The Officer's Little Rebel (3 page)

“You are a disgrace,” Royce said, “to care more about losing a blanket than the girl you raised.” He stepped forward, his fists balled and Imogen could see the officer restrain himself as he loomed over her stepfather. When he turned back to her, his expression was one of compassion as he took her from his friend. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, then turned back to the innkeeper. “You will hear from my secretary, but pray you never hear from me again. Remember, Mr. Blythe. Should we meet again, I will not be so kind.”

Outside a boy was holding two horses. Imogen could see the other man who’d briefly held her now. He was also an officer, although clearly one of lower rank. He had red hair and the beginnings of a beard, and regarded Imogen as Royce put her up on his horse.

“So you’re really taking her, then, the girl you slept with last night?”

“I wronged her, Gerald, and I mean to do the right thing.”

The red-haired man shook his head as he mounted his horse. As Royce mounted his own horse, Gerald inclined his head toward the inn. “Looks like she’s used to being wronged by that lot.”

“She’ll be wronged no more,” Royce said as he settled in the saddle behind Imogen. “Are you fit to ride?” he asked.

Imogen wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Her bottom still throbbed from where he’d welted it with the sole of the shoe still missing from her foot. The place between her legs was still tender, with an accompanying ache she could not describe. But as she looked back to see her stepfather in the door, his small, rheumy eyes narrowed in anger above the cloth still clutched to his nose, Imogen decided she could endure any ride to leave. So she nodded and said nothing as the man who claimed her turned his horse away from the home she’d had since she could remember, and toward a future she could not begin to fathom.

Chapter Three: The Master of Stonehaven

Home. He’d not expected to return with a woman. He’d not expected to return at all.

How often had he conjured up the image in his mind, allowed himself to dwell on this place in the rare moments of quiet? Now as Royce pulled his horse to a stop and stared into the distance, he feared he’d suddenly be jerked awake by the groans of a starving soldier and find himself not on an English lane, but on the hot foreign sands.

But it was real, and less than a mile away, there it was: Stonehaven Manor. It loomed at the end of a long hedge-lined lane as it had in the day of Royce’s father, and his father before him. They were gone now, leaving him master of this place.

“This is your house?” The voice of the woman in front of him drew his attention. For the last day and a half, he’d felt her warmth against him as they’d rode. Their only stop had been at another inn where he’d bought Imogen a hot bath and found a merchant who’d sold him shoes, some underthings, and a decent dress for the young woman. The next day his friend and fellow officer had headed toward his own home, leaving Royce with only Imogen as his companion. They’d not spoken as they’d traveled. He could tell she was still uncertain, still afraid, and likely mourning the familiarity of what she’d known, even if her former life had been one of servitude.

“Yes,” he answered. “This is my ancestral home, Stonehaven Manor. This will be your home now.”

“It’s so large,” she said.

“Yes. And you are so small.” Royce smiled as he spoke into her hair, which still smelled like lilies from the soap she had used. “It is my job to see that you grow into it.”

He kicked his horse, impatient now as he sent the animal lunging into a canter. As he drew closer to the house, memories flooded back—the sweet mother who’d died when he was twelve, his stoic father who insisted his sons follow the family tradition of military service. Albert Kingsley did not believe societal rank should excuse one from service to country. Royce’s older brother, William, had believed just that. He’d refused to enlist, and after the subsequent row with their father, had been disinherited.

Since that day, Royce had only seen his brother once. William Kingsley came to their father’s funeral, but had stayed just long enough for the reading of the will. Royce knew why; in the back of his mind, his elder brother had hoped his father would have had a change of heart. But that had not been the case, especially not after the things William had subsequently done to hurt the family name. Everything—the vast Kingsley fortune, Stonehaven Manor and all its acres—had gone to Royce.

The staff was as solid as the house, and as Royce approached he could see that they’d kept the place up while he was away. Upon setting foot on English soil, he’d written to let them know he’d be home within a fortnight. That had been before the inn. He clutched Imogen tighter as he remembered. Before
her
. Mrs. Philbert would, no doubt, not approve.

