To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (2 page)

"He was my son, Esther," his father blubbered, and
Frederick recoiled in horror. His father, crying? No, it
could not be. "He's all I had of worth in this world since
Fiona was taken"

"Hush now, you foolish man. We're all of us hurting.
We all loved Charles, each and every one of us. But
you've still a son-an heir-and five lovely girls, besides"

Frederick took two steps backward, his boots sinking
into the muddy ground as his father spun around, no
doubt searching for him amongst the mourners.

When his father's gaze landed on Frederick's trembling form, one long finger lifted to point toward him
accusingly. "You think that one's worth a farthing to
me? He killed her-he killed my Fiona. All these years,
and I can't stand to look at him. And now with Charles
gone. . " He broke off, shaking his head wildly. "No.
No, damn it. Get him out of my sight!"

Frederick's bowels began to roil, and for a horrible
moment he feared he might soil himself, right there in
front of everyone. His sisters flocked around him, forming a protective circle as he vomited all over himself instead. Tears of shame immediately welled in his eyes as
Maria wiped his mouth with her handkerchief, but he
did not let them fall.

"Do not listen to him, Freddie," Maria whispered.
"Go on, back to the carriage"

But he couldn't move, couldn't force his feet to follow
his mind's command. Instead, he took a deep, steadying
breath, but it did nothing to soothe him. A strange, metallic scent hung heavily in the air-the scent of
death, of loss.

Aunt Esther's voice, laced with disgust, carried on the
cold, biting wind. "Get ahold of yourself, brother. It is
not the boy's fault. Dear God, the poor child has never
known his mother and now he's lost his brother, too.
You've no right to blame him."

"Fiona wouldn't rest easy till she bore me a second
son," his father keened. "A `spare,' she said. Five girls
after Charles, and each and every time I said `no more.'
Charles was the perfect son in every way; I had no need
of another. I told the midwife-" His voice tore on a
sob. "I told her to save my wife, not the babe. To do
whatever it would take to spare her life. But look," he
said, spittle flying from his mouth. "There he stands
now, with the audacity to look just like her-to remind
me daily of my loss. Take him to Ireland, to Fiona's
family. I want no more of him." His father broke down
then, sobbing on the ground at Aunt Esther's feet. She
looked on helplessly but a moment before signaling the
footmen to retrieve him and carry him to the waiting
carriage.

At once it all made sense to Frederick-everything
became crystal clear. His father's cool detachment, his
complete and utter disinterest in his youngest child. His
refusal to look him in the eye, to look at him in any way.
The man hated his own son. Hated him.

He tugged his hand from Maria's grasp and turned
and fled then, running as fast and as far as his legs would
carry him. Through the woods beside the churchyard he
flew, branches whipping his face and plucking at his
clothing. A hot, sticky trickle of blood traced a path
down one cheek, but he dared not stop to wipe it away.
All at once the heavy, gray sky opened up, rain pelting him and stinging his face, washing away the blood as
he ran toward nothing but away from everything.

At last he could run no more. His trembling legs
buckled beneath him and he sank to the muddy ground
beside the road, his clothes wet and torn, his lungs burning painfully from the exertion.

A bubble of despair swelled in his chest, tightened his
windpipe, and a horrified Frederick realized he was
crying-deep, gulping sobs full of anguish. For a quarter hour the tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks,
his body curled tightly into a ball, till the tears dried up
and he could cry no more. At last spent, he picked himself up off the ground, brushed off his ruined clothes,
and walked home-knowing in his heart that his life
would never again be the same.

The carefree days of boyhood were forever lost to
him. He was the heir apparent now, the future Baron
Worthington. And yet, in his father's eyes, worthless.

"Marry him? Dear Lord, Papa, no. You cannot mean
this" Lady Eleanor Ashton shook her head, her stomach clenched into an uncomfortable knot. For a
moment, she feared she might begin to retch.

"Of course I mean it, Eleanor dearest." Her father
rose from behind his massive mahogany desk, leaning
against the blotter with his palms. "It's all settled between myself and Lord Worthington. You're to be married by Christmastide. Young Frederick has already
agreed. Come now, daughter, I thought you would be
pleased."

