One Rogue Too Many Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Samantha Grace

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Brittany Vibbert

  Cover illustration by Judy York

  Photography by Jon Zychowski

  Models: Donovan Klein and Monika Tarnowski

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my darling girl

  Prologue

  Late October 1811

  “What are you drawing now, bug?”

  Gabby’s hand stilled and she turned toward Anthony with a wide smile, setting her sketchbook and charcoal beside her on the garden bench. “That’s Lady Bug to you, my lord.”

  She wasn’t sure when she had begun to consider his nickname for her a term of endearment rather than the insult she was sure he had intended years ago. Perhaps her attitude toward him was a recent change, a transformation that had come over her during this break between school terms, but affection for him swelled within her chest.

  He swept up her drawing and plopped beside her on the bench. “Your nose is red, little bug. Why are you sitting in the cold?”

  She made a show of pulling her pelisse tighter around her, but she no longer sensed the chill with him near. “My muse cares little for my comfort. Inspiration strikes when it is least convenient.”

  “Would you like me to speak with her on your behalf?” He playfully bumped her shoulder then held her sketchbook up to scrutinize it. He glanced up and turned his head one way then the other, his lovely blond brows forming a V over his glorious blue eyes.

  Gabby sighed softly, melting inside. Anthony had returned from his second year at Oxford, no longer a boy, but a handsome prince. She’d had plenty of time to revel in his perfection since he resumed posing for her not long after his return to the country. Her favorite sketch rested between the pages of her journal, hidden beneath her mattress.

  No matter that she was thirteen and likely was viewed by the adults around her as too young to know her heart. She loved Anthony Keaton, the Earl of Ellis. Besides, she would be fourteen in a month. She was on the verge of becoming a woman.

  Anthony’s gaze landed on her and flared.

  She blinked and quickly looked away as a burst of heat consumed her. He had caught her in the act of pining for him.

  He cleared his throat, shifting away from her.

  Her stomach took a dive, but she refused to believe his movement held any significance. Only weeks earlier he had grasped her hand when they’d stood side by side at his mother’s grave site, his stoic expression ripping Gabby apart when she sensed the tremors coursing through him. He’d held on tighter while the men shoveled every last spade of dirt on his mother’s resting spot and refused to relinquish Gabby’s hand until their small group of mourners had reached Ellis Hall. He was reluctant to leave her now, too, which was the reason he’d sought her out before her father’s coach carried him and her brother back to school. She sensed it deep within her bones.

  He tapped her drawing. “Where, pray tell, do you see a lady in dance?”

  “Right there.” She nodded toward the aged oak standing sentry at the edge of the garden. “Can’t you see it?”

  “The tree?” He squinted. “The tree is dancing.”

  She rolled her eyes, hopped up from the bench, and marched toward the oak. “The tree isn’t dancing, you dolt. Look at the lines of the bark.” With a pointed finger, she indicated the outline of the figure that jumped out at her. It was as plain as the pleasing nose on his face. “Here is the curve of her arm and her side. And see how her hip is rounded here and then the length of her leg.”

  Anthony set the sketchbook aside and came over to examine the bark. He dragged his finger over the grooves in the tree. “How did you see it?”

  She warmed at the awe present in his tone. “I see it. I don’t know how.”

  He glanced down at her, his blue eyes alight with something that made her stomach quiver.

  This wasn’t how he typically looked at her. His admiration was becoming an uncomfortable fit. She scoffed to hide her true reaction. “How do you not see it?”

  He grinned. “I do now.” He patted her shoulder, his touch branding her as his. “Thank you, bug. There is no telling the number of extraordinary things I miss when you aren’t around to point them out.”

  She barely contained her happy sigh. Clasping her hands behind her back, she swayed, debating on whether to give him the gift she’d found earlier in the summer. Perhaps it would seem childish to him. Or it might be seen as one of those extraordinary things he had mentioned.

  She held a finger up. “Wait here.” Then she dashed for the house. At the French doors, she stopped and turned toward him. “Promise you won’t go anywhere?”

  “I promise, but hurry. The coach will be leaving soon.”

  Gabby ran inside and up the staircase, grateful she didn’t cross paths with anyone who would scold her for unladylike behavior.

  In her chambers, she hurried to her vanity to retrieve her simple treasure from the jewel box before rushing back to the garden. Anthony was still there, his cheeks pink from the cold air.

  Her fingers tightened around her gift, the edges digging into her palm.

  His smile seemed sad and unsettled her. She came forward slowly, doubting her decision to lay her feelings out to him.

  “I am sorry about your mother,” she said. “You mustn’t ever think you are alone now.”

  “But I am. I’m an orphan with no family.”

