The Trouble With Misbehaving. Victoria Hanlen

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      A rush of pink colored her cheeks. “Really, Captain,” she huffed. “That is absurd!”

      “Will we be taking the train back to London?” Beau asked cheerily, enjoying irritating her. She’d made him plenty uncomfortable with their bargain, and he was going to feel even worse if he found out she truly was a nutter.

      “No, Captain,” she snipped. “Dogs aren’t welcome with passengers on the train, and I can’t bear the thought of them being caged in some stuffy cargo car.”

      Ferrying her mongrels back and forth had to cost a small fortune. Obviously, money didn’t concern her, or she cared a great deal for her dogs. “Will you be bringing your lap warmers to North Carolina?”

      She didn’t answer immediately while she fished around in her reticule. Withdrawing a small hand mirror, she tweaked one or two hair coils around her face and checked the stability of her hat. “I’ll miss them terribly, but I’m afraid it would be too arduous for them. We’ll drop everyone off in London to stay at Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse, Amelia’s…I mean, Lady Grancliffe’s mother.”

      “And you don’t think it will be too arduous for you?” He frowned as he gazed about her exquisite carriage, beautiful traveling ensemble, and flawless coiffure. “War is being waged where we’re headed. Do you have any concept of what that means: the dangers you’ll face—the lack of conveniences? Things are not like they are here.”

      Mirror still poised in the air, she shrugged and said simply, “I know.”

      Well, he doubted she had any idea what she’d be up against, but far be it from him to tell her. He dragged a hand through his hair. “So, what’s on the itinerary?”

      “If all goes well, we should be in London by tomorrow evening.”

      Tomorrow evening. Beau settled back into the plush squabs and gazed about the carriage. It was so new he could smell the conditioning oils in the seat and door leather. Flecks of silver sparkled in the dark purple upholstery lining the ceiling and walls. Silver fringe adorned the windows. It was magnificent if one liked purple, violet or lavender.

      The springs were so well balanced they floated over bumps in the road. At least the trip back to London should be more comfortable than the train. He might even take a nap. Hopefully the compensations of traveling with a wealthy woman would outweigh the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his gut.

      Not more than a quarter hour later they passed the entrance to Rockford lands. He’d done quite well forgetting unwanted memories, but some remained as sharp and vibrant as if they’d happened yesterday.

      Beau’s lips turn down in disgust. Never had there been a more besotted young fool. At fifteen he’d fancied himself a man in love and had been as randy as a rabbit. That summer Lady Rockford, four years his senior and married to a man twice her age, had made several very specific and beguiling overtures. Her invitation started with a picnic and ended in the master’s chambers.

      At the time, Beau considered Lady R. the most comely of young women. He’d felt deep sympathy for her story that Lord Rockford only married her to keep up appearances. She’d been left to ‘rot’ at his elegant country home for a year while he attended the House of Lords in London.

      She and Beau were twined together in the huge four-poster bed when Lord Rockford arrived home.

      On seeing them, the incensed lord put all his weight into beating him. “You filthy little bastard. You’re no better than your mother. I’ll have you in jail for your efforts!”

      Then he began shouting obscenities at Lady R., grabbed and slapped her.

      “You hypocrite!” she screamed. “You claimed you loved me, but you have two mistresses in London! I’ve had you investigated. You keep them in fine style while you leave me on this desolate old farm. If you forsake me for another…two others, then I shall do the same!”

      “The devil you will!” Rockford roared.

      Belatedly, Beau realized he’d been the instrument to exact revenge on her husband.

      Lord Rockford marched over, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him to the bedroom door and threw him from the room, naked as a newborn.

      The next day, on a break from his studies at Grancliffe Hall, Beau happened to gaze out the window to see Lord Rockford stomping down the front steps. Shortly thereafter, he was summoned to the library. On the corner of his father’s desk sat Beau’s neatly folded clothes. The very ones he’d shed in Lord Rockford’s bedroom.

      His father glowered at him and wordlessly stabbed a finger toward the pile of clothes. Profound disapproval wrinkled his face. Something flickered in his eyes that even then Beau recognized as the last straw. More disturbing still was the resignation on his face.

      All summer Beau had been studying with Greek and Latin tutors to prepare him for Divinity studies. Several weeks later, he found himself a midshipman in the Royal Navy.

      “Are you quite all right, Captain?” C.C. asked. “You look as though you’ve a touch of motion sickness.”

      “I’d forgotten why it’s taken me so long to return to the family pile. It finally occurred to me—individuals continue to coerce me into leaving before I’d planned.”

      Plutarch, the grouchy little cur, now sprawled on the seat between her and her maid. A small leather-bound journal lay in C.C.’s lap. Jewels sparkled on her purple fountain pen. She returned to jotting down words and numbers in purple ink.

      Without looking up, she added, “We can stop, stretch our legs, and get some fresh air, if it would make you more comfortable.”

      “I’ll be all right,” he growled. “I’ve suffered worse at sea.” He watched her long, slender fingers grasp the pen. Something didn’t look right.

      “You’re a left-hander?”

      Her writing arm jerked like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. Pink flared on her cheeks. She carefully capped her pen and slid it into her reticule. “My parents were not remiss in attempting to cure me of my disorder. I am proficient with both hands. Sitting as we are, it’s easier to write with my left.”

      Cure her disorder? He’d heard some parents considered it such. Left-handedness, he’d been told, was inborn like blue-green eyes and blond hair. Clearly it still shamed her.

      Beau shifted his gaze to the maid. C.C. had appeared concerned about discussing certain topics in front of her. Did she only keep information from this woman or was C.C. reserved with everyone? Like a ship’s captain, she certainly seemed to have command over her servants.

      The memory of their expert loading of the carriages surfaced. Understanding finally struck. Somewhat a veteran of quick getaways himself, he realized their rapid departure couldn’t have been accomplished had C.C.’s attendants not already been packed and ready to go.

      Dear God, the truth finally sank in. They’d all been waiting for her to corral him and strike a bargain. He’d been her objective all along. A chill crawled through him. While he’d been mesmerized by her beauty, seductive teasing and questions as to her sanity, she’d used more grit and audacity than a cold-eyed Caribbean pirate.

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