How to Tame a Wild Rogue: The Palace of Rogues

My dear Lady Worth,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I have undertaken a good deal of reflection since the pleasant hours recently passed in the company of you and your father. As such, it became clear to me that in addition to an appreciation for literature and a fondness for the countryside in common, we two face similarly daunting seasons of our lives: I am fifty-six years old, widowed for the second time, and a father to five children, several still in the schoolroom. You are a well-bred, titled but unmarried woman of advancing years who finds herself without a dowry and facing an uncertain future.

I presume to write today with a proposal to which I believe you may be amenable.

You struck me as a pragmatic person, and as such I hoped you would forgive me if I forego the superfluous frivolities of courtship, which are rightly the province of the young and naive.

I should like to propose that we marry.

As my wife, you would oversee the management of household matters, including the hiring of servants, such as you were trained to do. You will have assistance from the housekeeper, butler, and my Man of Affairs. You would also assist me in raising and guiding the children with affection and wisdom and making decisions regarding their welfare, and I will expect you to dutifully participate in the more intimate features of marriage that occur in private between a husband and wife as well as attend to my comfort in other wifely ways.

I am certain you would be a credit to me as a hostess and in all other public functions requiring our mutual attendance.

In exchange you will enjoy a grand family name and title and all the comforts afforded by my fortune, lifelong security for yourself and any future issue that may result from our union.

I have an income of fifteen thousand pounds per annum, an estate in Sussex, and homes in London and Richmond. I will be happy to negotiate an allowance for you, and to provide a suitable settlement to your father.

I enclose a list of assets and sources of income, information which may help you to come to your decision.

Given a foundation of friendship, breeding, and interests, I am optimistic that affection will arise between us over the course of years.

I expect you shall need a period of reflection, and I believe a fortnight should be sufficient. Should I not hear from you by letter post haste, I shall call upon you at your father’s home in Hampshire at the end of the month to hear your decision. I will send a messenger ahead of my arrival.

I am certain you comprehend that I do not take lightly the conferring of the honor of my good name. Rest assured, Lady Worth, that I believe you are deserving of it.

Yours sincerely,

Alfred,

Earl of Athelboro

He had indeed enclosed numerous other pages methodically listing his property holdings, his investments, the yearly incomes from his estates, and the names and ages of his children.

The letter was a masterpiece of delicacy, kindness, pomposity, brutal pragmatism, and entitlement. He saw her as a fixed set of predictable qualities which would suit his purposes. He did her the honor of assuming she possessed the intelligence to see her predicament in the same light he saw it. It solved every problem she had, and negated her completely.

And who was to say he was wrong about any of it?

Her father must have alerted the earl to the bargain she presented, given that she no longer had a dowry. It had been gambled away.

“Uncertain future.” “Advancing years.” He’d written these things with such authority that her breathing had gone shallow with terror when she’d read it. Did everyone believe her circumstances dire? Was this how all men saw her? He was fifty-six; he’d had two wives. He ought to be reluctant to get attached to another one, given his experiences. Doubtless any sentiment he’d ever laid claim to had been burned away.

And perhaps that was why he’d chosen her. For what about her would arouse undue sentiment?

He was wealthy. He would pay her father’s obscene five-hundred-pound debt. The marriage settlements would likely restore her father to some form of solvency, too. Wasn’t it her duty, then, as a daughter, to seize the opportunity?

She would have no worries at all.

But then, neither, of course, did the chair she sat upon. And after a fashion, furniture is what she would be.

I will expect you to dutifully participate in the more intimate features of marriage that occur in private between a husband and wife, as well as attend to my comfort in other wifely ways.

Her cheeks went hot and her stomach roiled.

She imagined the scorn with which Lorcan St. Leger would greet such a sterile sentence.

Lorcan was a disturbingly vital creature. Utterly foreign to her experience. He still frightened—maybe even repelled—her a little. And yet—she could not explain it—talking to him this morning had been like taking that first bite of an orange. That first sip of black, black coffee. He listened as though she mattered precisely as much as he did.

How disorienting this quality was to encounter in a man. She’d felt as if she were in a fast ship moving over water, sea spray in her face.

