Rogues Rush In

  A sad smile curved her lips. "It was always about friendship."

  "Of course it was," he shot back. "And you squandered it."

  "We should have never married," she whispered, and his body jerked. She might as well have run him through.

  Ice dusted his spine, and he clung to the far safer fury. "It is too late for those regrets, madam."

  "Yes." Elizabeth jutted her chin up. "We were doomed the moment we crossed into Wiltshire and said 'I do' before a drunken vicar." The hasty ceremony had been over so quick, he hadn't even known it had officially begun.

  "You are wrong," he sneered. "We were doomed the day you left, Duchess. You destroyed the friendship," he charged. "Not me."

  Her throat worked. When she spoke, her words barely reached his ears, and yet, attuned as he'd always been to Elizabeth Brightly, he heard them anyway. "You were better off, Crispin."

  He drew back. "I was better off?" he repeated, shock pulling the query from him. Without her in his life? "That is what you believe?" In her leaving, the one happiness he'd known had been yanked from him.

  All earlier hint of fragility lifted, leaving in its place a tensely proud Elizabeth. "It's what I know."

  It's what I know.

  Warning bells rang in his mind. Faint, but there and refusing to be ignored.

  Elizabeth's lower lip trembled, and she forced her gaze away from his, belying her aloofness.

  "Why did you leave?" He drew his arms back, flexing his fingers, more than half fearing her answer, but at last he had spoken the words he'd uttered to himself alone in the privacy of his rooms when the rest of the world slept. Now, he voiced them to the one who'd left a ripped, ragged hole in his heart.

  "Oh, come, Crispin," she said quietly. "You can be bitter and resentful, but at least be honest. Do not pretend my leaving mattered to you." She made to step around him, but he slid himself in front of her, blocking her escape.

  "How can you even say that?" he whispered. "You were my best friend, Elizabeth. You were my wife."

  With a soft cry, she tossed her hands up. "I was the wife you never wanted." Her voice pinged around the rooms, robbing him of his indignation. Several night birds slumbering in the oak outside went into panicky flight, abandoning their nests in favor of the night sky.

  "What?" He stared at her, trying to make sense of that statement. How could she think--?

  "You didn't want me," she charged, hurt dripping from her tone.

  Crispin scoffed. "Of course I wanted you." She was the only person he'd truly yearned for in his life.

  She laughed, the sound pitched and devoid of mirth. Warning bells went off; filling him with unease. "'I know it was a mistake, Father,'" she tossed back.

  His breath lodged in his chest as understanding dawned at last.

  Just like that, the past came whirring back in a rush of sound in his ears. His own carelessness was now laid before him as a sin. Elizabeth, the woman he'd held to blame all these years, was exonerated, and he was left the guilty party, deserving of her rage. My God. He scraped a shaky hand through his hair.

  "It is done, Father. And regardless of how you feel about her or our marriage, it will not... It cannot be changed."

  Crispin's stomach lurched. Those had been words meant to appease his furious father and godfather. There'd never been even a hint of truth buried in them. "I didn't mean," he began hoarsely. "I didn't," he tried again.

  "'I know she's not the ideal bride,'" she went on, relentless. "'That I'd be better served by a match with Lady Dorinda.'" He flinched. With every word she repeated, he stared down his own treachery. Telling her they'd been empty assurances meant to appease two powerful dukes ready to come to blows over Crispin's decision would change nothing. They only marked him for the coward who'd sought peace at all costs--including at the cost of his friendship. "'There can be no undoing it.'" Elizabeth's voice faltered, and she breathed into existence the hated words he'd uttered long ago. "'It is done.'"

  He shook his head, his lips moved, but no words came out. "I didn't... I don't..." He stretched a hand toward her, but then let it fall to his side. "How...?" What was there to say? That he'd merely sought to preserve peace between his family and the Duke of Hardwicke? Neither had been more important than she was, but he'd allowed her to believe as much.

