Rogues and Ripped Bodices Read online

  And his feet. Those were handsome feet. Wide, steady. Goodness, did lords always walk around barefoot in their homes? Surely their feet got cold on the marble floors? Though this pale cream carpet felt thick and... Oh dear Lord... were those her footprints? She had cut across the grass as the road up to the house wound around a corner. She had barely given a thought to her white skirts and certainly not to his cream carpets. Excitement at meeting the marquess had made her forget everything. But it seemed mud had splattered up her hem and left lovely round marks from her heels and soles on the pristine carpet.

  Quick, she had to distract him before he noticed. Oh dear, did the marks go all the way around the room? Viola surveyed the carpet. They really did.

  “You truly have a beautiful home.” She cringed inwardly. And what used to be a beautiful room until she stepped into it.

  “I rang for some tea,” Lord Lockwood said, hands clasped behind his back.

  Viola hadn’t even noticed him do as much but she noted the cord on the wall wavered back and forth.

  “Please sit.” He motioned to the chair nearest the fire.

  Remembering herself, Viola settled into the chair. It wasn’t at all comfortable. The hard frame dug into her arms and back and it felt as though it needed new stuffing. At least it forced her to sit properly. As the youngest child in a family of boys, her posture had always been lacking. And English women always had wonderful posture. Perhaps it was because of chairs like these.

  Lord Lockwood—gosh, it felt odd to call him that. She had thought of him as Julian for some time—came to stand by the fire. He twisted two fingers around another finger—the one a wedding band should have been on. Twist. Twist. Twist. He was missing his wedding ring, she’d wager. He hadn’t told her much about his late wife, only that she had died over a year ago.

  But, to think, she would soon be mistress of all this and she would take care of this English lord. It was like a dream come true. She glanced out of the window. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so grim and miserable in England though. It was spring after all. She’d imagined green fields with little lambs running about. Most of the sheep she had passed had been huddled under trees, looking as miserable as she’d felt riding in the mail coach.

  “Did you not get my letter?” she asked, shattering the silence.

  “No. About what?”

  “About my visit. To arrange everything. You had said you wanted to finalise everything in April.”

  Julian pressed his fingers to either side of his head and rubbed them. “April.” He scowled. “Right. I recall. But I didn’t expect you to come in person. Nor did I expect...” he waved a hand up and down her, “you.”

  “Oh.” She supposed fathers did these things normally but hers was too sick to travel at the moment. He was recovering well from a bout of pneumonia but there was no way her papa could have managed such a journey. “You anticipated speaking with Father?”

  “Well, yes, frankly.”

  “He has been very unwell.”

  Which was how they came to write letters to one another. She couldn’t help but be grateful she had been put in charge of her father’s correspondence while her brothers ran their father’s shipping business. For the first time in her life, she’d been trusted to do something useful and worthwhile. And she had started communicating with this eloquent, enigmatic Englishman. Their letters had turned from coffee to cats to companionship. Her friends were riddled with jealousy.

  “When might we—?” She was interrupted by a petite maid coming in with a tray of cups and biscuits. Her stomach grumbled in anticipation.

  “Where would you like it, my lord?” the girl asked.

  “On the table.” He motioned to the table in front of her that matched the ornamental chair upon which she sat.

  The maid placed it down and began to pour. Viola eyed the steaming cups with appreciation. A shudder wracked her and as soon as the maid retreated, she snatched up a cup and cradled it in her palms. The damp fabric of her skirts clung to her legs and a few drips had crept under her jacket to trickle down her spine. Though her hair had been saved from too great a soaking by her hat, the tiny wet tendrils continued to send fresh drops over her skin. All in all, it was not the best way to meet the man she hoped to marry.

  He eyed her with a raised brow before coming to sit opposite. Was it so very inappropriate for her to be alone with him? So much so that he wished to send her away? She couldn’t fathom his cool manner. The British men she had met in New York hadn’t been nearly so stiff, but neither had they been marquesses. What troubled her most, however, was how unlike the man in the letters he seemed. She wasn’t sure what she expected but she certainly didn’t anticipate him suggesting she find elsewhere to stay.

  Viola sipped the tea and felt the warmth trail down to her stomach. Already her spirits began to revive. She reached for a macaroon and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing quickly. Her stomach grumbled—loudly. She winced and glanced at the stoic lord to see his reaction. His expression hadn’t changed. He watched her as though he couldn’t quite believe she was there, eating macaroons and drinking tea.

  Perhaps he was nervous about asking her to marry him? Perhaps he had changed his mind? If he had expected to start marriage negotiations with her father before meeting her, he must be displeased she’d arrived to push things forward.

  Well, she would have to prove to him she could be wifely material. He had to have fallen in love with her via her letters, even if he had not said as much. There was simply no way two people could communicate as they did without love. Already on the verge of love, it would only take a few kind words and actions for her to fall head-over-toes in love with him. Viola loved love. She poured it onto her brothers, who all thought her silly, and she doted on her father. The men in her life accepted her actions begrudgingly but she needed someone who could show her the same in return.

