At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

“Will you get to the point, Miss Lovell?” The uncomfortable feeling in his chest forced his brusque response.

Miss Lovell lowered the hood of her cloak as if she no longer needed to hide in its depths, no longer needed its protection.

God damn!

Unmanned by her beauty, Miles inhaled deeply. If this lady wanted to fight, the least she could do was fight fairly.

The combination of her rich brown hair, of her full mouth and wide eyes, stole his breath. Everything about her spoke of understated elegance, of innocence, of benevolence. No doubt she had a heart so large she would love deeply, with a passion that would make a man feel like a king.

Only now, that heart was bursting with vengeance—much like his own.

“Your lack of attention to your tenants, my lord, is the reason I stand here before you. Do you have any idea how they suffer?” A solitary tear trickled down her cheek and Miles fought the urge to

drag a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe it away. “Well? Do you?”

Miles shrugged. “How could I possibly know of their plight when I have been away these last five years?”

Miss Lovell shook her head, an incredulous look now marring her fine features. “And how do you suppose men can provide for their families when there is no work on the estate? How can they be assured of good health when water leaks into their cottages at the first sign of rain? How can they seek help when abandoned by their master? Please tell me how?”

“It is Mr Gilligan’s responsibility to ensure the tenants’ needs are met,” he countered.

“And yet under your instruction, he has doubled the rents.”

Doubled the rents? Miles had given no such order.

“Under your instruction, he has turned out the staff.” Miss Lovell braced her hands on her hips. “While you have been attending to your … your appetites abroad, your tenants have been rotting in squalor.”

Miles did not reply immediately. Now was not the time to correct her assumption. The years spent in India and the Far East had been about gathering a fortune large enough to wreak vengeance on those who’d harmed him. Nothing had distracted him from his lust for revenge. Years of sweat and toil had left little time for life’s pleasures. Knowing the estate was in good hands afforded him the focus needed for the task.

“You’re saying the estate has fallen into disrepair in my absence,” Miles clarified.

The blood chilled in his veins.

The monthly letter he received from his steward assured him things were in order. Although judging by the look of anguish and resentment on this lady’s face, something was dreadfully amiss at Greystone Manor.

“Disrepair?” She screwed up her nose as if listening to the mumblings of the village idiot. “The Greystone Estate has been sorely neglected for years.”

Neglected? What the hell had Gilligan been doing with his time?

Miles inclined his head, eager to get rid of this woman and discover the truth for himself. “I thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, Miss Lovell. Now, if you will excuse me, I have important business to address.”

He would assess the property before searching for Mr Gilligan. After all, Miss Lovell might be prone to exaggeration or bouts of sentimentality. Out of boredom, perhaps she sought to invent stories. Perhaps she meant to capture his interest. He imagined there was a shortage of young marriageable gentlemen living in Cuckfield. And a title always attracted more than the desperate.

“Have you no desire to offer an explanation for your actions, my lord?” she continued.

Miles ignored the question. A man did not admit to anything when ignorant of the facts. “I would offer to escort you home, Miss Lovell, but I doubt you want the pious people of Cuckfield to know you keep company with a disreputable devil.”

She snorted—a sound of contempt not amusement. “My lord, you would be the last person I would turn to for assistance. If you must expend your energy doing something worthwhile may I suggest you concentrate on improving the lives of your tenants?”

Miss Lovell whipped up her hood, the abrupt action robbing him of the opportunity to gaze upon her delightful face. Without uttering another word, the lady turned on her heels and marched off before disappearing into the copse.

“While the weather is just as miserable,” Drake began, holding out his hand to catch the first few drops of rain, “the ladies are more spirited than I remember.”

“Spirited? Is that not a polite word for annoying?” Even so, Miles had to admit it took courage to stand up to the monster of one’s nightmares. “Miss Lovell has mettle. I’ll give her that.”

“There are few men brave enough to tackle you, although you didn’t seem to mind taking a whipping from her pretty tongue.”

No, he hadn’t minded. He hadn’t minded at all. If anything, he welcomed an opportunity to banter some more, to see if all that pent-up passion might be directed into a more pleasurable pursuit.