  She shook her head. “We are your family. You have us.”

  Anthony had spent more time at their home than his neighboring estate for as long as she could remember. He had to know she spoke the truth.

  “I’m fond of your family, Gabby, but that doesn’t make them mine.”

  She came forward on a rush of emotion and grasped his hand. “We are yours. I am.” She shoved the heart-shaped stone into his hand.

  He uncurled his finger
s and stared down at her offering. A shadow fell over his features. His lips turned down. “Gabby, I—”

  Her brother flung the outside door open. “Ellis, what are you doing out here? It’s time to go.” Drew sauntered into the gardens, either oblivious to the fact he was interrupting or uncaring. Like Anthony, he was dressed in travel attire.

  Anthony trapped the stone in his fist and tossed a jaunty grin toward her brother. “I wanted a breath of fresh air, and I stumbled upon the bug doing her sketches.”

  There was no endearment attached to the name this time, and Gabby shrank back. She had been the target of their taunts too often to lower her guard.

  Drew gestured toward Anthony. “What’s in your hand?”

  Anthony snorted. “Nothing. Let’s get out of here.”

  His derision drove a spike into her chest.

  Drew was not easily distracted, however, and grabbed for Anthony’s hand. “Come on. Give it over. You’re holding on like it’s a piece of gold.”

  “I am not!” Anthony stopped resisting and opened his fist.

  Drew laughed. “A rock? What use do you have for a rock?”

  Anthony’s gaze lingered on her, his expression grim. “I told you it was nothing.” He walked to the edge of the garden, drew his arm back, and flung it so far Gabby couldn’t see where it landed.

  Her heart seized and her throat burned. She drew a deep breath to keep from crying.

  Her brother came forward and gathered her in an awkward hug. “Now, don’t start crying again, princess. I will be back again before you know it.”

  A soft sob escaped her despite her determination to keep her tears inside.

  Anthony shoved his hands into his pockets and studied the ground. “I’ll wait by the coach.”

  And then he walked away without even saying good-bye, leaving her trust and love for him trampled and broken on the ground.

  One

  Corby wagers £2,000 that when Lords Ellis and Thorne come to blows over a certain duke’s sister, Ellis will throw the first punch. Ledbery accepts the bet and wagers Thorne will strike first.

  From the betting book at Brooks’s

  April 1819

  When Anthony Keaton, Earl of Ellis, entered the gentlemen’s club, there was a spring to his step and a song in his heart. Well, he was whistling anyway. Nothing could spoil his fine mood this evening, not even the prospect of crossing paths with Sebastian Thorne.

  The porter met him at the entrance and offered to take Anthony’s hat and walking stick. “Good evening, milord.”

  Anthony sported a wide smile. “Good is an understatement, Harry. This evening is splendid.”

  “Yes, milord. It’s much improved with your arrival.” Harry, who had been employed at Brooks’s for as long as Anthony could remember, maintained his stony grimace. After all these years, his face would likely crumble if he attempted a change in expression.

  “I believe I detect a hint of sarcasm, my good man. Don’t tell me my absence has gone unnoticed these past months.”

  “Not at all, milord. Lord Thorne has found no one accommodating enough to accept his challenges with you gone. As of late, he has stopped coming ’round as often.”

  “I’m certain that is no hardship for anyone.”

  Least of all, Anthony. His last encounter with Thorne had left him hugging the chamber pot for the better part of a day, thanks to a wicked bottle of gin and Anthony’s inability to back down from one of Thorne’s challenges. He chuckled to himself. Perhaps he had missed the thrill of besting his rival, but not as much as he missed Lady Gabrielle Forest.

  Life was good. No, very good. Amazing! And perfect. Or it would be once Gabby’s brother granted permission for Anthony to marry her. Unfortunately, he had arrived to Town too late in the evening to call, but tomorrow their secret betrothal would cease to be a secret.

  Laughter echoed off the domed ceiling as he entered the great room. Groups of gentlemen were clustered around tables lining the walls, each crowd engaged in a different game of cards.

  “Look what rubbish the wind blew in,” Mr. Smyth called out in greeting. Anthony wandered to the table to exchange a few friendly words with the men before he was called to an adjacent table and encouraged to join in their game of whist.

  “Another time, gents.”

  He scanned the area, hoping to encounter one of Gabby’s brothers so he could at least inquire into her well-being. Four months apart had been unbearable, but there had been no help for it. Once they became husband and wife, he would make certain they were never apart that long again.

  None of his childhood friends were among the crowd, not that he’d really expected the Forest men would be in attendance. His friends had become domesticated as of late and spent evenings in the company of their families.

  A bittersweet pang originated deep within his chest. A family life. The one thing he had always wanted and thought he would have with his first wife.