  Elizabeth hugged herself in a lonely embrace. "I heard you," she said tiredly. "So do not pretend you wanted"--she slashed a hand between them--"this. Or anything more, Your Grace."

  Crispin sank onto the edge of the bed. The lumpy mattress squeaked under the burden of his weight. "I did," he whispered. All these years, he'd blamed her. He'd yearned for her. Only to find, in the end, that his own cowardice and folly had cost him the future he'd desperately longed for with her.

  It had only ever been her.

  *

  With his stricken expression and his ashen skin, Elizabeth could almost believe the lie.

  She could believe he'd missed her and wanted a future with her. And mayhap she would have if she hadn't overheard the argument between him and his father.

  With the fight leaving her, Elizabeth sank onto the mattress beside him. Drawing her knees up, she looped her arms around them. Her skin burned from the piercing intensity of his stare upon her.

  Elizabeth dropped her cheek atop her knees. She'd not thought of that night in so long. She'd not allowed herself to.

  "What I said to my father, Elizabeth," he said hoarsely. "I didn't mean any of it. I didn't feel those things."

  "And yet, you said them, Crispin." Elizabeth looked at him, holding his gaze. As a woman who'd first set off on her own, she'd been filled with resentment. Now, she was a woman grown, and his rejection hurt still, but she could not hold him responsible for what he'd felt... or rather, what he'd not felt for her. "Within every statement made, there is a shred of truth," she said gently.

  He flinched. "There was no truth in what I said," he said again.

  Elizabeth gave him a sad smile. "You've changed so much." At that unexpected shift in discourse, he stiffened, and a question glinted in his eye. "Your hair"--she briefly brushed those locks she'd once shorn with a scissors when they'd been experimenting children--"is longer. Your frame..." Her gaze went to the swath of naked skin, his broad shoulders, the light mat of tight black curls upon his muscular chest. She swallowed hard. "Is different. You're a rogue." With legions of lovers all over London. Her foolish heart spasmed. "And yet, so much about you is unchanged." Lest he spy the misery that realization cost her, Elizabeth glanced over at his trunk. "Your reading is the same. And the way you neatly organize your articles by color, with those articles a cushion for the books that are really your prized possessions."

  They shared a wistful smile. For whatever had come to pass, their souls would always march in the same time. "You always sought to please and protect... everyone." His biceps strained. "I do not speak that as an insult, but as a matter of fact," she hurried to assure him. She wasn't so petty and vindictive that she'd let her own hurts surpass all the good he'd done and tried to do. "You didn't want to displease your father." Which had been the inevitable outcome when he'd wed Elizabeth instead of the flawless Lady Dorinda. And what must it have done to him that he'd made an enemy of an ally of his family? That a decision he had made had visited pain upon his father? Elizabeth covered his hand with her own. "And you didn't want to marry me." He made a sound of protest, but Elizabeth pressed her fingertips to his lips, silencing him. "You sought to protect me. It is who you are. It is what you do." She drew in a breath, for the first time taking full ownership of that day. "I knew that and married you anyway." It was why she'd go back with him even now, as he requested, and enter a world to which she'd never belong.

  He dropped to a knee so he could better meet her stare. "I married you because I wanted to."

  "You married me to avoid an unwanted match with Lady Dorinda," she gently reminded him.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. He might--they might--have played around with tha
t memory in each of their minds over the years, but no matter how they tweaked or twisted the facts, their past could not be changed.

  "I heard it all, Crispin." His mother had delighted in escorting her belowstairs. All the while, she'd known precisely what Elizabeth would hear when they arrived outside that door.

  "My mother?" he asked, his tones hollowed out.

  "They were your words," she pointed out, and his ravaged gaze moved past her shoulder. Elizabeth drew in an uneven breath, but he was deserving of the whole truth. "She wanted me gone. She had the hope that your father could find a way to dissolve our marriage." Given the concessions Crispin had made to his father, she knew that would have been a resolution he would have gladly accepted. "But if I was underfoot..." She glanced down at her bare toes. After all, it had been simple enough to explain away Elizabeth remaining a handful of days following the deaths of her parents. Their fathers had been great friends.

