Rules for a Fake Fiancé (Rogues Gambit #1)

Chapter Two

Rakes, like all men, are guided by their own bizarre code, incomprehensible even tothemselves.

M ellie squeaked in alarm, and she was not a woman who made animal sounds. Which made her all the more furious. Ronnie lay sprawled on the ground, a look of total shock on his face. Lord Charming stood over her cousin, his expression equally startled, though she detected a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that belied his whispered, “Bloody hell.”

She felt a hysterical giggle rise in her throat, but quickly swallowed it down. This was not a good situation, and yet how many times had she wanted to plant a facer to her cousin? Too many to count. That it had come during yet another of Ronnie’s proposals was beyond perfect.

Except it wasn’t perfect. Ronnie was likely to be her husband, and she couldn’t really approve of people flattening him. So she schooled her face to be serious. “Mr. Anaedsley, I hardly think—”

“Sir, you are a cad and a…a monster!” Ronnie cried as he rubbed his swelling jaw. “I was proposing!”

“I know,” Mr. Anaedsley returned. “ Everybody knows,” he said as he looked pointedly at the servants dotting the hallway. What Mr. Anaedsley didn’t realize is that Ronnie loved an audience for his romantic gestures. The more, the merrier.

“You haven’t the right to interfere!” Ronnie gasped. Oh dear. He was exercising his righteous indignation, and that never ended well.

“Never mind that, Ronnie,” she said as she reached forward to help her cousin stand. Or so she tried, but Mr. Anaedsley blocked her path. And when she attempted to move around him, he shifted to stop her. “Mr. Anaedsley, I assure you, this is not helpful.”

He flashed her an odd look—part rueful chagrin, part gleeful miscreant. “You did beg me not to abandon you to your cousin’s attention.”

“I did not!” she said, though she wondered if perhaps she had.

Meanwhile, Ronnie was rising to his full and impressive height. His brows were drawn together, and his lips were curled back into a sneer. He looked fierce, and she took a step backward in surprise.

“Step away, Sir Monster,” her cousin intoned, his tone dire.

Sir Monster?

The appellation obviously had no effect on Mr. Anaedsley. He raised his brows and shrugged. “I must insist that you stop importuning your cousin. She is not amenable to your suit, and—”

“Do we fight as gentlemen? Or as brutes?” Her cousin’s voice had dropped to a velvet threat, both soft and cold. It sounded very dramatic. And wholly unnecessary.

Melinda pasted on a placating smile. “Let us retire to the parlor for refreshments. Ronnie, I have requested those cakes you like—”

“I have no interest in cakes, my Mellie,” he answered as he lifted his fists.

Damn it, this was spiraling out of control. First, she hated it when he called her “my Mellie.” And second, did he want to brawl in the foyer?

Mr. Anaedsley grimaced in distaste as his fists came up in a defensive posture. Sadly, he had no way of knowing that Ronnie was extremely accomplished with his fists. And given his size advantage, Mr. Anaedsley was soon to be in a bad way.

Which meant she had to stop this now. Gathering all the strength she could force into her voice, she snapped out her words like a sergeant issuing orders. “Ronald Gregory Smithson, you will cease this ridiculousness! You will not engaged in fisticuffs in my hallway. Not in front of the servants and not with a future duke!”

Something flickered in Ronnie’s eyes. Something wild and manic. It was in his gaze, in the pull of his lips back from his teeth, and in the way he suddenly opened his fists as if his fingers had springs. She didn’t know what it was. Her cousin was prone to many romantic fits, but this was new.

And she didn’t trust new .

“Ronnie—” she began.

“As gentlemen then,” her cousin said. And faster than she thought possible, he grabbed a pair of gloves off the side table and smacked them across Mr. Anaedsley’s face.

Whack!

The sound was floppy but no less loud as it reverberated in the room. Melinda gasped, her gaze riveted on the red mark on Mr. Anaedsley’s cheek.

