to her robin’s egg blue room. The gentle surroundings immediately reassured her—the soft blue and white silky damask and comfortable velvet upholsteries and appointments never failed to cheer her.
A tree branch scratching against her window from the wind nearly sent her into a panic. It was only a few feet from her bed, and she debated how quickly she could check her window’s latch and fly back under the warm covers. She normally had a warm fire going, yet oddly, this morning the flame looked non-existent. Perhaps the damp, windy weather outside had something to do with it, she thought. It was almost Christmastide. She had given birth to Oliver in the quiet of Brook Hall, her parents’ country manor on the outskirts of Bath with little fanfare and had been here since. Except for her own family, their servants, and the doctor, his birth had gone unnoticed, and she tried her best to keep it that way.
Matters became more complicated, causing Honora to become fiercely protective of her son, once learning of his father’s death. While he had been living, she felt sure David would want to ignore her existence—and accept her staged suicide—in his pursuit of a wealthy dowry to settle his debts. She shuddered as she recalled his last words to her.“You tricked me into marrying you so I would give my name to your bastard child.”The denial that the child was his and the ugly accusation that she was foisting another’s child onto him. Honora had been told that David died from injuries sustained in a robbery; however, there had also been those rumors of a duel. She found it hard to believe that her jilted betrothed would have called him out. Still . . .
There was so much for which she needed to atone but she could not risk exposing her secret. Adam’s father had died suddenly, shortly after Adam’s return home from the Napoleonic wars, adding to her own transgression. He was a duke, now. And, according to her aunt, Adam had married her best friend, Evie. The loss of Evie in her life left a deep void. Honora had much to redress for her misdeeds. However, she could not do so and remain in hiding.
The Aster marquisate would have gone to David’s cousin, a relative unknown to her. Normally, she could not have cared less; however, the fear that he could be as bad as her husband and resent her son’s existence gave her more reason to isolate. Her impressions of David’s mother made her certain the woman would stop at nothing to reclaim her son’s title, even finding a suitable guardian to handle her grandson’s inheritance—had she known about his existence.She did not. Honora knew enough about her mother-in-law from the short tenure of her marriage to avoid the woman. One look at Oliver and there could be no denying his parentage. Honora would have to acknowledge that one day. Her parents had suggested she live here until she believed herself ready to face Society. She felt content with her unobtrusive life. One thing had become clear—she needed to discuss Oliver’s guardianship with her father. He could advise her. Otherwise, she feared this nightmare becoming reality.
She welcomed the small tap on her door that drew her from her gloomy reverie. “Come in.”
“Good morning, m’lady. Och! ’Tis cold in here,” her maid shuddered. “This hot tea and toast will heat yer bones. ’Twill be just the thing whilst I stoke the flames, for ye.”
“Thank you, Bridget. The tea is just what I need. I hope it chases away the last vestige of the dream I woke from.” Honora held the cup close, basking in the cup’s warmth.
“Aye. ’Tis an excellent remedy with the toast.” Bridget set the tray down on the small bedside table and walked to the fireplace to stoke the embers. “I cannae imagine how this blew out. I came in and stoked it earlier, m’self!” she muttered. Content with the warmth the fireplace was producing, she turned. “Yer parents should be here soon. Best you and the bairn ready yerselves.”
“Bridget, have you heard from my mother?”
“Aye. Cook ’as outdone herself. She raided the orangery this morning and is baking yer mother’s favorite lemon biscuits,” she said, with a chuckle. “I’m sure yer parents cannae wait to see their grandson.”
“’Tis true! Mama said it was hard to leave when they came last,” Honora acknowledged. “Oliver is the apple of their eyes.” Honora nibbled on her toast and took a sip of the hot tea. “My aunt is also coming. I am quite looking forward to seeing her. It has been too long.”
“’Twill be wonderful to see yer aunt, m’lady,” Bridget added. “She stayed behind to keep ye hidden.”
“Almost three years ago,” Honora murmured.
“Aye.”
“My husband dying so unexpectedly was such a shock. I cannot shake the feeling I should stay hidden a while longer. No one knows anything about Oliver,” she lamented, sipping the tea. My only meeting with the dowager marchioness did not go that well.” Honora recalled the argument she had overheard between her husband and his mother.
“You could not find one that was not already betrothed?” she yelled.
“Mother, I had hoped you would appreciate my keeping the marquisate flush with cash. You enjoy your elaborate dinners, balls, gardens and all the trappings of position. I implore you to be nice to her,” he said, his voice straining.
A slap sounded, and the door slammed.
Honora had always wondered who had slapped whom? The dowager marchioness created a lasting impression of having a temper. There was no guessing where David had gained his own temper.
“Does the blue and white muslin suit ye, m’lady?” Bridget asked, as she pulled the cloth from the wardrobe and laid it out for Honora.
“It does. I would appreciate its warmth. That reminds me. Madame Chantalle sent word that my new dresses are ready. Would you pick them up from the village?”
