Every Bit a Rogue

  A SIMPLE KISS

  The lines of misery on Jon’s face touched Emma’s heart. It seemed grossly unfair that he should be subjected to such pain after all that he had endured. Wanting to lend some sort of comfort, she stepped forward. But the toe of her wet boot caught on the uneven ground and she tripped.

  She reached out a hand blindly for support and Jon expertly caught her by the waist. With a startled cry, Emma instinctively threw her arms around his neck to keep herself from tumbling to the ground.

  They turned their heads at precisely the same moment, bumping noses. Emma squeaked in surprise, but there was an even greater shock to come when the viscount angled his head and kissed her lips . . .

  Books by Adrienne Basso

  HIS WICKED EMBRACE

  HIS NOBLE PROMISE

  TO WED A VISCOUNT

  TO PROTECT AN HEIRESS

  TO TEMPT A ROGUE

  THE WEDDING DECEPTION

  THE CHRISTMAS HEIRESS

  HIGHLAND VAMPIRE

  HOW TO ENJOY A SCANDAL

  NATURE OF THE BEAST

  THE CHRISTMAS COUNTESS

  HOW TO SEDUCE A SINNER

  A LITTLE BIT SINFUL

  ’TIS THE SEASON TO BE SINFUL

  INTIMATE BETRAYAL

  NOTORIOUS DECEPTION

  SWEET SENSATIONS

  A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

  HOW TO BE A SCOTTISH MISTRESS

  BRIDE OF A SCOTTISH WARRIOR

  THE HIGHLANDER WHO LOVED ME

  NO OTHER HIGHLANDER

  THE BRIDE CHOOSES A HIGHLANDER

  EVERY BIT A ROGUE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  EVERY BIT A ROGUE

  ADRIENNE BASSO

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A SIMPLE KISS

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Adrienne Basso

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4622-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4623-3 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-4623-8 (eBook)

  With love and thanks to my incredible family,

  dear friends and faithful readers

  who have encouraged and supported me

  throughout the years

  Chapter One

  English Countryside, 1824

  The bride was late. Not modestly late, not traditionally late, not coyly late.

  Alarmingly late.

  Scandalously late.

  Unforgivably late.

  The slight spring breeze that had earlier drifted through the small, crowded chapel had ceased. The guests, growing warm and impatient, began fidgeting in their seats. Those who had previously turned around to discreetly glance at the church doors, were now openly staring and the murmurs of conversations speculating as to what, exactly, was keeping the bride had begun to swell in volume.

  “Can you see anything, Carter?” Lady Dorothea Grayson, Marchioness of Atwood, asked. Her husband dutifully angled his shoulder, raised his chin, and stole a quick look at the open church doors.

  “Or hear anything?” her older sister, Gwendolyn Barrington, added as she extracted a fan from her reticule and began vigorously waving it in front of her face.

  “Not a blessed thing to be seen or heard,” Carter replied. As he was taller than most men, the marquess had an unobstructed view, so there was no need to be as vulgar as some of the other guests and so obviously crane his neck.

  Sitting quietly between her two sisters, Gwendolyn and Dorothea, Miss Emma Ellingham lifted her head and glanced about the chapel, noting for the first time that something was amiss. She had been woolgathering, caught so intently in her own thoughts that until now she had shut out her surroundings.

  It was an understandable circumstance. She had been invited to the wedding merely as a courtesy out of respect for her brother-in-law Carter Grayson, the Marquess of Atwood, heir to the Dukedom of Hansborough. Carter and her sister Dorothea were the groom’s neighbors, and since Emma was currently living with them, it would have been considered impolite to exclude her.

  Emma had only briefly met the groom, Viscount Kendall, in passing last month and had never once laid eyes upon the bride. Apparently, from what she could now glean, there was a chance she might never be afforded that opportunity.

  “Brides, especially younger ones, can suffer from extreme nerves on their wedding day,” Emma said, hastily adding, “or so I’ve been told. Perhaps the poor girl needs a few extra moments to steady herself before the ceremony. I believe you mentioned that she was only nineteen years of age, Dorothea?”

  “I did.” Dorothea cocked an eyebrow at Emma. “I’m surprised that you remembered. Actually, I had assumed that you weren’t even listening to me when I told you.”

  Emma blushed. Dorothea and Carter had been nothing but kind to her since she had left Gwen’s household and come to live with them last month. Emma appreciated their warm hospitality and efforts to include her in all things, but frankly she found the many intricacies of their social life exhausting. Especially given her ever-present, lingering melancholy.