  He shook off his melancholy. He’d not waste another moment grieving the loss of his dreams. His daughter, Annabelle, was safe under his roof now, and he would have the wife he should have married long ago.

  On the long journey back from Wales, he had passed the time imagining evenings at home with his two ladies, Annabelle dressing her doll’s hair and Gabby sketching whatever caught her fancy.

  His grin returned. Damn, he couldn’t wait to be domesticated himself.

  He spotted Lords Corby and Ledbery sitting away from everyone else with the betting book lying open on the table before them. Corby elbowed his companion and nodded in Anthony’s direction. Anthony scratched the back of his neck and looked away.

  There was a reason the two men sat apart from everyone else. Corby and Ledbery were young, wealthy, and bored. No better combination for trouble existed. More than one gentleman of Anthony’s acquaintance believed the gents fed information to the gossip rags. He didn’t know if it was true, but one thing was certain—often when he had a problem, those two were involved.

  Turning on his heel, he pretended not to see them and headed for the billiard room. The clack of balls knocking together greeted him as he entered. He grabbed a stick and claimed one of the crimson tables to practice, since everyone else was already in pairs.

  Lining up his shot, he leaned over the table, his concentration keen. He drew back his cue, bumped into something, and sent the ball careening to the left.

  “Bollocks,” he muttered.

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Bad luck that, Ellis.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Corby.”

  Ledbery circled the billiards table like a mongrel preparing to attack. Anthony moved to line up his next shot, hoping they would take their leave if he pretended they didn’t exist.

  Corby plopped the betting book on the felt and tapped the page. “You’ll want to get in on this wager.”

  “I’m not interested.” Anthony lined up the next shot. “Kindly remove the book.”

  Corby scooped it up with a frown. “Aren’t you curious as to the terms?”

  “No.” He slammed the cue stick into the ball. It dropped into the pocket.

  “We’re taking bets on Lord Thorne’s wedding,” Ledbery said.

  So Thorne had gotten caught in the parson’s noose. Anthony grinned. He wasn’t a betting man on most occasions, although Thorne—aptly named given he was a pain in Anthony’s side—had a way of goading him into taking the most ridiculous bets. He looked forward to a little friendly goading himself when they next crossed paths.

  “What are you betting on?” Anthony drawled. “How many steps his bride takes down the aisle before she comes to her senses and runs?”

  Ledbery scratched his head. “Yes, I suppose that is a scenario we hadn’t considered. It happened to his sister, only it was the groom to escape in the nick of time.”

  Anthony waved him off. “No need to drag his family into this discussion. The lady was misused, and she didn’t deserve it.” He laid down the cue stick and retre
ated to a table along the wall. Pulling out a chair, he slumped into it. He knew he was going to regret this. “What is the bet?”

  The men exchanged matching leers, and Anthony cursed his curiosity.

  Corby slid the book in front of Anthony and sat. “We are betting on how long it’s going to take for Thorne to woo the lovely Lady Gabrielle.”

  “Foxhaven’s sister?” Anthony snatched up the book. He blinked several times in case his eyes were fooling him then glared at Corby. “You said four days?”

  “I think he’ll never win the lady’s heart,” Ledbery piped up.

  Anthony thumped the table and pointed at him. “Never is the correct answer. This is balderdash. Lady Gabrielle Forest wouldn’t give Thorne the time of day.”

  Corby smirked. “She allowed him to take her for a ride down Rotten Row today. They seemed cozy from my point of view. In fact…”

  A loud buzzing in Anthony’s head drowned out the rest of the gent’s comment. What did Corby mean Gabby had gone for a ride with Thorne? She was engaged to Anthony. Even if nothing had been formally settled between them, she had given her promise.

  “This is a mistake. You have the wrong lady in mind.”

  Corby shook his head. “I know Lady Gabrielle when I see her. She stands out like an orchid among roses. Thorne’s a lucky gent.”

  “No, he isn’t.” In fact, the baron’s luck had run out if any of this was true. It was one thing to steal the affections of Madame Beaudry—the prima donna had become too demanding for Anthony’s tastes anyway—but Gabby was another story.

  Anthony sank against the seat back with a mild smile. Corby and Ledbery were trying to rile him. Thorne had no interest in courting a lady. “And what does one carriage ride prove?”

  “It wasn’t the carriage ride as much as the dancing,” Ledbery said as he took up position beside his friend, his expression grim.

  Corby nodded, his lips set in a thin line.

  Perhaps they weren’t joking after all. He sat up straighter. “What dancing?”

  “Thorne claimed the supper dance and a waltz at the Finchley ball last night, and he is sure to try the same at Lady Chattington’s tonight.”