  A long, dark, vitriolic curse exploded from his lips and heated her ears.

  Just another change. He'd never been one given to curses.

  "What did she say?"

  Of course he was too clever. He knew there was more there.

  She met that query with silence, battling with herself, weighing the good to be had in him knowing everything.

  "Elizabeth," he urged.

  She'd brought enough turmoil, and yet, he was entitled to the truth.

  "Your father threatened to end your fellowship at Oxford if I didn't agree to an annulment."

  The quiet statement doused the room in a heavy silence.

  "What?" he asked, his tone as blank as his stare.

  Termed an indulgence, no different than a young lord's appreciation of horseflesh and carousing, the late Duke of Huntington had failed to see that, for Crispin, the thirst for learning had driven him. It had never been a mere diversion or pursuit where his interest would one day fade. "They needed me gone as quickly as possible, so they could begin the proceedings for an annulment." She briefly closed her eyes. "Except, there was no guardian." Elizabeth and Crispin had both known as much. That freedom was what had allowed them to marry without requiring approval for her then-seven-and-ten-year-old self.

  "They knew where you were," he said, each syllable stretched out by horror, fury, and shock. "At Mrs. Belden's?"

  "Dissolving a marriage, it turns out, is a challenge for even an all-powerful duke. When that became apparent..." She still hadn't returned, recalling that unexpected visit.

  The ducal carriage. The golden crest upon it.

  And the too brief hope about who would step out of that conveyance, only to be swamped by a crippling disappointment.

  His face twisted in a ravaged mask that squeezed her own heart. "That is why you left," he said, his voice stark, his cheeks draining of the last of their color. "To protect me."

  Elizabeth forced a tight nod, maintaining a thin grasp on all control of her emotions.

  "It was the least I could have done for the sacrifice you made. You gave me your name, your hand, your protection. I'd not take your happiness, too."

  Crispin pressed his palms briefly to his face "It wasn't their life to interfere with."

  What must it do to Crispin for him to learn his life had been manipulated by those who'd given him life?

  Her parents had only ever supported her. They'd indulged their aberrant bluestocking daughter. There'd never been conditions attached to their acceptance and love of her. But then, they'd not been born with the blood of nobles flowing in their veins. Who could say what they might have done or become had their circumstances been different?

  Emotion blazed to life in Crispin's eyes. "It wasn't your decision to make."

  That charge took her aback. "I did it for--"

  "For me," he gritted out, surging to his feet. "You made a decision for the both of us, without any discussion. I was your husband." Elizabeth leaned back, unsteadied by the volatile emotion pouring from his frame. "And more than that, you were my friend, and never once did you ask me what I wanted."

  "I heard what you wanted." She squared her shoulders, bringing them back. "Rather, I heard what you didn't want." Me.

  That hung between them, throbbing with a life force of emotion.

  Crispin's cheeks leached of color. "That was never true," he whispered.

  And yet, it had been spoken.

  Elizabeth pressed her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. They could run around in circles debating each decision, word, action, or inaction, and nothing would change. The past would remain unchanged by regrets. Letting her arms fall, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "Crispin," she said gently. "You never made me promises of anything more than a marriage of convenience. Freedom for the both of us from uncertain futures." Hers, which would have always been precarious. His fate and future, however, had been set. She hugged her arms to herself. "It would have been wrong of me to expect anything more." And so... she hadn't. Instead, she'd left.

  His gaze blank, Crispin started on unsteady legs for the front of the room. He stopped with his fingers on the door handle.

  She stared after him, wanting him to stay, wanting to return to the easy friendship they'd once shared. But one could not turn back time to undo regrets and heartache.

  He glanced over his shoulder. "I did not mean to hurt you. I would lop off my own arm before I would ever bring you suffering."

  She swallowed hard. "I know." Her voice emerged whisper-soft to her own ears.