  No matter how hard she tried, Emma had been unable to get past her current preoccupation with her future. Specifically, what she was going to do with herself now that her artistic muse, the one thing that had sustained her for all of her twenty-two years, appeared to have vanished.

  Who was she, if not an artist? What could she possibly do with herself, with her life, if she did not paint? The question was terrifying to contemplate, even more so when no reasonable answer was to be found.

  Her artistic talent had been obvious from a young age, but since she was female, it had never been encouraged. Growing up, art lessons had been beyond her family’s financial circumstances, especially after her parents had died, but despite the lack of formal training, Emma’s skills had continued to
grow.

  Her oldest sister Gwendolyn’s marriage to the wealthy Jason Barrington seven years ago had changed everything. Suddenly, there were art lessons with the finest instructors, along with encouragement and admiration for her work. ’Twas glorious and humbling and wonderful.

  Then two months ago—unexpectedly, inexplicably—her passion and inspiration for her art deserted her. And it seemed the harder she tried to get it back, the further it slipped away, leaving her puzzled and fearful.

  Emma sighed and looked again around the church, the muttering crowd and the nervous groom, acknowledging that she wasn’t the only one facing an uncertain future.

  “What precisely is the etiquette for this sort of thing?” Gwendolyn wanted to know.

  Gwen’s husband, Jason Barrington, crossed his arms and sighed. “I suppose we must wait until the groom decides he has had enough.”

  Carter removed a gold pocket watch from the vest of his patterned silk waistcoat. “The bride is nearly an hour late. I highly doubt the chit is going to make an appearance. Kendall must have come to that realization already.”

  “Ah, but according to Mr. Pope, hope springs eternal,” Emma interjected, quoting the famous poet. “We might be here for an indeterminable amount of time.”

  “Oh, dear.” Gwen sighed heavily and increased the already rapid speed of her fan.

  “Our discomfort is nothing compared to the agony that poor Lord Kendall must be feeling,” Dorothea said with a sympathetic sigh. “’Tis common knowledge that he has a great affection for his fiancée and holds her in the highest regard and esteem. The scandal of being jilted will only add another layer of pain to his heartbreak. Especially since he is such a levelheaded, responsible, proper sort of fellow. Truly above reproach.”

  “In other words, dull,” Jason interjected wryly.

  “Don’t be unkind,” Gwen scolded, rapping her husband’s knuckles with the base of her fan. “Not all men are cut out to be daring, dashing rogues like you, my love.”

  “Alas, Barrington is a rogue no longer. He’s been thoroughly domesticated by years of marriage to you, Gwen,” Carter joked.

  Jason furrowed his brow. “I could say the same of you, Atwood, but I’ve too much breeding to mention it.”

  The two men exchanged an exaggerated glare before breaking into roguish grins.

  Emma shook her head, marveling at how much alike her two brothers-in-law could be at times. An odd occurrence, given that her sisters were very different women. Gwen was sensible, practical, and selfless while Dorothea was fanciful, unconventional the majority of the time, and kind.

  There was no denying that marriage had brought them both great happiness and joy, along with a love that was deep and true. Could marriage do the same for her? Was it the lack of a partner that kept her tossing and turning at night, dissatisfied with seemingly everything in her life?

  Emma sighed deeply. Nay. The man she loved, with her whole heart and full spirit, was married to another. Sebastian Dodd, Viscount Benton, Earl of Tinsdale, had captured her devotion within minutes of their first meeting. He was dark and brooding, complicated and witty and handsome to a fault.

  Yet beneath the roguish exterior beat the heart of a sensitive man. For years it seemed as though she was the only one who saw it—or rather, she was the only one Sebastian felt safe revealing his true self to.

  She had fallen in love with him when she was sixteen and though she was considerably younger than he, Sebastian had always treated her as an adult. He made her feel special, important, alive. He teased her, confided in her, listened to and valued her opinions, and when she had finally gained the courage to confess her love, he claimed that he loved her too—in a very different way. As one would love a younger sister, a boon companion, the closest of friends.

  Not passionately—as she had loved him. Not as a man loved a woman. As Jason loved Gwen. As Carter loved Dorothea.

  As, based on the green tinge of his complexion and the bleak, worried eyes of Viscount Kendall, today’s groom loved his prospective bride.

  A noisy scuffle at the back of the church broke through Emma’s gloomy memories. Following the lead of the other guests in the chapel, she shifted in the pew and stared at the heavy oak doors, which were now shut. Then, suddenly, they swung open with a resounding thud, the harsh sound reverberating to the wooden rafters.

  It appeared that the bride had finally arrived.

