That Despicable Rogue Read online

  A tangle of conflicting emotions warred within him. Anger, hurt, lust and hope swirled in his gut and made him feel decidedly off kilter, while the ache in that spot close to his heart was worse than ever. Without thinking, he laid down some cards and won the trick.

  What she had said about English law was something he had not considered. Win or lose—he got the house and the money back either way. Which meant that she had a greater scheme in play or... Or she actually really wanted him.

  He watched her lay down more cards. Her teeth worried at her plump bottom lip nervously. She knew that she did not stand a chance against him—was she seriously hoping he would lose the game on purpose?

  And why the hell had she told everybody who she was? As if a woman forcing her way into White’s and challenging him to a game of cards for his hand in marriage would not cause enough of a scandal already. Was it a calculated risk, to incentivise his compliance, or was she making a completely different point entirely? He was beyond confused by it all.

  Testing the former theory, he easily took the second trick as well and stared at her coldly, waiting for her to spew apologies and dramatically throw herself on his mercy, or cry for the benefit of everyone watching. If she was trying to manipulate him that was exactly what he would expect her to do.

  She did neither, and carefully studied her hand again before laying down three more cards.

  ‘You cannot beat me,’ he whispered harshly. ‘You do not even understand the rules of the blasted game. That is plainly obvious.’

  Her blue eyes lifted to his briefly before returning to her cards. ‘I know that.’

  ‘Then what do you hope to gain?’

  She mulled this over for a moment and then shrugged. ‘At worst, justice will be done. I have wronged you grievously and it is only right that you get your property back.’

  ‘And at best?’ His heart was hammering vigorously now, so he had to fight to keep the anxiousness out of his voice.

  Her eyes sought his and held them. ‘The man I love with all my heart will forgive me for ever doubting him.’

  It was just a pretty speech, he cautioned himself, and he would be wise to keep his wits about him. She had made a fool out of him too many times already.

  Ross quickly scanned the cards she had laid. He could easily trump them. Then again, he could just as easily not. Deciding to truly test her mettle, he took the points anyway. She smiled ever so slightly at this, but he saw it waver a little at the corners.

  A hush settled over the crowd as they greedily ate up the scene playing out in front of them. If he purposely won, in front of an audience, knowing full well that she was a truly atrocious card-player, then this would be the second callous and humiliatingly public rejection she would have received from a man. The fact that she was already braced to accept it stoically touched him.

  She laid down her last trick and then squared her shoulders bravely. The nine, ten and jack of clubs stared up: a mediocre selection for the final rubber, and no match for the queen, king and ace of hearts in his own hand. In one fell swoop he could ruin her...

  And then he would make them both miserable.

  She looked at him levelly and he saw her fear, doubt, hope and acceptance.

  ‘I went to Barchester Hall in order to expose a despicable rogue, and I did—except it wasn’t the man I thought it would be. It was not the man who had hauled himself out of the gutter but one who had thrown himself into one. It was my own brother who betrayed me. He stole my dowry and sabotaged my wedding, all the while hiding his actions, before he banished me to the middle of nowhere and doomed me to a life of spinsterhood. You have every right to hate me, Ross. I accept that. I did not know the true facts—they were kept from me. But I know them all now. You are a shameless flirt, an opportunist, a rogue and certainly no gentleman—but you are decent and honest and noble. You deserve to have Barchester Hall, Ross. The house is a better place with you in it.’

  She was trying to make him feel good about the outcome, he realised. She knew she was beaten.

  His eyes locked with hers. Past the bravado and the pride and the hope he saw the one thing that mattered the most. Possibilities. She had not simply fallen into his arms. Prim had resisted and resisted. He had been the one to push and push. But was she worth the risk?

  With a sigh, Ross tossed his three remaining cards face down on the table. ‘I concede.’

  The crowd were in uproar, and for a few moments he watched her blink in confusion, uncertain of the outcome. When several gentlemen suddenly gathered behind her and began to pat her on the back she finally plucked up the courage to smile at him. Tears shimmered in her lovely eyes, and then she launched herself out of the chair, in front of everyone, and threw herself onto his lap and kissed him as though her very life depended on it.

  When she finally came up for air she was grinning, despite the tears streaming down her face. Ross brushed one away with his thumb. ‘Such a scandalous display is not proper, Prim.’

  She wound her arms possessively around his neck. ‘I think that the rules of propriety can be relaxed a little when two people are engaged to be married. And besides, I am already ruined. To the best of my knowledge a lady can only be ruined once—so who cares?’

  Ross did not bother to argue, because she was kissing him again.

  ‘I am sorry I spoiled your plans for a sunset proposal,’ she whispered, for his ears only. ‘I was looking forward to going swimming with you today.’