And she was ironically surprised to realize that of all the men she’d ever known, he alone had helped her when she’d needed it and had so far asked for nothing in return.

She ought to fall on her knees in gratitude to the Earl of Athelboro. She ought to be soaring with relief. She’d once experienced the “frivolity of courtship” and had somehow botched it, and perhaps once was all one got in a lifetime.

She could be a countess, and all she had to do was give up her pride and all hope.

But the earl was right: it was an honor.

So it was this, or perhaps a lifetime of serving as a companion to the Mrs. Leggetts of the world. She was a dutiful person, but she felt not one twinge of guilt when she imagined Mrs. Leggett discovering a bedsheet dangling from the window and her not-yet-paid paid companion missing. The weather was on her side, in that carriage travel would be nearly impossible over the next few days. She only hoped she could return to Hampshire before word somehow reached her father of her escape.

And therein lay Daphne’s answer. So she set out to write a reply.

But no matter how hard she stared out the window at the rain, she could not quite get past “Dear Lord Athelboro.”

She read a book instead.

“I think we’re lucky to get out of that alive,” Lorcan said to Daphne about dinner.

Which had been simple, hearty, and tasty—fish stew and root vegetables and bread and butter—but had featured a frenzy of reaching and devouring and several midair near collisions of sloshing tureens. Three strapping boys, curly of hair, long of leg, rosy of cheek, German of accent, ate like sharks thrown chum, which was fomenting the general eating panic. Daphne and Lorcan had been introduced to all of them, as well as to Mr. Angus McDonald, who sported close-cropped hair so flaming red he resembled a lit match. Delilah and Captain Hardy and Angelique and Lucien were present, too. Chewing and swallowing took precedence over conversation.

They were told that a few other guests had apparently opted to take dinner in their rooms that evening, as the rules allowed, and that Mr. Delacorte’s stomach was a bit unsettled, but they would all be joining them in the sitting room.

All the diners eventually staggered, a few at a time, from the table, full and a trifle frazzled, and into the sitting room.

Lorcan and Daphne both hesitated. And then Lorcan extended an only slightly mockingly chivalrous arm. “Time for charades, missus,” he murmured.

She stared at his arm. Then drew in a sustaining breath and delicately, gingerly, rested her hand on it. It was easily twice the width of Henry’s arm. It felt a bit as though she’d just been given a cannon to fire.

He escorted her in.

The first person they saw in the sitting room was an extraordinarily picturesque young man leaning indolently against the mantel, as though he’d been propped there. One of the guests who had dined in his room, no doubt.

Daphne knew at once he was wealthy and titled. The details were all there: the ebony gloss of his Hoby boots; the coat so exquisitely tailored he might well have been sewn into it; the plum-colored striped waistcoat with silver buttons. His dark hair was just the perfect amount of floppy. His features were sculpted; his chin was dimpled. He was clearly accustomed to gawks and one got the sense he languished if he wasn’t the recipient of them. This was someone who very much enjoyed being exactly who he was.

He took in the two of them in a glance, then returned his gaze to Daphne and straightened alertly. He gifted her with a slow and brilliant smile, warm and inviting, meant to bewitch. Likely every new woman he saw was treated to one of those smiles, and as there wasn’t a younger or more beautiful female in view, Daphne thought wryly, she would have to do.

It wasn’t ineffective. She wasn’t unmoved. But it was wildly inappropriate, given that her hand rested on the arm of a man who was hard to miss.

She just wasn’t certain what to do apart from smile uncertainly in return.

Lorcan was eyeing the young man speculatively.

“How do you do, sir,” he said politely. “I am Lorcan St. Leger. Allow me to present my wife, Daphne St. Leger.”

Hearing her name linked with his in such a fashion was a jolt.

“Lord St. John Vaughn.” Unsurprisingly, the young man’s enunciation was as refined as cut glass.

Bows and a curtsy were exchanged.

“And what do you do, Lord Vaughn?” Lorcan asked. Somewhat idly.