  * * *

  Jon Burwell, Viscount Kendall, tugged at his pristine white cravat, attempting to ease the tightness that encircled his neck. His valet, Gilmore, had fussed for nearly fifteen minutes this morning, insisting that his lordship needed to look perfect on this most auspicious occasion. For once Jon had allowed it, willing to accept the fashionable discomfort in exchange for pleasing his soon-to-be wife.

  Above all, he wanted to make Dianna proud when she beheld her groom. He wanted her to know that he was willing to make the small—as well as the grand— gestures in order to assure her happiness. The love he felt for her was all encompassing, so deep that often he felt unable to adequately express it in words.

  Instead he relied on actions to demonstrate his utter devotion. Personally, he would have preferred a simple, family affair, but Dianna had wanted a large church wedding with a noble guest list. Jon had acquiesced.

  She asked for their wedding breakfast to be held in the ballroom of his manor house, as it was far grander than her father’s home, and Jon was quick to agree. The long list of dishes she requested to be served put a sour expression on his cook’s face as well as a sizable dent in Jon’s wallet, but any unpleasantness was well worth enduring if it made Dianna happy.

  His enchanting bride-to-be had begged to visit dozens of European cities on an extended wedding trip, and Jon had worked tirelessly making the arrangements. He planned their route thoughtfully, booking the finest accommodations available and hiring the most luxurious modes of transportation he could find to take them from one place to the next.

  This trip would put a strain on his finances, but he had tightened his estate and household budgets and limited or even eliminated a variety of other personal expenses to accommodate Dianna’s wishes.

  And he had done it all with joy and eagerness.

  Not everyone, however, approved of his actions. A few of his friends had warned him that he was being far too indulgent and his mother had sputtered with outrage each time she learned of Dianna’s latest request.

  It all came to a head yesterday morning when his mother saw the wedding cake Dianna had chosen—a multi-tiered confection that required the services of a French pastry chef to carefully construct. Stammering with indignity, Jon’s mother had pronounced it a vulgar monstrosity, and the height of poor taste. He had silenced her objections with a stern warning to keep her opinions to herself, which in turn had set off a torrent of tears.

  His mother’s reaction made Jon feel like a brute, yet there was no help for it. He would not tolerate any criticism of his future wife, even from the mother that he adored. His greatest hope was that the two women he loved most in the world would someday share a more congenial relationship, and perhaps in time, that a bond would form.

  One could only hope. And perhaps pray.

  Jon’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the commotion at the church doors. At last! He sniffed, swallowing the lump that had settled in his throat and insisted that he had not truly been worried. He should have known that Dianna would insist upon making a grand, dramatic entrance.

  The minx.

  Jon pulled his hand away from his cravat, straightened his spine, and lifted his chin. With a rapidly beating pulse, he waited anxiously for the organ to swell with the majestic music announcing the arrival—at long last—of the bride.

  Alas, the pipes remained eerily quiet and Jon soon realized why. ’Twas not a vision of feminine beauty and grace that strode down the aisle toward him, but rather a red-faced, heavy-breathing gentleman.

  Hector Winthrope, Dianna’s older
brother.

  Hector literally ran down the aisle, seemingly unaware of the many eyes that followed him. The wave of chattering voices abruptly ceased when he reached Jon and an almost obscene quiet descended upon the church.

  “Have you left Dianna in the carriage?” Jon asked, frowning with worry.

  “Lord, no!” Hector exclaimed, thrusting the parchment dangling from his hand at Jon. “Read it. This note explains all. Well, rather, it states why she isn’t here. In truth, I fear it explains nothing.”

  Jon accepted the letter, quickly scanning its contents. He recognized the handwriting instantly. The long, delicate swirls and slightly tilted lines could only have been written by Dianna.

  Dear Jon,

  Despite the admiration and regard I feel for you, I realize that I cannot marry you, as it would be a mistake that would eventually lead to grief for both of us. I crave more from this life and rejoice that I have found it with another man. I know that I do not have the right to ask for your forgiveness, but I pray that in time you will come to acknowledge that this is best for both of us.

  Your Dianna

  “She’s run off,” Hector interrupted impatiently in a loud whisper. “With that scoundrel Dickenson.”

  Jon’s head shifted. He returned his gaze to the note in his hand, but was unable to comprehend the written words.

  Run off ? What the devil?

  “Did you see her?” Jon inquired anxiously. “Speak with her?”

  “Nay. She knew better than to tell me this atrocious news herself, knowing that I would have prevented it.” Hector clenched his fists. “When the chambermaid delivered the breakfast tray, she discovered Dianna’s empty bedchamber. My sister must have left sometime in the early morning hours, though the servants all claim they neither saw nor heard anything unusual.”