A Marriage of Rogues by Margaret Moore

Author:Margaret Moore
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2016-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Finishing a late morning walk, Thea shivered and quickened her pace as she returned to Dundrake Hall. Soon it would be too cold to walk outside at all, so she had taken the opportunity to do so while she could. She had walked through a wood thick with pine, ash and oak and gone as far as the border of Dev’s estate, where it abutted the Duke of Scane’s vast acreage. The damp, misty air smelled of evergreen and rich earth made of leaves lost over the years. Startled squirrels scampered away through the undergrowth of bracken where the sun could reach the ground, and once a rabbit bounded away, its white tail like a sudden sighting of snow.

Just before turning back and beyond the boundary, she’d seen what appeared to be an abandoned cottage, perhaps used during the hunting season or by a charcoal burner. Despite its state of disrepair, it would have seemed palatial to many of the poor families she’d encountered in large cities, and it was a forceful reminder of her own days of poverty and fear.

Even so, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief that she was free, if only for a little while, of the duties and responsibilities that came with being the mistress of a manor. It was more work than she’d anticipated, and now she’d added the planning of a ball—not that she was sorry for that. As she’d told Dev, it was important that they take their place in local society.

She glanced at the French doors leading to her husband’s study, vividly remembering her trepidation the first time she’d approached Dundrake Hall through the garden. She’d had no idea what would happen. How glad she was that he’d agreed to marry her, especially after that frightening dream. All the terrors of the past, real or imagined, seemed to be behind her and a happier, secure life beginning.

Getting closer to the study, she caught sight of a familiar male figure standing near the fireplace with his back to the doors, looking up at the portrait of Sir Randolf.

That picture really ought to be taken down. Dev needed no reminders to be a good man. “Did you have a nice ride?” she asked after she opened the door and entered. “You were gone rather a long time.”

The man who turned to face her was not her husband.

Instead it was as if the late baronet’s portrait had come to life, except for the real man’s vivid blue eyes.

“Who are you?” she demanded, instinctively backing toward the terrace.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, my lady. I’m Roger Bessborough, Sir Develin’s solicitor,” the man who shared Dev’s broad shoulders and muscular build calmly replied. “I assume you’re Lady Dundrake.”

The shape of his face was different from Dev’s—more square and angular. Nor did he sound like Dev. Mr. Bessborough’s voice was rougher, and she had spent enough time with people trying to affect an upper-class accent to recognize the solicitor didn’t come by his naturally.

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