Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 1

One

NOVEMBER 1861

C harlene watched the carriages barrel past the large bay window in her parent's drawing room. They were moving at a brisk pace. Perhaps even fast enough that if she threw herself in front of one, she would be killed—or at least badly maimed. It seemed as though that would be her only way to escape the eternal rambling of her fiancé.

Perhaps she was being extreme—just a bit.

She sighed softly under her breath but it wasn’t as though Alastair Peterson, the Earl of Fenwick, would have noticed anyway. He was so self-absorbed, she wasn't quite sure why he even needed a wife. He did enough preening and self-congratulating, Charlene wasn't sure what a wife would do for him. At least, by her mother's standards. The man undoubtedly had a full staff to cater to his every need, so a wife certainly wouldn't run his household. And as handsome as he was—and he was handsome, with his raven's wing hair and dark gray eyes—he would never lack for female companionship. So what did that leave a wife to do for him?

Ah yes, the role of broodmare. That could be the only thing he hasn't been able to achieve in his life on his own.

Charlene reasoned that if he took a mistress and got her with child, Fenwick could claim the illegitimate child—but then the child would be of dubious lineage which, based on everything she knew about the very controlling and precise man, simply would not do. Not at all.

Besides, she was sure he wanted the standard heir and a spare. Never mind that he was playing roulette with Mother Nature. Though she never gambled, she knew enough to know the single rule: the house always won.

“So, Charlene dear, we shall go to the theater on Wednesday night so I can button up this deal with Mr. Hough, who—for some ridiculous reason—brought his wife on a bloody business trip.” Fenwick sounded annoyed as he cut into her own musings.

“I beg your pardon? I'm afraid I have plans for Wednesday evening.” Charlene sat up straighter in her seat as he pulled her out of her maudlin thoughts and back into her harsh reality.

He waved a hand vaguely. “Cancel them. I'll need you in attendance.”

She stared, incredulous at his complete dismissal of her own schedule. “Impossible. It is the first ball the Duchess of Norfolk has ever thrown. She is my closest friend and I promised her months ago that I would attend.” Charlene hesitated, but knew her father would be displeased if she was anything but gracious to Lord Fenwick, despite her repeated objections to this arranged marriage. “Of course, I wish to assist. I would be happy to have your business associate added to the guest list and then you could attend with me.”

Fenwick stared for a long uncomfortable moment, his gray eyes seemed almost flinty. “Absolutely not. We shall attend the theater as I planned. Inform your friend you are unable to attend.”

Fury shot through Charlene as her mouth fell open at his utter disregard for her existing plans—not to mention, her very generous offer. After all, it was an event everyone wanted to attend. His business associate and, more importantly, the man’s wife would be thrilled for the opportunity to attend.

Gathering her shock and outrage at his demand, Charlene found her voice as she found her feet. “Lord Fenwick, you are being completely unreasonable. One does not skip the first ball thrown by a duchess—any duchess. But most certainly not one who is fourth in line to the throne of England. I shall have to decline your very kind invitation to go to the theater.” She turned to leave the salon. The man was insufferable. This would never work .

She was nearly at the door when a large, firm hand wrapped around her arm in a punishing grip and halted her forward progress. With his fingers digging cruelly into the meat of her upper arm, her betrothed spun her around to face him. His eyes were like dark shards of gray ice now, his lips flattened into a grim line as he loomed over all her five feet, seven inches. Topping her by around four inches, he was quite intimidating, but she held her ground and straightened her spine. Charlene may look soft and a little plump, but she was no shrinking violet. Never had been.

Fenwick growled at her in a way that tested her will to be strong in the face of this outrageous display. “You will do as you're told, woman. As my wife, I shall dictate your schedule. You had better become accustomed to such things now. You will never walk out on me in such a disrespectful manner again.”

Charlene’s fury bubbled up and over like a pot left on the fire too long. “Then I suggest you find a different woman to cow, my lord. I shall not be your subservient little broodmare that you can trot out and put on display when and how you wish.”

The man grunted. “Don't be an idiot. I shall not find another woman, and that is exactly what you will be. My broodmare. You will marry me, bear my sons, and shut your bloody mouth unless I tell you to open it.”

Charlene inhaled sharply and tried to jerk her arm free, to no avail. Nonetheless, she looked him in the eye and said, low and harsh, “Over my dead body. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the King of England.”

Fenwick slapped her across the face and let go of her so that she fell to the floor under the force of the blow. As he pulled out his handkerchief, he sneered at her. “Pick yourself up and stop laying there like a sack of rubbish. It is unbecoming of the future Lady Fenwick.” He dabbed at his forehead delicately with the white square. “I shall collect you at eight o'clock on Wednesday night.” He turned and walked out of the room and out of the house as though nothing untoward had occurred.