The staff filed out as his horse clattered into the cobblestone yard. The semicircle of servants stood watching, with a few whispering behind their hands as Royce dismounted and lowered Imogen to the ground. As he approached the house with his arm protectively around her shoulders, his housekeeper and butler stepped forward.

“Mrs. Philbert, Mr. Plum,” he said, embracing first one servant and then the other. “It’s been too long.”

“It has.” The portly older woman had tears in her eyes as she looked at her employer. “But God has returned you to us, safe and whole.” Beside her, a barrel-chested man with wiry white hair nodded. “Indeed,” Mr. Plum added. “And we are so grateful.”

“But you’ve brought a…” The housekeeper turned her attention to Imogen and then looked questioningly at Royce. “…a child?”

“No.” Royce gently pushed his companion forward. “This young woman is Imogen. We are to be married, Mrs. Philbert.”

“Married?” To the left and right, servants were now tittering as the news spread down the line. “How…”

“It’s a story for later,” he said. “Imogen is tired from our journey. I’d have her settled in.”

“Yes. Of course.” Mrs. Philbert clapped her hands. “Libby.” A plain-faced maid stepped forward. “Take Miss…” She looked at Royce questioningly.

“Blythe,” he said.

“No.” Imogen finally spoke. “It’s not Blythe. He never let mother give me his name. Don’t you dare call me that. Ever. It’s Hill. Imogen Hill.”

Royce looked down into dark eyes flashing with anger.

“Very well,” he said, turning back to the housekeeper. “Miss Hill.”

“You’re to marry but you don’t even know her name?” The housekeeper’s voice was quiet as she asked Royce, but it was Imogen who replied.

“It didn’t matter to him,” she said tartly. “Once he stuck his great cock in me, the matter was settled.”

The housekeeper and everyone within earshot gasped.

“You forget yourself.” Royce kept his voice low, but tightened his grasp. “You will apologize, Imogen.”

When she glared up at him in silence, Royce placed his mouth by her ear. “You will apologize, my dear, or the whole staff will see you bared and spanked where you stand. Is that what you want?”

He felt her stiffen in his grasp, felt her resistance. A moment later, she slumped slightly, softening in defeat as she dropped her gaze. Her reply of ‘no’ was barely audible.

Royce squeezed her arm again, indicating the matter was not settled. He was fully prepared to follow through on his threat; if leading a regiment had taught him anything, it was that authority was nothing without consistency.

“I apologize for my rudeness.” Imogen’s words were quiet but distinct.

“Thank you,” the housekeeper said.

“You will go with Libby now.” Royce nudged her forward. “And you’ll stay put. Understand?”

Imogen looked a bit less certain of herself now.
Good
, he thought.

“Take her to the room in the south wing where Aunt Winifred used to stay,” Royce told the maid. “I’ll be up to see to her directly.”

All eyes turned to watch the diminutive woman walk away. When they had scaled the steps of the manor and disappeared inside, Mrs. Philbert turned to her employer.

“I know I’ve no right to pry…”

“You’ve every right,” he said gently, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You and Mr. Plum practically raised me. But let’s not include the entire staff in our discussion, hmm?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Philbert clapped her hands again, indicating that the other servants should return to duties. The butler and housekeeper followed them into the big house. Royce breathed deeply once they’d shut the huge oak door behind them. The smells of home—wood polish, leather, the faint, welcoming scent of baking wafting from the faraway kitchen—enveloped him like a comforting blanket.

He stood in the foyer for a moment, taking it all in. He could see the huge library and study through a door to the left. Straight ahead was the staircase that led up to the first floor. Beyond was a hallway to the dining room, a parlor, and a solarium where his mother enjoyed spending her days before she died; the servants still tended the flowers there, orchids that Royce’s father had kept in his late wife’s memory.

Mrs. Philbert had scurried off to the kitchen to fetch tea, leaving Royce alone with the butler.

“The war, sir, was it as hard as your letters home would have us believe?” he asked as they headed to the parlor.

“Harder, old boy,” Royce said. “My father always said service would make a man of me. He neglected to tell me it would make me a haunted man.”