“Do? Ah, it’s in the name, rather,” St. John replied pleasantly. “The ‘lord’ part. I’m the heir to an earl.” He said this meaningfully to Daphne.

“I see,” Lorcan said gravely. “In other words, you mainly do what you’re doing now.” He gestured to the mantel against which St. John was leaning.

“More or less,” St. John replied.

A tense little pause ensued while they studied each other, and something St. John saw in Lorcan’s expression transformed his into something much tenser rather rapidly.

“You’re something to do with violence, I would guess,” St. John said to Lorcan. “Something vigorous.”

“Aye,” Lorcan said agreeably. “Killing. Maiming. Things of that nature.”

St. John blinked.

“I’ve a few interests. Chess. Fencing. Horses,” St. John offered carefully. His eyes darted toward Daphne nervously.

“Just as long as none of them are my wife we’ll get along just fine.” Lorcan smiled terrifyingly.

Daphne’s breath stopped.

This was about as frank as things got between men before seconds were named, and Lorcan had done it in an offhand eyeblink.

“Perhaps you and I could practice fencing if you get bored during your stay.” Lorcan trailed a meaningful look behind him as he escorted Daphne away from the wide-eyed St. John.

She felt Lorcan’s arm tense beneath her hand.

And then she realized it was because she had gripped his arm tightly.

He looked down at her hand. His eyes met hers, somewhat uncertainly. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Did I frighten you?”

She wasn’t certain how to answer. More accurately, the answer was “no” and she suspected it should be. Instead, a sort of darkly brilliant thrill glowed in her chest. She understood two things: what the word “my” meant to Lorcan. And a shocking sort of primitive exhilaration of being boldly, unequivocally claimed: my wife.

That this realization should occur within the confines of a sham marriage made her throat tight.

“No,” she managed finally. “He’s probably harmless but he was indeed a bit disrespectful. I suppose I’m simply unaccustomed to such . . .” She searched for words. “. . . thrilling dialogue.”

He gave a soft laugh. “I see. I expect an actual gentleman might have used a few dozen more words to convey his meaning, but I find it’s best to be efficient about letting that sort know where I stand.” He paused. “And he clearly made you uncomfortable, which I could not possibly let stand.”

It seemed an astonishing thing to say. “Thank you,” she said, humbly.

“I wouldn’t really kill him, when it came right down to it,” he reassured her. “Perhaps just trim off his eyebrow with the tip of me rapier.”

With the sense that she was walking arm in arm with chaos disguised by a beautifully fitted black suit, they abandoned St. John as she allowed him to lead her deeper into the room.

He steered her toward where Delilah and Angelique had claimed chairs among Dot, who was wearing a stubborn expression, and a woman sporting dashing white streaks in her dark, upswept hair who was gesturing emphatically with the book she held. Cheerful bickering about how to pass the evening was clearly underway and words flying about included Spillikins, Whist, ghosts, attics, charades, pirates, and myths.

The German musicians had gathered at little tables toward the back of the room to chuckle amongst themselves, and Mr. McDonald had claimed a table for himself and opened a book.

Outside of church, where her family had its own pew, or crammed into a coaching inn, Daphne had never been thrust into a room so full of people she could not easily identify by station or rank, all of whom seemed unrelated to, quite familiar with, and even fond of, each other. It was as vibrant as an orchestra, somehow; everyone was different but contributed to the whole. And while none of the furniture and none of the people quite matched, for that reason, it all somehow paradoxically did. The room itself—the furniture, the wallpaper, the curtains, the pianoforte—had a soft, warm, gently worn charm. It was liberally lit by the blazing fire and a scattering of oil lamps, which flattered everyone’s complexions.

Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt had yet to appear, she noted.

Delilah stood to greet them. “Mr. and Mrs. St. Leger, may I introduce to you to our treasured guest Mrs. Pariseau? She is a widow and well-traveled, and she knows so many interesting things.”

Mrs. Pariseau, the woman who sported white stripes in her dark hair, was compact and curvy and she sprang to her feet to curtsy with a warm smile, which she aimed first at Daphne.

Then turned and looked up what seemed like miles into Lorcan’s face.