  Julian, the tenth Marquess of Lockwood, had to be that man. Under those stiff British manners lay a man with a huge heart and a wonderful sense of humour. She simply hadn’t met him yet.

  She skimmed her gaze over the room and tried not to be daunted by its beauty and elegance. “Is Patches around?”

  It seemed to take him a few moments to absorb her question. A tiny ripple of movement ran through him and he reminded her of a beast unfurling himself. He finally reached for a cup of tea and nodded. “Yes, though he’ll be upstairs. He sleeps in the master bedroom for most of the day and does his stalking at night.”

  “I recall. Does he still like to sprawl across your face in the mornings?”

  “Yes.” A hint of a smile teased his lips. His cat was apparently his weakness. “What of Mittens? You left him at home, I see.”

  “Oh yes, he wouldn’t have taken well to the travelling though I intend to bring him here next time. I miss him already.”

  “No doubt he is missing you too.”

  “Papa has promised to spoil him with lots of fish and sliced ham.”

  Their cats had been what had led to their correspondence back and forth. She had apologised on her father’s behalf when Mittens had chewed up one of Julian’s letters to her father and it was unreadable. So when she explained what had happened and asked him to resend his request, he had sympathised and said he understood well. Viola couldn’t help but be charmed by this Englishman and his love for his cat.

  “I shall introduce you later.” He placed down his cup when she shivered. “You are still cold.”

  “A l-little.” Now he’d reminded her, the chills seemed to increase, making her hand shake and her tea nearly spill into her lap. She placed the cup down before she had any more disasters. “I swear the rain is colder here and it has soaked all the way through to my undergarments.”

  That eyebrow rose again. His expressions seemed to only go as far as mildly surprised to faintly astonished by her. Was she so very baffling? She would have to try harder to be more ladylike. Her friends had told her to watch her tongue and be more refined but growi
ng up in a household of men—poor men for a while—had made her a little rough around the edges. It didn’t matter that she would inherit part of her father’s business one day and be a wealthy woman. No amount of wealth would make up for her past.

  Viola certainly envied those with family wealth who had received training in how to behave. Perhaps when she returned home before the wedding she would ask father to invest in some help. A few weeks of teaching ought to do it. Then she could return to England and be the perfect bride of a lord.

  He stood suddenly and strode over to the bell pull. She listened for some kind of sound but heard nothing. How did he know it had rung? But sure enough, the very same maid arrived within moments, looking flushed and a little breathless. She imagined lords like Julian didn’t worry that his staff might not hear him or come to him on command. He simply expected them to always be there to cater to him.

  “Jenny, Miss Thompson could do with a warm bath. Have one poured, will you? And see that her trunk is taken up to the Sunflower room.”

  “Yes, milord.” The maid turned to hurry away.

  “Jenny? Where the devil is Bramley?”

  “In the village, milord. Mr Bramley didn’t think you’d be needing him today so he went in to collect the post and those books you ordered.”

  “Very well.” He waved a hand then called her name again. “Will you take Miss Thompson up to her room now.” Julian—no, Lord Lockwood—eyed Viola sternly. “When you are warm and dry, we’ll decide what to do with you.

  A faint flourish of excitement crept into her belly. He wasn’t exactly warm as she had hoped and he certainly hadn’t greeted her with the expected passionate kiss but there was something darkly attractive about the man. His eyes said wicked things to her, even while his face remained expressionless.

  She placed down her unfinished cup of tea. Perhaps he wished to be rid of her so he could make himself more presentable. He would look utterly divine in a necktie and formal wear. Coming to her feet, she offered a formal curtsey.

  “Good day to you, my lord.”

  A mildly bemused expression crossed his face before he nodded and turned his attention to the cup of tea in his hand. Had she curtsied wrong? She sighed as she followed Jenny out. She had a lot to learn about English gentleman and their etiquette.

  Chapter Three

  “It’s so small.”

  “Yes, miss,” Jenny replied.

  “Aren’t there any bigger ones?”

  “No, miss. This is the master’s one.”

  Viola tapped a finger to her lips as she eyed the tin bath. She was hardly the largest of women but she was tall. How would her legs fit inside that tiny thing?

  Jenny poured in another bucket of water and handed it back to the maid who was bringing warm water up from the kitchen. The other maid looked to be a good few years older than Viola and not up to the task hauling bucketful upon bucketful of heated water from downstairs. She suspected that by the time the bath was full, the original water would be cold.

  “Do you not have indoor plumbing?” Viola couldn’t resist asking. It was an inane question because surely if they did, they wouldn’t be running back and forth to fill her bath.

  But she was entirely baffled by the lack of taps and baths. A house like Lockwood Manor would have all the latest in modern engineering surely? The vast building with its impressive columns, high ceilings and utter decadence had taken her breath away but she really had been expecting it to be less... old. And certainly less draughty.

  “These old houses aren’t easy to modernise, Miss,” Jenny explained. “Only new houses and hotels have indoor plumbing. I expect you have it everywhere in New York.”

  “Well, yes, actually.”