“Oh no,” she moaned, but Lord Charming smiled, though his eyes glittered menacingly. Melinda stepped forward. “Um, perhaps—”

“You’re not supposed to use my gloves, you idiot. You’re supposed to use your own.”

Everyone looked to the pair of gloves in Ronnie’s hand. Sure enough, they were Mr. Anaedsley’s calfskin pair, not Ronnie’s black leather ones.

Without a word, Ronnie set the calfskin aside, then reached for his own hat and gloves.

Mr. Anaedsley’s voice cut cold and low through the hall. “Don’t touch those unless you mean it. Do you want pistols at dawn?”

Ronnie would do it. Melinda knew without a shadow of a doubt that Ronnie would fight in some misguided romantic idea of a duel. And he would die that way. Or Mr. Anaedsley would, which would be especially awkward, as he was the grandson of a duke.

“Don’t even think it,” she growled. “Either of you. Ronnie, if you touch your gloves, I swear, I will…I will…” Damnation, it had to be something romantic, something appealing to his chivalric code. “I will drown myself in the lake.”

That got both their attention. Ronnie’s eyes widened and a softness came into them. “Would you? Would you really, my Mellie?” Lord, he sounded hopeful.

Mr. Anaedsley merely snorted. “There isn’t a lake for miles.”

Well, as if that anything to do with it! She was trying to avoid backing Ronnie into a corner! “But there are streams.”

“Not deep ones.”

“They have rocks. I could dash my brains upon one.”

“Of all the—”

“You won’t if I win,” Ronnie inserted, pulling himself up to his full height. “You’ll see me defeat the monster and—”

“And jump from the tallest tree to dash my brains out upon the rocks. I despise violence. It is my guiding principle. If you fight, then I shall kill myself.”

Mr. Anaedsley regarded her with a smirk trembling at the edge of his lips. “You do understand that killing oneself is still considered violence.”

She glared at the man. “I am most determined.”

“And what of my honor?” Lord Charming challenged. “I have been insulted.” He touched his reddened cheek for emphasis.

“You have no honor,” bellowed Ronnie. And given his girth, he had quite a bellow. It made everyone in the hall flinch.

Meanwhile, Mr. Anaedsley straightened in mock horror. “What a dishonorable thing to say! You, sir, are no gentleman!”

“Oh, stop goading him!” Melinda snapped. “He’s quite serious. That’s his guiding principle.”

Mr. Anaedsley frowned. “Being serious? How is that a—”

“Deadly serious.” She spoke it in accents of doom merely because she knew it would please her cousin and hopefully shift his thoughts away from duels. Ronnie was fully idiotic enough to follow through with an affair of honor. “Why I remember once when—”

Smack!

This time the sound wasn’t floppy. It was the hard clap of something hitting a man’s palm. It was loud and sharp, and it was Ronnie’s gloves as Mr. Anaedsley caught them mere inches from his face.

“God, Ronnie,” Melinda moaned. “Why would you do such a thing?” She knew the answer, and yet some questions had to be voiced, especially as the two men were now locked together—Ronnie’s gloves gripped in Anaedsley’s hand—while the two stared at one another like two tensing bulls.

Mr. Anaedsley spoke first. “I could kill you, you know,” he said softly. “Pistols or swords, I can best you in minutes.”

Melinda pushed forward aggressively this time. She knew better than to step between them, but she set her feet so both men could see her clearly. “And you’d have to flee to the Continent. Dueling is illegal. Good God, my father is the magistrate here!”

Ronnie’s nostrils flared. “Fisticuffs then? I swear, I will not kill you.”

Mr. Anaedsley’s eyebrows rose, and his lips twitched in amusement. “What of my lady’s hatred of violence?”

Ronnie rolled his eyes. At her! “Fisticuffs aren’t violence. They’re pugilism.”

Mr. Anaedsley glanced at her. “Is that so? If we fight, you swear you will not dash yourself upon the rocks?”

She folded her arms in disgust. “I am more likely to cosh you both over the head while you sleep!”