Mr. Plum smiled sadly. “Your father’s service was during a time of peace. It was easy for him to romanticize, sir. But you’re home now and alive, and that’s what matters. You’ve returned to us, and we rejoice in that.”

Royce was not a man given to emotion, but struggled to swallow the lump in his throat as he looked around the parlor.

“And you’ve brought a woman,” the butler chuckled. “And no doubt Mrs. Philbert is keen to hear how that came about!”

The housekeeper had returned with the tea tray. She scowled at Mr. Plum as she entered the room. “Pish!” she said, setting down the tray. “You’re as curious as I am, and don’t deny it.” She handed Royce a cup of tea. “So tell us, dear. She’s clearly not highborn. Did you save her on the road, from a highwayman, perhaps? Spare her the attentions of some unsavory cad?”

“I wish that were the case,” Royce said with a mirthless laugh. “But in truth, I
was
the unsavory cad.”

When his longtime employees looked at him in surprise, Royce recounted the entire story—his fatigue upon reaching the inn, the desire to relax and have a spot of fun, the gambling, the first strong drink he’d had since he could remember, how he’d ended up wagering for Imogen’s affections without knowing she was a virgin.

“So,” he said as the pair sat listening, tea growing cold in their cups. “I could not leave her, not after what I’d done.”

Mrs. Philbert was the first to speak. “Twas a noble thing you did, sir, but surely there were other options. Perhaps you could have… paid a sum…”

“She’s not a common slag, Mrs. Philbert,” Royce said. “She’s just a girl. I’d already assumed so much. What message would it have sent to her, to have her virginity paid for like a commodity? Even if other men in my stead would have assuaged their guilt with coin, for me to do so would have made her feel the whore.”

“But marriage?” Mr. Plum quirked a wooly eyebrow. “If you didn’t want to leave her with the innkeeper, then why not just bring her here and offer her a post?”

“And have her see the man who’d taken her virginity live the good life while she spends hers dumping chamber pots in his house?” He shook his head. “I’m not that man.” He paused, a hard scowl moving across his handsome face like a cloud. “That’s the sort of thing William would have done.”

“Oh, we know you’re not like Will,” Mrs. Philbert said gently. “You always were the one with character. But I have to agree with Mr. Plum. Marriage is a serious business. And this young lady… if you don’t mind my saying, she doesn’t seem to care for you. Her eyes—they all but burn with anger. And her coarse language, oh! How can you ever present her to society? And a wedding? You’re barely home…”

Now Royce held up his hands. “Hold on,” he said. “I said I was going to wed her, but not right away. She’s young yet, only nineteen. But from what I’ve gleaned, she was treated as little more than a servant, and has all but raised herself. She’s never known love or guidance or limits, only the dismissive cruelty that would crush a spirit rather than define it. You’re right; she’s not ready to be wed. I must prepare her for it.”

“So what do you plan to do?” Mr. Plum asked.

“I plan to give her what she never had—a proper childhood with the love and education and guidance she never received. I’ll raise her, and instill in her the discipline I expect in a wife. She’ll live with the expectation of being obedient and respectful—the opposite of what you observed today. If she disobeys, she will be forced to endure a child’s correction. It will be hard for her, but I believe when all is said and done she will understand why this was the only way. In time, perhaps she will grow to love me.”

“But will you love her?” Mrs. Philbert asked.

The room was silent save for the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock.

“I know it may be hard to understand this,” he said to the couple. “But I already do.”

Chapter Four: Imogen’s New Beginning

Imogen ran her fingers across the intricate lace coverlet on the four-poster bed. Never had she seen such fine furnishings in a bedchamber. Despite her anger and humiliation following Royce’s ultimatum, the room she’d been sent to was proving a distraction.

For years her stepfather had railed at the aristocracy. Buzzards, he’d called them with a sneer—feckless buzzards who fed off the sweat of working folk like him. Imogen recalled his sour breath as he’d drunkenly counted each day’s meager earnings. If there was too little to suit him—and there usually was—he’d console himself by drinking. What came next was the blame, usually directed at her for not doing more to entice guests to drink or stay an extra night. And then criticisms of the
ton
followed. Her stepfather’s resentful speech would slur as he spoke of their sloth and fine houses.