Deborah Simmons - The Last Rogue

He shuddered, so repulsed by the notion that he was seized by a sudden urge to flee. He had enough problems without having to worry about performing under such circumstances. Not only was he nearly penniless, but now it appeared that he was to be saddled with some wretched relative’s debts.

Sighing, Raleigh acknowledged that only he could find a way to inherit less than nothing. He thought of all those years he had casually collected decent winnings at the tables and decided that his luck, once rather consistent, was running bad with a vengeance—beginning with this morning when he awoke in the yellow bedroom at Casterleigh.

His unhappy thoughts, turning once more toward that sore subject, sent him surging to his feet. “You must be tired,” he said abruptly when Jane gazed at him with some alarm. “I’ll leave you to your rest.” Although he could almost hear Wycliffe calling him a coward, Raleigh refused to look his wife in the eye. He had no aspirations toward bravery and would rather shirk his duty than spend the next few hours cajoling a squawking virgin into bed.

With one more swift nod in her direction, he turned on his heel and tried not to run from the chamber.

Raleigh sighed and stretched out his legs, heartily sick of riding in a coach, even this finely sprung vehicle his father had provided for the trip to Northumberland. Darting a swift glance at his wife to assure himself that she slept, he lifted his booted feet to rest them on the seat beside her. Lud, she would have his head for such informality, if she were awake.

Strange creature. Although a simple vicar’s daughter, sometimes she seemed as rigid and haughty as his mother. Raleigh was fairly certain she would rather have joined the maid who was ensconced in the smaller conveyance behind them than be closeted with him again, but his parents’ presence seeing them off this afternoon had apparently stilled her protests.

They had passed most of the past few hours in silence, Jane straining her neck to stare out the window, while Raleigh studiously avoided looking at her. He had brought along a book, Countess Ravenscar’s latest, which her husband, Sebastian, was to have had a hand in, but even Prudence’s prose could not keep his mind engaged, the rattling chains and wailing ghosts she described not nearly as odious as his own situation.

And so the volume lay discarded beside him as his attention was drawn irresistibly to his new wife. Now that she was unaware, Raleigh took the opportunity to study her, ignoring the vague guilt he felt at his perusal. Jane radiated a fierce touch-me-not attitude that extended into look-at-me-not and made him wonder how she could be sister to Charlotte, who was so easy and charming. Why, even the eldest sibling, Sarah, though rather a prickly pear, seemed to warm up after a bit But Jane had always kept her distance, as if she did not approve of anyone, especially him.

Since his wedding, the deep well of memory had produced images of her throughout his visits to Casterleigh, images of a slim child, quiet and studious, presenting him with a mutinous expression. “Hmm.” The low hum escaped his throat as Raleigh distinctly recalled standing in the foyer at Wycliffe’s Sussex home, pausing in the act of pulling off his gloves when he noticed the girl’s hostility. Surprised, he had been struck dumb for a moment, and then she was off, slipping away with a swish of dullcolored skirt.

For the life of him, Raleigh could never determine what he had done to earn her displeasure. Indeed, it was a shock to learn that anyone—besides his relatives—viewed him less than amiably. He was accounted a good friend, an amusing companion and generally decent fellow. Lud, he had no enemies. Yet a slip of a girl had given him the cut direct.

And she had grown into a woman whose opinion of him seemed little better. Although Raleigh could detect no lingering animosity in his Plain Jane, her contempt was prodigious enough to make up for it. “Hmm.” Not exactly what one looked for in a wife, Raleigh decided. Never one to stand in judgment himself, he wondered what gave this simple little vicar’s daughter such arrogance as to disdain him.

She was not much to look at, he thought, defiantly studying her as she slept. She had pillowed her cheek on one palm, an oddly disarming gesture that made her seem vulnerable. Ha! Raleigh choked back a laugh. The haughty chit was as unfeeling as a rock and about as much fun.

Her spectacles had slipped, revealing thick lashes that he had not suspected, and Raleigh realized that he had no idea what color her eyes were, only that they could not be the same unusual spring green of Charlotte’s or he would have noted it. Charlotte, of course, was a goddess, while Jane was more like one of those half-female monsters in the myths Wycliffe loved so well.

Actually, with her glasses and slender figure, she resembled her father, Raleigh admitted, but even though he held that kind, intelligent man in respect, Raleigh did not care to marry him. At least she wasn’t balding, he thought ruefully. Then he started forward in sudden alarm, his feet dropping to the floor as he wondered if she might be losing her hair, for she seemed to keep it covered with a nearly religious fervor. But no, he had glimpsed her braid, thick and full, down her straight back the morning of the wedding.

Raleigh sighed, relieved that Jane was in full possession of her locks, even if he rarely saw them. Inching toward the edge of his seat, he sought to determine her hair’s color, and found, to his delight, that a single, stray strand had escaped imprisonment to fall across one cheek. The fugitive revealed itself to be a rich, dark golden tone that gleamed when struck by the light.

Raleigh jerked back in surprise. Certainly it wasn’t the same daffodil yellow as her sister’s, nor did it curl in that cloudlike manner that Charlotte’s did, but it was not quite as dull as he had supposed.

Leaning forward once more, Raleigh wondered if he had misjudged her proportions also. His mother, horrified at his wife’s attire, had thrust one of his sister’s reworked gowns upon her, and he had to admit that the change was rather startling. Perhaps it was the garment, a mulberry traveling suit, that gave her hair sudden life. It was such a vivid change from the somber browns and grays Jane seemed to inhabit that she looked like a different person.

On the outside. She had exhibited her usual stubbornness when confronted with her new clothing, but since his mother had already instructed the maid to pack her other garments, Jane had had no choice but to comply. Raleigh grinned. Sometimes, one simply had to stand back and admire the countess’s methods—especially when one was not on the receiving end of them!

A soft sigh escaped her at that moment, and inexplicably, Raleigh was drawn toward it, his attention focused on her dainty mouth. Her lips, gently parted, were for once not pulled down in disapproval. They, too, seemed to reflect the color of her costume, becoming flush with life’s blood, soft and inviting.

Clearing his throat, Raleigh followed the line of her body lower. She had fashioned a scarf around her neck, but it had shifted during her sleep and he could see the pale gleam of skin. He sucked in a harsh breath. Somehow, just a glimpse of Jane’s usually covered flesh was shockingly enticing, probably because she hid so much of it. These days, when the fashions called for low-cut bodices and spilling breasts, Jane was an anomaly.

Adjusting his position, Raleigh tried to discern the curve of her bosom beneath the arm that rested across it. If his breath came a little quickly and his cheeks reddened like a schoolboy’s, it was only because Jane would probably do him murder if she discovered him looking at her body. She was his wife and more than discreetly clothed, but Raleigh knew full well she would view his perusal as a violation of her privacy.