The damned man did smile then. “That’s not very sporting of you.”

Ronnie seemed to agree. “And it would be violent. Really, Mellie, you don’t truly abhor violence, do you?”

“I most certainly do. Otherwise, you both would be dead by my hand.”

The men nodded, apparently in complete agreement. Then by some secret man signal, they dropped their hands and straightened. Mr. Anaedsley thought to reassure her by flashing his charming smile.

“See. All better,” he said.

And Ronnie—damn his eyes—gestured to the parlor. “Shall we have some of those cakes, cousin? I’m suddenly feeling quite hungry.”

*

Trevor found her that night as she sipped brandy and stared out at the fireflies dancing across the back lawn. The other men had gone to bed, but she, as hostess, had remained awake—a constant, quiet presence who directed the staff and saw to their comfort. Once he might have discounted the skill it took to manage such a smooth-running household, but he knew what a hash his mother made of it, so he quietly marveled at her accomplishment.

“Shouldn’t you be resting before your dawn affaire d’honor ?” she asked, a bite to her tone.

He smiled. He should have realized she’d be aware of him standing at the door to her parlor. After all, he’d spent most of the day much too conscious of her. Even when deep in scientific discussion with her father, a part of him had tracked her movements with the staff, counted the minutes when Ronnie had trapped her in conversation, and even caught her frowning at him more than a dozen times.

“You have no need to cut up at me,” he said as he moved into the delightful parlor at the back of house. “My sacrifice saved you from an unwanted proposal.”

She shot him an irritated glare. “Ronnie proposes on every visit. I assure you, practice has made me skilled at deflecting his attention.”

“But it’s gotten harder, hasn’t it?”

She didn’t answer except to look out the window. He watched her profile in the moonlight, seeing her pert nose and long lashes. In the moonlight, she nearly glowed. And with her hair curling around her cheeks, he saw how very beautiful she could be. That realization drew him to sit on the settee beside her.

“I do not want you to protect my honor,” she said as he found his seat.

“You are worried about tomorrow’s fight. I promise you, I shall not hurt your cousin overmuch.”

“You? Hurt him?” She gaped at him. “Good God, you are a fool. You think because you are heir to a dukedom that no man can touch you. Ronnie will take great pleasure in touching you, sir. Indeed he will not stop pummeling you until you are sent to the hospital.”

“You are worried for me!” he said with no small amount of pleasure. “But there isn’t any need. Ronnie did not hurt me this afternoon—”

“You caught him by surprise.”

“And tomorrow will be no different.”

She stared at him, her expression darkening by the second. “He has two stone on you and nearly six inches more reach. His feet are nimble despite his larger size, and you, sir, are blinded by arrogance.”

He tilted his head, surprised by her yet again. “You know something of boxing?”

She pursed her lips in distaste. “I spent the afternoon in study of it.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed. While you were deep in conversation with my father, I was with Ronnie prompting him to share his plans. He sees tomorrow’s fight as an affair of honor—”

“And so it is.”

“And so he intends to put you down.” She shot him an anxious look. “Those were his very words: put the cheeky bastard down .”

He leaned back on the settee, enjoying the rare experience of a woman worrying after his health. It put him in charity with her as never before. “It is a simple schoolboy fight. They happen all the time.”

“You are both grown men.”

“Who sometimes wish to revisit their childhood glory.”

She sighed, and her attention turned back to the window. He settled in beside her, wishing he had his own glass of brandy, but loathe to leave her side. He didn’t spend much time thinking about his reasons for sitting there. Instead, he studied the strange position of the furniture, occupying his thoughts with the odd way she had arranged the room.

The settee, for example, was angled so she could curl up near enough to the fire to read, but facing the window rather than the door. In truth, just about every table and chair in this small room turned its back on the door in favor of viewing the dark vista outside.

“This is not a very welcoming room,” he mused aloud.

“Then you need not stay.”