Her gaze lingered there, thoughtfully.

She returned it to Daphne. Then swung it back to Lorcan, clearly increasingly bemused.

“Well. My goodness. There’s certainly a story here,” she finally concluded, with relish. Her dark eyes crackled with mischief. “I would love to know how the two of you managed to meet.”

Daphne’s heart gave a lurch.

Lorcan said somberly, “Well, Mrs. Pariseau, I shall tell you. Like Daphne in the Greek myth, I met her when she was in need of some urgent assistance. But instead of a tree I saved her by turning her into my wife.”

Daphne was stunned to realize this was actually true, metaphorically speaking.

There was a chorus of “awwws” while Mrs. Pariseau gasped and clasped her hands to her bosom in pure delight. “We love our myths here at The Grand Palace on the Thames! Do you see, Dot?”

“Do I see what?” Dot said stubbornly. She actually liked myths well enough. It was just that she preferred ghosts.

They all turned when a man built a bit like a Welsh pony strode into the room. “I feel much better now!” he announced cheerily. “Those parsnips worked a treat to rush everything on out!”

Suddenly his face lit up like a firework with happy astonishment. “Is it . . . could it be . . . St. Leger?”

“Delacorte?” Lorcan sounded amazed.

Daphne was shocked when Mr. Delacorte whumped her fearsome fake husband on the back. “I’ll be daa-a—” He came to a halt before the word became an official epithet, and Mr. Delacorte and Lorcan launched into the mutual backslaps and handshakes of men who have clearly shared some meaningful experience, while everyone else looked on in bemusement.

“I’ll never forget that night at the Crown and Crow in Brighton, St. Leger. I like to tell the story about how you bought a round for all the lads and then dared that lass to dance on the bar! Ha ha! And then she fell and you caught her in your—”

“Delacorte, allow me to introduce my wife, Daphne,” Lorcan said smoothly.

Delacorte’s mouth froze midlaugh. He turned to her.

Daphne smiled patiently at him. Very amused, despite herself.

“You’ve a wife? St. Leger. You’ve a wife, St. Leger,” Delacorte amended quickly. “What an aston . . .” He cleared his throat. “. . . er, astonishingly fine thing. Congratulations to you both. What a pleasure and honor to meet you, Mrs. St. Leger.”

He bowed very elegantly to Daphne. His suit was handsomely tailored and beautifully kept, and the arc of his stomach taxed the top buttons of his waistcoat. His eyes were a rather lovely dreamy shade of blue, and his hair, a trifle too long, tufted out from behind his ears.

“Please do not leave me in suspense, Mr. Delacorte. I’m wondering how your Crown and Crow story ends,” she prompted. Mischievously.

Delacorte flicked a hunted look at Lorcan, who returned it with a warning one.

Delacorte tipped his head back, face abstracted, as if he were flipping through a long sequence of events to get to the last one.

“We put out the fire just in time, and managed to find the rightful owner of the goat.”

Daphne couldn’t help but smile slowly at Lorcan’s obvious discomfort.

“You’ll have to imagine what went on in between, my dear, because you won’t be getting the story out of me. I’m quite domesticated now,” he told Delacorte.

“Of course you are.” Delacorte not-so-subtly winked. “I think the two of you will be very happy here for however long you decide to stay,” he added confidently. “But you’ll want to have a care with the Epithet Jar, St. Leger.” He elbowed Lorcan in the ribs and gestured to the jar standing sentry over the room. “It could bankrupt a man.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about me, anymore, Delacorte. I’m as tame as a kitten. My wife, on the other hand . . . you should hear how she goes on. I’ll need to carry about a pocket full of pennies for her sake.” He winked.

Daphne’s mouth dropped open.

“I jest of course. She only curses a blue streak when she’s excited. Or thoroughly enjoying something.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Pariseau said faintly.

Delilah and Angelique had gone very still and wide-eyed.

“No one knows how to enjoy something like my wife,” he added wickedly.

Mrs. Pariseau surreptitiously fanned her bodice with her hand.

“Scones, for instance,” Lorcan continued, innocently. “She enjoys them a good deal.”