  His heated gaze seared her, and for the span of a moment, she thought he'd say more... about her... about them, together.

  But then, without another word, he left.

  Chapter 11

  The following morning, Crispin sat at a corner table in the increasingly crowded taproom. He rolled his shoulders. His entire body ached from several days of uninterrupted riding. And of course there had been a sleepless night spent on the hard floor after he'd returned to his and Elizabeth's shared rooms.

  Though, in fairness, there'd been little indication that she had found rest last evening either.

  And how could they have?

  With a cup of coffee cradled between his fingers, Crispin stared across the establishment to the fire blazing in the hearth.

  Around him, laughter echoed off the cracked plaster ceilings while patrons raised their voices over one another, competing to be heard in the noisy din. The cheerful ease of this place stood in contradiction to the tumult Elizabeth had unleashed last evening.

  All time had ceased to matter, blurring under the weight of realization.

  She'd heard the words he'd uttered long ago to the thunderous Duke of Huntington.

  The carefully crafted words--meant to assuage a displeased father so Crispin could maintain his fellowship and set himself and Elizabeth on a smoother path as husband and wife--had been heard... by her.

  He tossed back a long swallow, his throat muscles working quickly, the warm, bitter brew stinging his throat, a welcome discomfort.

  They'd been words uttered in cowardice when he should have told his parents to go to hell if they weren't content with his decision. But he'd always sought to minimize conflict and maintain peace. And that one instance shattered the special bond he and Elizabeth had shared and sent her into flight.

  All these years, he'd been filled with resentment and questions. Always questions and more questions. All unanswered, with everything going back to Elizabeth's senseless betrayal.

  Crispin swirled the remaining contents of his cup in a slow circle, studying the cyclonic twist.

  Now, everything made sense. Too much. A once murky situation was now vividly bright in its clarity, and Crispin was the one truly guilty of treachery.

  Frustration roiling in his chest, he set his drink down hard.

  Surely she'd known he'd not truly regretted taking her as his bride. They'd been each other's perfect counterpart, balancing each other and bringing out their best, while knowing laughter and happiness.

  He'd
not properly appreciated that joy until she'd gone, and taken every reason to smile along with her.

  How would they go on now? Together... or each of them alone?

  She wants nothing to do with you, in any way. Her disdain was so strong that she preferred living at Mrs. Belden's, imparting lessons on topics she'd always despised.

  And why should she? She'd married a damned coward.

  Shame pitted low in his gut.

  It didn't matter that he'd only just turned one and twenty when they married. He hadn't been a boy, but rather, a man who could have fought his parents on the union they sought between him and Lady Dorinda. Ultimately, however, that mutually beneficial agreement he'd presented to a then-seven-and-ten-year-old Elizabeth had come from an actual yearning to have her as his wife.

  He'd wanted to spend forever with her, because there'd never been anyone whose company he'd craved more.

  Elizabeth, however, hadn't expressed any romantic feelings for him, so he'd appealed to her logic.

  And last evening, when she'd revealed the truth of his parents' machinations, he'd wanted to tell her everything. Wanted to tell her that she'd always owned his heart, but to give her those words now would have rung hollow and false. Nay, she had no reason to believe a single statement uttered from his lips.

  A shadow fell over his table, and he looked up.

  Brambly bowed his head. "The trunks are loaded in the carriage, Your Grace."

  Crispin glanced over at the stairwell. "Thank you, Brambly." The servant nodded and hurried off.

  Soon, they'd depart and make the rest of the journey to the beginning of the end of their relationship.

  That realization left him empty inside. Nay, you've been empty since she left.

  Crispin made to return his attention to his drink when a lone figure in the corner of the tavern caught his notice.

  Head bent over a book, the lad could not be more than two-and-ten years of age. With his crimson curls unevenly cropped at the nape of his neck and a pair of too large round spectacles perched on his nose, he drew forth images of a child who could have been. A boy or girl several years younger, but no less devoted to his or her books and studies.