"Pleased?" Eleanor's voice rose a pitch as she
clutched her skirts in angry fists. "Why ever would I be
pleased? He's ... he's the worst sort of rake, Papa, a ...
a rogue," she stuttered, the heat rising in her cheeks.
"Not at all the type I said I would consider."

"Is that so? Well, your mother tells me all the unattached young ladies are swooning over him. She expected you would be delighted that he's accepted you"

Whatever was he talking about? No well-bred young ladies swooned over Frederick Stoneham; how could
they? He had not ventured out into polite society, not
once in the six months he'd been in Town. Indeed,
Eleanor had spent the entire Season in London, and had
not had even a glimpse of him. Nor had anyone of her
acquaintance.

There had been rumors, of course. The ton had been
rife with gossip and innuendo, with eagerly whispered
tales of his misbehaviors, his many conquests and exploits. To say that the young ladies of the ton were
swooning over him was, at best, a gross exaggeration.
Indeed, it was patently untrue. Her mother must have
been mistaken, confusing him with someone else.
Unless ...

Her thoughts shifted guiltily to her diary, and her
palms dampened at once as her gaze darted to the doorway, toward her mother's favorite sitting room just down
the corridor. Was it possible that Mama had somehow
found the slim volume Eleanor kept safely concealed
beneath her feather mattress? Had her mother read the
silly, childish scribblings? Dear God, no. It would be far
too mortifying to bear.

"But I'm not delighted, Papa," she said, finding her
voice at last. "Not in the least. He cares nothing for me
nor for anyone, save himself I cannot fathom why he
would accept such an arrangement as he is not the type
of man to accept his father's wishes and do his duty."

"It would seem that you are mistaken, as Lord Worthington claims to have his full agreement on the matter.
Come, now, Eleanor. Do not fret so. Haven't you always
said you've no wish to marry for love? You haven't
changed your mind on that count now, have you, daughter?"

"No, of course not" One hand rose to her temple, massaging the hollow beside her brow. If only her papa
knew the irony of the situation.

"Then I don't understand your hesitation. It's an excellent match, a fine one, indeed. Lord Worthington's
estate in Oxfordshire is large and lucrative, as are his
holdings here in Essex. I've no doubt that marriage will
settle young Frederick and, besides, you'll be made a
baroness one day."

A baroness? No, it didn't signify. She could not be
betrothed to Frederick Stoneham. It was far too cruel a
twist of fate.

And why ever would Frederick agree to the betrothal? He was far too young to settle down and marry,
and Eleanor knew just what he thought of her-she'd
been cringing over the memory of his cruel words for
more than four years now. "A horse of a girl," he'd
called her, and that had been the most complimentary
thing he'd said.

Oh, she'd known all along that her infatuation was
hopeless, ill-considered at best. Never in a million years
would she have confessed her shameful secret to
anyone, not even her brother. Henry would have thought
her out of her right mind. She was a smart girl, a sensible girl. Practical and pragmatic. She wasn't prone to
flights of fancy or silly romantic notions. She'd readily
agreed that her father should choose her husband, but
she'd never imagined he'd choose so poorly.

No, she'd imagined a match with a studious, upstanding nobleman, a scholar, perhaps, like Papa-an heir
to an earldom at the very least. Not some reckless youth
whose rakish exploits were near legendary. A mere
mister, with only a barony in his future! Whatever was
her, father thinking?

She closed her eyes, sighing deeply. Frederick's devilishly handsome visage swam into focus in her mind's eye-deep brown eyes the color of drinking chocolate;
sensual, full lips curved into a wicked grin; sun-bronzed
skin that might fool one into believing he led a healthful, sporting life rather than one consumed with debauchery. With a shake of her head, she opened her
eyes, banishing the images.

Despite every rational thought to the contrary, she'd
wanted Frederick Stoneham to want her-wanted it so
desperately she'd thought she might go mad with longing. But she hadn't meant like this-not for no other
reason save her dowry, and what other reason could
there be? Her stomach lurched as she rose from her seat
on trembling legs. "You must excuse me, Papa," she
called out, fleeing blindly from the room through a veil
of tears.