  ‘I have a good idea how you might be able to make it up to me.’ He chuckled wickedly. ‘If we leave now we can be home as the sun rises. I think an early-morning dip will be just as enjoyable.’

  He felt her smile against his lips. ‘Are you not worried that the water might be a little bracing at that hour?’

  Still cradling her in his arms, Ross stood and started to carry her towards the door. White’s, the noisy onlookers and everything else faded into insignificance. He was so absorbed with the woman he loved that he did not even stop for a moment to consider what the newspapers were going to print about them tomorrow.

  ‘If it is...’ Ross began to march with some purpose ‘...I will know just how to warm you up.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from PRINTER IN PETTICOATS by Lynna Banning.

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  Printer in Petticoats

  by Lynna Banning

  Chapter On
e

  Smoke River, Oregon, 1870

  Jessamine glanced up from her rolltop desk in front of the big window in her newspaper office and narrowed her eyes. What on earth...?

  Across the street a team of horses hauling a rickety farm wagon rolled up in front of the empty two-story building that until a week ago housed the Smoke River Bank. A brown canvas cover swathed something big and bulky in the wagon bed.

  She couldn’t tear her gaze away. A tall, jean-clad man in a dusty black Stetson hauled the team to a stop and jumped down. He had a controlled, easy gait that reminded her of a big cat, powerful and confident and...untamed. His hat brim shaded his face, and his overlong dark hair brushed the collar of his sweat-stained blue work shirt.

  She sniffed with disdain. His grimy clothes suggested he needed a bath and a barber, in that order. He was just another rough, uncultured rancher come to town with a load of...what? Sacks of wheat? A keg or two of beer?

  The man untied the rope lashing the dirty canvas over whatever lay beneath, and she stood up and craned her neck to see better.

  Oh, my father’s red suspenders, what is that?

  The barber, Whitey Poletti, and mercantile owner Carl Ness put down their brooms and ambled across the street to see what was going on. In two minutes, Mr. Rancher had talked them into helping him unload the bulky object. He loosened the ropes securing the thing, lowered the wagon tailgate and slid a couple of wide planks off the back end. Then he started to shove whatever it was down onto the board sidewalk.

  The canvas slipped off and Jessamine gave an unladylike shriek. A huge Ramage printing press teetered on the wagon bed.

  A printing press? Smoke River already had a printing press—hers! Her Adams press was the only one needed for her newspaper—the town’s only newspaper.

  Wasn’t it?

  She found herself across the street before she realized she’d even opened her office door. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  Mr. Rancher straightened, pushed his hat back with his thumb and pinned her with the most disturbing pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. Smoldering came to mind. Was that a real word? Or maybe they were scandalizing? Scandalous?

  “Thought it was obvious, miss. I’m unloading my printing press.” He turned away, signaled to Whitey and Carl, and jockeyed the huge iron contraption onto the boardwalk.

  “What for?” she blurted out.

  Again those unnerving eyes bored into hers. “For printing,” he said dryly.

  “Oh.” She cast about for something intelligent to say. “Wait!”

  “What for?” he shot from the other side of the press.

  “What do you intend to print?”

  “A newspaper.”

  “Newspaper? But Smoke River already has a newspaper, the Sentinel.”

  “Yep.”

  “So we don’t need another one.”

  “Nope.” He stepped out from behind the press and propped both hands on his lean hips. “I’ve read the Sentinel. This town does need another newspaper.”

  “Well! Are you insulting my newspaper?”

  “Nope. Just offering a bit of competition. A lot of competition, actually. Excuse me.” He brushed past her and hefted one corner of the press. Then the three men heaved and pulled and frog-walked the bulky machine up the single step of the old bank entrance and through the doorway.

  Well, my stars and little chickens, who does he think he is?

  She tried to peer through the bank’s dust-smeared front window, but just when she thought she saw some movement, someone taped big sheets of foolscap over the panes so she couldn’t see a thing.

  She waited until Carl and the barber exited and walked back across the street.

  “Afternoon, Miss Jessamine,” Whitey said amiably.

  Her curiosity got the better of her. “What is that man doing in there?”

  “Movin’ in,” Carl offered. “Gonna sleep upstairs, I reckon. No law against that.”

  Jessamine swallowed a sharp retort. She couldn’t afford to insult a paying customer, even one who was at the moment helping her competition. She needed every newspaper subscriber she could get to keep her paper in the black. She had to admit that she was struggling; ever since Papa died, her whole life had been one big struggle with a capital S.

  Carl marched past the bushel baskets of apples in front of his store and disappeared inside. The barber lingered long enough to give her a friendly grin.

  “Like Carl says, no law against livin’ upstairs. Specially seein’ as how you’re doin’ the same thing.”