He chuckled, not at all put out by her ill temper now that he knew it stemmed from concern. “I do not criticize,” he said honestly. “I simply note that this room is designed for solitary enjoyment.” He frowned as he peered through the window. She looked out over grass and then wood. “The autumn leaves must be spectacular.”

“All the seasons are spectacular,” she answered quietly. He was pleased the bite had disappeared from her tone. “And this is not the visiting parlor, but my own sanctuary.”

“So you arranged things to please yourself. I understand. I tried to do that with my bedroom as a boy.”

“How?”

“I put my bed under the window, my toys within easy reach, and a chair to block the door.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, it was that last one that ended the adventure.”

“Well, at least you got to move your bed to the window.”

“Oh no. It was all returned to proper order.”

“Proper?” She tilted her head as she looked at him, and another one of her curls escaped her pins. It bounced distractingly against her cheek. “Is there an improper way to set furniture?”

“Oh yes. And as my father’s heir, I was to set everything in the darkest corner on a raised dais, and not have any toys at all to hand. Honestly, I didn’t care about the window. I just wanted my toys.”

“Did they belong in the nursery?”

“Naturally.”

“And little boys—”

“Are not allowed to barricade themselves in their bedrooms. I ate gruel for a month as punishment.”

“Surely not.”

“Surely so. That was always the punishment in our home.” It was, in fact, his mother’s way of saving on the food bill, but it was some time before he realized the truth. “It worked, by the way. To this day, I cannot contemplate gruel without total horror.”

“And you never again rearranged the furniture?”

“Never.” He was silent a moment, running through what he wanted to say. Was it smart? Was it his best option? He had no answers for those questions—only a burning need to find a solution to his difficulties. If it also aided her, then why not give in to the unusual idea? But first he had to have an answer to one very specific question.

“Miss Smithson, I have a question for you. A truly impertinent one, I might add, but I pray you answer it honestly.”

She shifted in her seat, her gaze and her body disconcertingly direct. She waited with an air of a scientific study. It reminded him of her father when he dissected beetles.

“Er,” he began, pulling his thoughts together as quickly as possible. “I wish to know…do you intend to marry your cousin?”

She blinked…once. “I already told you that I don’t love him. Most times I don’t even like him.”

He nodded. “Yes, yes, but do you intend to marry him?”

He watched her purse her lips as her gaze turned toward the window again. “That is the question, isn’t it? Everyone wants the union. Even my father. His health is not the best, you know, and he worries what will become of me.”

Yes, he had noted her father’s pallor. “He did not cough overmuch today.”

She nodded. “Five times this day. But then, it mostly troubles him at night when he tries to sleep. And that prevents him from resting as he ought.”

He nodded, his concern for his mentor momentarily overriding other thoughts. But a minute later, he returned to her. “You have no other suitors, then? No gentlemen whom you fancy?”

He watched her jaw tighten as if she bit back an acerbic comment. And no wonder. His questions were highly impertinent.

“No, Mr. Anaedsley, there is no other gentleman whom I could reasonably expect to marry.” Then she sighed, and her gaze focused on the night scene beyond her window. There was nothing there. Even the moonlight had deserted it, but she gazed out and her words drifted between them. “As a child, I dreamt of love and thought of princes who would carry me away to their castle. It was ridiculous because we had so little money, and you were the only male of my acquaintance even close to a prince.”

Her tone of voice indicated he was a preposterous choice, and though his vanity was pricked, his mind agreed completely with her assessment. As a boy, he’d thought her gawky and completely untutored in the ways of what real girls should do. Real females, in his young opinion, should wear ribbons and pretty dresses. They should not read books, and certainly not be better at lessons than he was.

“I was a complete idiot as a boy,” he said, “and so you are forgiven for not wanting me to carry you off.”

She might have snorted in response, but she was sipping brandy at the time, so he couldn’t be sure of her response.

“No other princes have appeared?”

“Ronnie is determined to become my prince. And he vows to destroy any who might venture near.”

Yes, he could see that her cousin’s romantic nature would be attracted to her childhood desire.