Charlene sat there on the floor as her cheek throbbed. The house was eerily silent, despite the fact she knew her father was home and a full cadre of servants lurked about. Slowly, she picked herself up off the floor and made her way upstairs. Alone in her bedchamber, she locked her door and stood before her looking glass. Her cheek was red, and a tad swollen, though she suspected he had not hit her hard enough to leave a bruise. How she knew that, she couldn't be certain. Perhaps it was the many years of being a tomboy and all the bruises she'd acquired along the way. Regardless of whether a bruise would show, she refused to marry a man who was already willing to lay hands on her. Not even for her father.

T he evening had lasted forever, but at least Lord Fenwick hadn't joined them for dinner. Charlene wasn't sure she could have sat across from him and not spoken of what he'd done to her that afternoon. In the end, she didn't have to.

She had hoped to avoid what was about to happen, but when she had told her father that a marriage to Lord Fenwick simply wasn’t possible, he had overridden her objections. Even when she revealed the man had slapped her. Her father had assured her she must be making more of the situation than what it was. After all, there was no mark on her face, was there? She may not have appreciated having her face tapped, but that did not make the man abusive.

Charlene had stared at him, incredulous for the second time that day. Her mother said nothing, though she seemed more disturbed by the revelation than her husband.

With her father's assurances ringing in her ears, Charlene knew she had no other choice but to run. Hopefully her actions would help her father realize just how serious she was. Considering she was no green girl fresh out of the schoolroom, it seemed rather ridiculous that at the ripe old age of eight and twenty, she found herself running away to avoid marriage.

She sighed. Yet here she was.

The house was silent as she cracked open her bedchamber door. With a tentative step forward, Charlene eased into the shadows of the hallway. From there, she quickly made her way down the back stairs and out the servants’ door. The night was chilly, but she had on her best navy-blue woolen gown, the boys trousers she often wore under her gowns when riding astride, and a heavy winter cloak. She hoped she would be warm enough.

She switched her portmanteau from one hand to the other, trying to shift the weight of it to give one arm a rest. She'd packed as light as she could manage, under the circumstances, but she was also heading home to her family's country house where she would have a small wardrobe selection which she kept there once she arrived. By her estimation, it would be a two-day journey if she rested her mount properly and didn't ride straight through. True, she was terribly nervous about being alone on the road, but it was a risk she must take.

Charlene crept into the carriage house and slipped into Persephone’s stall. Her black mare was a beautiful horse and would carry her well. Setting down her bag and readying her horse for the ride she had just laid the blanket over her back when the scrape of a boot sounded.

“Who's there? I have a rifle,” a thankfully familiar voice rang out.

“John, it's me, Charlene,” she called out softly.

A man appeared with a lantern held aloft. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?” He examined curiously as he leaned the rifle he carried against the stall door.

John Goodman had been their coachman for as long as she could remember. His son was training to replace his father one day, likely sooner than later. “I'm leaving, John, and you can't stop me.”

“Well, I reckon I could if I really wanted to, girly. Can you tell me why you're sneaking out like a thief in the night?” He scratched his head and watched her as she tried to heft her saddle onto Persephone.

“Lord Fenwick hit me this afternoon—” John growled low and menacingly “—and my parents will not call off the wedding. They think I have made more of what happened than what it was.” Charlene let the saddle sag down by her feet as she drew in a deep breath before turning to face the old retainer who was more of a family member to her than a servant. “I won't marry him. If he was willing to slap me today, imagine what he'd be willing to do once I am under his control. Once I am his possession.” She hated the note of pleading which had crept into her voice, but she was feeling desperate at the moment.

“No man should lay hands on a woman. I don't care what she's done. Where are you running off to, then?” John reached over and took the saddle out of her hands.

She watched hopefully as he hefted it up, but he made no move to settle it on her horse. “I'm going to Brookhaven Manor. I'm hoping if I hide there for a few days or perhaps a week, my parents will come to see reason.”

The servant nodded. “That sounds like a reasonable plan. But you can't go haring off into the night alone.” He carried her saddle back over to where it was normally stored, causing her to follow him out.

“But I have to go, John. If my parents find out my plans, you know they'll stop me. They’ll…they’ll make me marry him.” Charlene bit her lip and pushed back the tears that threatened.

He tsked softly. “Now don't go working up a bunch of useless tears. Of course you're going tonight, girly. Just as soon as I rouse my son to help me hitch up the coach, I'll be taking you where you want to go. You think I’d let you make that journey on horseback?”

A tight knot which had formed in her chest released as he shuffled off toward the living quarters where he and his son, Sam, lived. Half an hour later, John and his son had readied the coach and helped her get settled inside.

“We'll drive through the night, but I expect by tomorrow afternoon the horses and myself will need a rest. Sam will stay behind to drive your parents wherever they need to go. And should their panic become too great, he will tell them what you are up to.”

She couldn't help but smile softly. “Thank you, John. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Not at all, girly. I'm sure your parents would want to know you had some protection rather than thinking you hied off alone in the dead of night.” He nodded then and climbed up on the driver's box. A moment later, they pulled out of the stable and into the mews. Soon they were wending their way through the streets of London and headed to sanctuary.