The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)
“And will do so again?”
“Most likely.”
She gave a resigned sigh before rising to her feet. “Thank you for your honesty, Mr Trent. I have kept you long enough. Please accept my apology if my silly efforts to mitigate my guilt caused you pain.”
Lawrence stood but was reluctant to leave. “Am I to understand that you no longer feel the need to atone for your actions?” Might she return home and put these strange events from her mind? “It’s unsafe for anyone wandering these dark lanes at night.” Let alone a young woman with such a captivating countenance.
Miss Vale fell silent.
The frown on her brow spoke of an internal dilemma, a struggle to decide whether to lie.
Damn it all!
Cavanagh was right. Perhaps he should have stayed at home. Perhaps it was better to wallow in ignorance. He owed the Farrows nothing. Now, he could not help but feel some responsibility for a woman he’d met a mere hour ago.
“I offer my assurance that I shall not revisit Mr Farrow’s grave.” Her tone conveyed sincerity, but it was her silent thoughts, the words he couldn’t hear, he found unnerving. Having suffered a life full of empty promises, he could not bear to hear false protestations.
Lawrence gestured to the aisle, and they vacated the pews.
Uneasiness settled in his chest as they left the church and navigated the path back to the gate. This woman was unpredictable. He had spent his childhood living beneath an umbrella of uncertainty and knew how to read the clues, the rigid movements of the body that spoke of undisclosed plans and secrets.
“Let me escort you home, Miss Vale. My carriage is parked on Church Street. My coachman will tether your horse so it may trot alongside.”
The lady turned to face him, and that was when he knew he was right to trust his instincts. Those sharp blue eyes that had studied him with fearless fortitude now flitted back and forth in their sockets, unable to focus on his face.
“I shall see you only as far as your gate,” he added, should she be wary of his intentions. “Even illegitimate sons like to play the gentleman on occasion.”
She did look at him then, with an unblinking intensity that awakened something warm within. “Your parentage matters not to me, Mr Trent. And having told you my darkest secret, I think I can trust you to escort me home. It’s just that I like the freedom that comes with riding in the moonlight.”
Over the years, he’d tried many ways to rise above the limitations of his questionable lineage. Ways to feel free and unencumbered by the noose of the misbegotten. “When a person is at one with nature, even one’s wildest dreams seem possible.” Hell, he sounded like a poet spouting romantic drivel. Next, he’d be downing bottles of laudanum and taking to his bedchamber amidst a pile of crumpled notes.
Her sudden smile brought a glow to her cheeks. “And I have a more vivid imagination than most.”
The sudden need to know her every waking fantasy took hold. “Then permit me to play the errant knight and see you to your door. You may sit astride your horse, and I shall walk alongside.”
He never made gallant gestures.
“There is no need to fear for m
y safety.” She leaned forward filling his head with the sweet scent of violets. “I carry a blade in my satchel and am not afraid to strike.”
The revelation excited as much as it shocked. This woman was an enigma. A conundrum of beguiling innocence and warrior spirit. A combination he found appealing. Rarely had he experienced a deep tug in his stomach when speaking to a lady.
“All the more reason I should escort you home.”
“And what of your poor coachman? A walk to Shepperton and back will take almost an hour.”
Had she wanted to dissuade him, she might have simply refused his offer. “I shall inform him of my intention and tell him to meet me in Shepperton.”
She tilted her head back and looked skyward at the scattering of stars. “It is beautiful out tonight.” A stray tendril of dark brown hair escaped her hood, and he resisted the urge to tuck it back behind her ear. “So beautiful one might forget all about their woes.”
“Indeed.”
On a sudden gasp, she looked at him and said, “Then make haste, Mr Trent. Let us be on our way while the sky is still clear.”
Miss Vale agreed to wait with her horse while he crossed the churchyard and conveyed his intention to his coachman, Sleeth. With every long stride, he grew convinced he would return to find the lane empty. To find the bewitching creature gone. Vanished.
“If you walk as quickly as you have done now,” she began when he charged through the gate to find her sitting astride an elegant white mare whose mane was grey from the poll to the withers, “I shall have to trot to keep the pace.”