Daphne locked gazes with him. Hers was scathingly amazed.

His glinted wickedly.

There was a little silence.

She ought to disapprove. She hated to admit it, but she found it both very funny and exhilarating. Seldom had anyone bothered to tease her, not even Henry. Her earnestness and brisk efficiency hardly invited it, she supposed.

“Lorcan enjoys saying things like that because he likes to be scolded like a little boy.” She managed to say it fondly. She suspected this was also true.

There flashed in his eyes a blend of surprise, warning, and amused approval. As though he was unaccustomed to being challenged and yet she continued to surprise him. And as long as she did, he was going to try to find ways to test her.

She found this disconcerted her less than it ought. It felt peculiarly like a relief.

“Nay, in truth sometimes I say things just to make her blush,” he said softly. “For do you see how pretty it is when she does?”

And now she was certain she was scarlet, judging from the heat of her cheeks, and everyone was looking at the two of them meltingly, charmed by the unpredictable menace that was her fake husband.

“She does have a gift for appreciating things,” he added more gently. Sounding conciliatory. Apologizing, just a little, for teasing her.

She stared at him, surprised. He had robbed her of words. Primarily because it was something she secretly appreciated about herself that no one had ever before thought to point out.

“We . . . both do,’ she told the little group around them. Her voice was faint Because it was the fair thing to say. And because she realized it was true. For different reasons, but they did.

She suddenly wanted a moment alone to ponder this realization.

“Daphne and I knew each other when we were younger,” Delilah told the little group nearest them. “I remember the picnic with garlands and little lanterns in the trees for her father’s fortieth birthday. It was magical. There was a picnic nearly every year for his birthday,” Delilah told Lorcan.

“Sounds enchanting.” Lorcan only sounded a little ironic. “Were there picnics for your birthday, too, Daphne?” He turned an expression of cheerful expectation toward her.

She felt her face heating again. She wasn’t quite certain how to reply. “My birthdays were quieter affairs.” Mainly because they were seldom remembered until long after the fact.

“Ah,” he said pleasantly, after a little beat of silence. There remained a little puzzled dent between his formidable brows.

Daphne was tense now. She didn’t want to discuss the home she’d all but lost. It would only lead to questions about whether Lorcan had ever visited there, and what her family thought of him, and the lies would need to fly as thick and fast as . . . gnats at a picnic.

Lorcan was studying her with that thoughtful furrow between his eyes. Suddenly he turned away. “Delacorte, are you still traveling about with your case of magic powders and whatnot? It was how the two of us managed to meet,” Lorcan explained to the group. “He travels a fair bit selling medicines and remedies and the like up and down the coast.”

Daphne recognized it as a deft change of subject.

“Oh, indeed. And I’ve joined Hardy and Bolt in their Triton Group endeavor, as well.”

“Have you, indeed,” Lorcan mused, sounding somewhat amused, somewhat ironic.

“I’m given to understand you’ve been a privateer, Mr. St. Leger. You must be very well traveled,” Mrs. Pariseau remarked.

“Oh, I’m certain Mr. St. Leger has been to a lot of England’s more intriguing points of interest. Coves at midnight. Secret tunnels. Sea caves. Abandoned cart tracks. Dark alleys.”

Thusly Captain Hardy announced his entrance, followed by Lord Bolt.

Hardy strode casually over to where their little group stood, while Bolt strode over to Mr. McDonald, as Angelique had asked him earlier to make a bit of an effort to get the dour Scot to play chess.

Daphne noted that Delilah was staring a caution at her husband.

Captain Hardy didn’t seem to notice.

Once again he and Lorcan were fixedly regarding each other.

Lorcan was smiling in what appeared to be genuine, if unsettling, amusement.

“I expect you greatly regret we never encountered one another in any of those places,” Lorcan said. “In another coincidence, Captain Hardy and I knew each other as boys in St. Giles,” Lorcan informed the group.

Mr. Delacorte’s expression went at once mistily contented. One of his favorite things in the world was to be in a room where everyone knew and liked each other.