“Worse,” she continued, “we made all this money. Suddenly I am managing a big house with several servants out in the country.”

“I like it here.” In truth, he loved it here, away from the bustle of London. A man could study science in peace without constantly being badgered to choose a bride and continue the family line.

“But no one here will marry up to a woman like me, and none of your set will marry down.”

“That’s not true,” he said, thinking through her difficulty. “There are many who would marry a well-dowered girl.”

“But you are the only aristocrat who comes here.” Her tone clearly said he was off her list as a potential husband. “And I haven’t the money to go elsewhere.”

“That can’t be right. You have gads of money.” Her uncle ran a mill that brought in thousands of pounds a year.

She turned to glare at him. “My father has money. My uncle has money. I have nothing.”

It took him a moment to assemble the pieces, to fit the cogs into the wheels that turned this situation. She had been furious with him this morning for interrupting her demonstration of a new cosmetic, one that would garner them money. Or more accurately: garner her money.

“That’s why you won’t give over the formula unless you earn the money. You wish to travel then, in the way of Lady Stanhope?”

Her mouth opened in surprise as if she couldn’t believe he’d guessed her plans. But her next words contradicted his guess. “Nothing so grand as an archeological expedition.”

She looked away from him then, curling her fingers about her brandy glass though she didn’t drink. Clearly she had a plan, although she appeared loathe to tell him. But he had a very curious mind, especially when people didn’t act as he expected. “Come, come. You must tell me what you want. Otherwise how can I help?”

“Why would you help?” she challenged.

“Because I think we can help each another.” She looked up sharply, but before she could ask, he held her off. “I will explain my thoughts in a moment. First, you must tell me—specifically—what you want.”

“A lot of money.”

“Why?”

“So I can travel. So…” She drained her brandy glass. “So I can meet men.”

Ah. It was as he suspected. She was desperate to find someone other than Ronnie. “What kind of men, exactly?”

She shook her head. “Not men in general. I am looking for one man.” Then she faced him squarely, and for a moment, he saw the little girl he remembered from a decade ago. One who loved spending time with her father and hated that Trevor was the not-as-bright interloper student her father adored. She wore her heart on her sleeve and apparently wished for something all little girls dream of. “I want to fall in love with a man and him with me. I want children and a happy home. I want to live happily ever after.”

“You definitely won’t get that with Ronnie.”

Her expression turned morose as her gaze went back out the window. Not just out the window, he realized, but in the direction of London. “Your father won’t let you go to London? To have a Season?”

She lifted her chin, slid pretend glasses down her nose, and precisely imitated her father. “A wealthy cit on display? You would hate it, my dear. All of them are gamblers and whoremongers. Best marry Ronnie. At least poetry will not burn through your dowry.”

His eyebrows rose. “That is not a flattering description of my set.”

“Don’t most gentlemen of your set spend their time gambling and womanizing? Discussing the cut of their clothing and planning elaborate amusements out of boredom?”

A true hit. “Not all gentlemen do such. Some run the country or the Exchange. Some are diplomats and scholars.”

“And so I told him, but…” She shrugged. “He wants me to marry Ronnie. It will keep the money in the family.”

“But you want to have money so you can go on your own?”

“I want my own money to go anywhere, Mr. Anaedsley. Anywhere at all that has men who might love me.”

“London has all the best men,” he said, finally seeing a path forward.

She slumped in her seat. “But I have no sponsor. Even if I had the money, I have no entre into society.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “You know me.”

“You are hardly an appropriate chaperone.”

“Quite true, but I have friends who would help if I asked.” He flashed his most charming smile. “I can be persuasive when I want.”

She frowned at him, but hope sparked in her eyes. “You would do that for me? You would be persuasive on my behalf?”

“Of course I would,” he said, excitement bright in his heart.

“But why?”

He grinned. If he were to do this thing, then he should do it completely. And so he dropped to one knee before her, imitating the exact pose her cousin had been in not twelve hours before.

“I would do it,” he said, “if you would become my affianced bride.”