"I'll tell Lord Worthington you've agreed, then," her
father called out after her. "Tomorrow, before I leave for
Kent."

Tell him whatever you wish, she thought, hurrying up
the wide marble stairs to the sanctuary of her bedchamber. I'll never agree to this. Never Not while I've breath
left in my body.

"Married? How positively dreadful, Frederick."
Molly tossed her long blond curls over one deliciously
curved shoulder, her bow of a mouth drawn into a pout.
"Why would you want to do such a thing? Don't I
please you well enough?" She trailed one manicured
nail down his bare torso as she gazed up at him, her
round eyes shining.

He reached down to cup her bottom, drawing her
closer. Her skin was warm and soft, and she smelled
invitingly of rose petals. "Aye, you please me immensely,
love. Perhaps I should show you just how much." He dipped his head toward her neck, his tongue skimming
across her leaping pulse.

She pushed him away. "Then why must you marry?
Why now? You're far too young to take a wife. It's ...
it's positively unnatural."

Frederick sighed. "She has a huge portion behind her,
and I could use the blunt. To buy trinkets for you,
among other things. Besides, think how much more
time I'll have to spend with you once I'm free from the
marriage-minded mamas."

"Hah! As if any respectable mama would consider
you. And, besides, have you forgotten that you'll be expected to spend time with your wife?" Molly asked
petulantly. "Time that could be spent with me, instead?"

"Not overmuch, I assure you, love. This is simply a
duty, a marriage of convenience to a perfectly respectable, wholly unattractive woman. She cares nothing for me nor expects much, I vow."

She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear with a huff.
"Don't be so sure of that, Frederick. You said the same
of that tart in Shropshire"

Her tone struck -a chord of annoyance with him, his
mood souring at once. He owed Molly nothing. Lovely
though she was, she was a drain on his finances and a
hindrance to his pursuit of pleasures where pleasures
could be had. And they could be had quite easily, he'd
realized.

That `tart' in Shropshire had given him exceptional
pleasure for more than a fortnight. An experienced
widow nearly twice his age, she had surely taught him
a thing or two, and he'd been loathe to end the association and return to London and Molly's bed. But, truly,
one kept mistress at a time seemed sufficient, especially
now that he planned to take a wife.

An unremarkable wife at that, he thought with a grunt of displeasure, recalling the lady in question's
form and features. She'd been no more than sixteen the
last time he'd laid eyes on her-uncommonly tall with
a long face and round, skittish eyes. A Long Meg, not
the slightest bit delicate or graced with feminine charm.

Still, he'd liked her well enough, as he remembered.
She'd been a hoyden then, outspoken, not yet formed
into the gentle lady she would likely become. Indeed,
he'd first stumbled upon her romping with a pair of
hounds in the meadow near her home, dashing this way
and that, tugging on the end of a stick while one of the
enormous hounds tugged back. The sight had amused
him; it seemed something a wild Irish lass might do, not
the high-born daughter of an English lord.

As he'd become better acquainted with young Lady
Eleanor Ashton, he'd learned that such behavior was
nothing out of the ordinary for her. He'd lifted her up into
his saddle once and raced across a gently rolling field,
while Eleanor laughed gaily, her shouts of "faster!" carried on the warm, summer breeze. Now that he thought
about it, he had enjoyed her company very much.

Still, he was a man who enjoyed beautiful women,
and she had been so unremarkable in appearance that he
could not even recall the color of her eyes.

He'd find out soon enough, he supposed, as he was
traveling to Essex on the morrow to complete the marriage agreement with her father, Lord Mandeville. He
only hoped their business would be concluded efficiently
and expeditiously, for he had no intention of remaining in
his father's company any longer than necessary. He had
no reason to tarry in Essex and subject himself to his
father's displeasure for more than a day or two at most.
God help him.

"I should go," he muttered, rising from the bed and stalking to the chair where his breeches lay in a
rumpled heap.

"Don't be cross with me," Molly snapped, sitting upright in a huff. "You can't very well expect me to delight
in your betrothal. Really, Frederick. Must you go?" She
leaned forward, her delectable breasts pushed forward
invitingly. "I don't think I've had quite enough of you yet."