“Oh! I’m certain the two of you were ador . . . adorable . . . together . . .” Mrs. Pariseau faltered as she realized that no one really said “adorable” with reference to St. Giles. And that the men in question had probably been dangerous looking even as babies.

That, and Captain Hardy’s lips had all but vanished in a grim line.

Daphne’s stomach clenched again. She almost preferred they would get it over with and fight with swords instead of innuendo.

“We were, indeed,” Lorcan continued. “Hardy disappeared one day when I was about nine years old, and the next time I saw him was decades later, in a pub in Cornwall. Bought him a round, in fact. He was a blockade commander and a hero. I was right proud to know him.”

Daphne studied his face for evidence of irony, and saw none.

“And what were you by then, Mr. St. Leger?” Mrs. Pariseau asked with genuine interest.

He paused. “Mainly I was clever,” Lorcan said, with a remote little smile.

“And lucky,” Hardy added.

“Aye, surely you’re correct,” Lorcan said humbly. “I imagine a boy rescued from St. Giles at the age of ten to spend a lifetime within the cozy structure of the navy would know a thing or two about luck.”

“I suppose a boy who never left St. Giles would learn a lot about getting away with things,” Captain Hardy mused.

“I imagine so.” Lorcan was amused, but not in a heartwarming way.

“Funny, but everyone seemed to know St. Leger when I met him,” Captain Hardy said lightly. “Everyone. But no one would say why.”

“Even I know St. Leger,” Delacorte contributed. “Have we got a story for you, Hardy.”

“Save it for the smoking room, Mr. Delacorte,” Lorcan said hurriedly.

“The Triton Group’s ship has been delayed nigh on a fortnight,” Delilah shared with Lorcan. “The Zephyr. We’re all a bit concerned, as you can imagine.”

It sounded a bit like an explanation. Perhaps even an apology for her husband’s terseness.

There ensued a little pause.

“Hard luck,” Lorcan sympathized. Quietly. Genuinely.

Hardy stiffly nodded his acknowledgment.

“Do you travel with your husband, Mrs. St. Leger?” Mrs. Pariseau asked this.

She cast a worried look up at Lorcan. “I have traveled with him a little,” she said carefully.

“But it’s a difficult life for a woman, aye?” Lorcan said, smoothly metaphorically scooping her out of the path of the question. “And so when we miss each other . . .” He turned to her.

“We can look up at the night sky and know we’re both watching the same stars, and we don’t feel alone.” Daphne said this slowly.

It didn’t feel like a lie, somehow.

Lorcan smiled somewhat slowly, with some surprise, as if he was proud of her.

Daphne was surprised to feel touched that he’d tried to rescue her from the need to outright lie.

“Perhaps we ought to decide what we’d like to read this evening,” Angelique interjected. “Mrs. Pariseau is in favor of a few Greek myths. Dot would like to read The Ghost in the Scullery. Shall we take a vote?”

“I find I’m in the mood for ghosts. Something about the reappearance of a past long buried, I suppose,” Lorcan said, and raised his hand.

Daphne raised her hand. “I want to know if they vanquish the ghosts.”

Lorcan looked at her curiously.

The ultimate vote count showed that the ghosts won the evening. Mrs. Pariseau shrugged good-naturedly. “I’ll read it, if you like.” She was very good at reading aloud. She glanced about the room. “Dot, where did you leave the book? It’s not in our usual place.”

Dot’s expression was suddenly stricken. “I’m afraid I . . . well, I left it in the scullery.”

“The scullery?” Angelique asked. “Why the scullery? Oh . . . wait, never mind. I think I know.”

Although she and Delilah knew the run of Dot’s thinking well enough by now to suspect she’d been in the midst of a daydream and had absently filed it there because the word “Scullery” appeared on it, the way she might have put flour in the bin labeled “flour.”

“Well, why don’t you go and fetch the book, Dot, and Mrs. Pariseau will read to us?” Delilah said before Dot could answer.

Dot’s eyes flared with alarm.

“It was only the wind, Dot,” Angelique said kindly but firmly.

“And we know you’re brave,” Delilah added encouragingly, as if saying it with conviction could make it true.