  “We do have it in London—not that I’ve ever been there, but my brother has. It must be wonderful to live in a city like New York. I’d love to visit it one day.”

  Viola sat down on the four-poster bed and gave the mattress an experimental bounce. It was soft—very soft. As old as the bed probably. “It’s exciting but I do like your countryside. There’s no green fields where I live.”

  “Green fields are dull.” Jenny swirled about the bath water with a hand and looked to her. “I’d far rather be surrounded by shops and huge buildings.”

  The other maid returned with another bucket. Jenny poured it in, gave it a swirl and stepped back to eye the bath. “We have no bath oils or salts, I’m afraid. The lord threw out everything like that after his last wife died.”

  His last wife? She knew he was a widower but hadn’t realised there had been more than one. How awful, losing two wives. He had written little about his wife in his letters, save that she had died just over a year ago. Was he still in mourning? Did that explain his surly countenance? And if he was, why had he implied he wished to marry her? Viola resisted the desire to put her head in her hands or probe Jenny for information. That would be the crass thing to do and she was trying to prove herself. If she could show that she was marchioness material, perhaps he would warm to her.

  No doubt he had been expecting something else from her letters. Someone refined and intelligent perhaps. Viola was certainly not simple but she always felt she expressed herself better in writing. Was he disappointed in her?

  “Shall I help you undress, miss?” Jenny asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  “No!” She smiled. “I mean, no I can manage, thank you.” She’d certainly never needed anyone to dress and undress her. She wasn’t going to start now.

  “Very well. If you need anything, just pull that rope there.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jenny backed out of the room and Viola finally gave into the urge to throw herself back against the bed and lay an arm over her face. If she became a marchioness, would she have to let people dress her? She shuddered—and not from the cold. In a house full of boys, privacy had been a rare thing so she treasured it when she had it. She was the only one with a separate room growing up—at least until her father made his fortune in coffee and moved them into a beautiful house with rooms enough for all of them. Except for Ralphy who had left home by then.

  Fatigue made her lids heavy and she forced her arm back and her eyes open. The excitement and anticipation had left her, leaving her drained. Adding that to the chill in her body and she felt almost ill. And Viola Thompson never got ill.

  But she had imagined this differently. Yes, the grand old house was more breathtaking than she could have dreamed possible, and Lord Lockwood certainly affected her breathing too. But there had been no romance, no being swept off her feet. She had anticipated him seeing her, falling desperately in love and carrying her up to his bedroom to make love to her then and there. Then they would get a special licence and marry as quickly as possible. How envious her friends would be to hear she was a marchioness. How dreamy her life would be to live in England, married to a lord.

  She was a romantic fool. Her father would blame all the novels she’d read of England. She had hoped for her very own Mr Darcy but it wasn’t to be.

  Well, he certainly had that aloofness she might have expected from an English gent.

  Pushing herself up, she drew off her necktie and unbuttoned her shirt. She flung it aside then thought better of it. Viola retrieved it and hung it over the sky blue chair in one corner. She paused to peer out of the window. The nice thing about living in the middle of the countryside, she decided, is no one would care a whit that she was standing in only her corset and skirt. For many miles, huge green fields stretched out. From here she could see over the oaks that surrounded the house and spotted a few scattered cottages, presumably belonging to the farmers.

  How much of this land was Julian’s? She had researched his family as much as she could, spending hours looking at his name in Debrett’s, but knew only that he was around the fourteenth richest man in England. She had to assume then, that much of this land was his.

  As she slipped off her skirt and began to unlace her corset—something she was very adept at havi
ng grown up without a maid or mother—she pondered the other properties she knew he owned. Would he take her to Kent for the summer perhaps to stay in the house by the sea? Or up to Scotland so she could explore the mountains and castles?

  She put her corset on top of her shirt and removed her skirt and combination. A chill swept across her skin. Jenny had apologised for the temperature of the room, explaining they didn’t light fires in the rooms that weren’t to be used. Though a fire now blazed in the hearth, casting golden light over the tin bathtub, the room hadn’t warmed yet.

  Viola dipped a toe into the water and sucked in a breath. It wasn’t freezing but it certainly wasn’t as warm as she liked. To immerse herself in that seemed unbearable. How did these English women put up with these conditions? They had to be made of sterner stuff than her. Holding in a breath and drawing up her shoulders, she stepped fully in and sank down quickly.

  The lukewarm water enveloped her and she bit back a curse. She favoured bathing in water that was almost boiling. Her brothers always teased her so for it, telling her she’d turn into lobster if she wasn’t careful. But still, she would manage. She ducked under the water quickly and came up for air. Jenny had laid out her toiletries nearby so she reached over for her block of rosemary soap and rubbed it vigorously through her hair. After days of travel, she felt the need for a good scrub and of course, she wanted to look beautiful for Julian.

  She laid back in the bath for a moment and let the soap soak into her hair. Would he ask her to marry him formally? Had he changed his mind? That man who wrote those letters was under that stern exterior somewhere. She simply had to weed him out.

  And once she had, she, Viola Thompson—once a nobody, now an heiress—would marry the Marquess of Lockwood and live happily ever after.