  “That man needs a haircut,” she retorted. She was so flustered it was the only thing she could think of to say.

  Whitey nodded. “So do you, Miss Jessamine. Gonna catch them long curls of yours in the rollers of yer press one of these days.”

  Jessamine seized her dark unruly locks and shoved them back behind her shoulders. The barber was right. She just hadn’t had time between setting type and soliciting subscribers and writing news stories to tend to her hair. Or anything else, she thought morosely. There weren’t hours enough in the day to deal with everything that had been dropped on her.

  Wearily she plodded back to her office across the street and dragged out her notepad and a stubby, tooth-marked pencil. “New printing press arrives in Smoke River,” she scrawled. “Bets taken on longevity.”

  * * *

  Cole finished cleaning the last speck of trail dust off his Ramage press, dropped the kerosene-soaked rag in the trash basket and went upstairs to unload his saddlebags. In the small bedroom he found a narrow, uncomfortable-looking cot flanked by two upended fruit crates, one of which supported an oil lamp and a grimy china washbasin. Home sweet home.

  He plopped his four precious books on top of the other crate and stood staring out the multipaned window. Directly across the street he saw the Smoke River Sentinel office.

  He’d known there was another newspaper in town; he just hadn’t expected it to be located so close. Well, maybe that was a blessing. He could keep a sharp eye on the competition. Still, it was a mite more than he’d bargained for.

  Was that spunky miss with all the questions the typesetter? Or the sister of the printer? Or the daughter...maybe even the wife? Pretty little thing. Rude, too. Never even introduced herself.

  Well, neither had he. He must smell like a randy goat after the eighteen days he’d spent hauling that press from Kansas City. No wonder the little lady didn’t introduce herself. Better rustle up a bucket or two of water for a spit bath tonight.

  Tomorrow he’d stop in and make nice, but right now he was dog-tired. All he wanted was a shot of whiskey, a steak two inches thick and twenty-four hours of sleep.

  Two doors down, the Golden Partridge Saloon beckoned, and next to that was the Smoke River restaurant. Handy. He swiped his hand over his stubbly chin, finger-combed his hair and set off down the street.

  The whiskey was smooth, the steak rare and the bucket of water he hauled up to his living quarters was free. Couldn’t beat that. He stripped, sponged off four states’ worth of dirt and was just about to collapse onto the cot when he saw something out the window that stopped his breath.

  Directly across from his room was another set of windows with the shades drawn. A lamp of some sort illuminated what lay behind the shades, and—good golly Molly! The silhouetted figure of a woman was moving back and forth in front of them.

  A naked woman. Must be the Sentinel woman. Girl, he amended, assessing the slim form. High breasts, nicely flared hips, long, long hair, which she was brushing with voluptuous movements, her arms raised over her head.

  Well, hell. He sure as shootin’ wasn’t tired anymore. He watched until the lamp went out across the way, but by then he was so aroused he was awake most of the night.

  In the morning he checked the windows across the street. The blinds were up, but he couldn’t see a thing with the sun hitting the glass. Just his luck. He’d have to wait for tonight.

  The
restaurant next door to the hotel served biscuits that just about floated off the plate and bacon so crisp it crackled when he bit into it. The plump waitress, name of Rita, was pleasant and efficient and nosy.

  “New in town?”

  “Yep.”

  “Passing through?”

  “Nope. Staying.”

  “Don’t talk much, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “More coffee?”

  He nodded and left her a good-sized tip.

  He spent the morning setting up the press, then asked around town for a typesetter. Nada. By suppertime he’d given up, stopped by the barbershop for a shave and a haircut and a bath, then returned to the restaurant for dinner.

  “Know anyone who can set type?” he asked the attentive waitress.

  “No, but I do know someone who’d like to learn,” she said. She leaned toward him confidentially. “Young Noralee Ness. You’ll find her at the mercantile. Her father’s the owner.”

  “Her?”

  “Sure, why not? You got something against females?”

  “Not if they can set type, I don’t. How come she’s not working for the Sentinel?”

  “Oh, Miss Jessamine sets her own type. Always has, even before her brother died.”

  Cole lowered his coffee cup. “Died?”

  “That’s what I said. Irate subscriber shot him.”

  Hell... This was no better than Kansas City. He’d narrowly escaped the same fate as a result of an editorial he’d written on abolition. Actually sometimes he wished he had been shot; might have been easier than what he’d gone through later.

  “What was the issue?” he asked cautiously. “Not slavery, was it?”

  “Nah. Election coming up. People out here get pretty riled up.”

  It was full dark by the time he tramped up the stairs to his quarters, and he was dead tired. But not too tired. Quickly he washed and then doused the lamp and waited.