All In Love Is Fair (A Regency Rogue Novella Book 3) Read online

  All In Love Is Fair

  A Regency Rogue Novella, Volume 3

  Rebecca Ruger

  Published by Rebecca Ruger, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Some creative license may have been taken with exact dates and locations to better serve the plot and pacing of the novel.

  All In Love Is Fair

  ASIN: B07YRG5KSN

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 Rebecca Ruger

  Written by Rebecca Ruger

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Rebecca Ruger

  [email protected]

  www.rebeccaruger.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  One would never presume that Leyton March, the Earl of Newcastle, might actually be caught skulking behind an oversized potted plant at Lady Middleford’s annual season-opening ball. But there he was, in fact not so much skulking as he was spying. Through the leaves and branches he could see very well the figure and face of Anna Beverley—he’d have known that lustrous black hair and those vivid blue eyes anywhere.

  She stood on the other side of the hideous plant, her smile serene while she spoke with some hapless suitor. They’d been speaking for only a short amount of time when the music presently ended, allowing Leyton to now hear what was being said.

  “If you keep following me around like a lovesick fool, people will begin to talk about more than just your empty pockets and that nasty business last season with the infamous Lady Stubing.”

  Leyton nearly barked out loud with laughter. Darling Anna Beverley had delivered this little set down with the voice and tone of an angel. It was only that she’d spoken perfectly flawless French that had the poor swain still at her side, having not an inkling what she’d just said.

  “Do you speak English?” The fool persisted, enunciating each of his words, as if she were deaf and not simply foreign, as she obviously pretended to be.

  “Non,” she replied and tilted her head, giving him a pretty smile and curious stare. “You haven’t a clue who I am, do you, you simpleton?” Again, spoken in French, she left him wanting.

  “Bloody Hades!” Groaned the man. “Stay right here. I think that no account Amberleigh speaks French. I’ll—be—right—back.” He smiled and nodded at least three times to her, moving away in small increments then, turning often to make sure she was still where he’d left her.

  Leyton shook his head in horrified amusement while Anna continued to wave charmingly at the man until he was fully out of sight.

  “Bloody Hades is right,” he heard Anna mumble then and dash off in the opposite direction.

  Stepping out from his concealed spot, Leyton made to follow the lovely little sister of his best friend and let her know he’d was quite entertained by her shenanigans, even if that other fool hadn’t a clue how she’d just played him. But showing himself to the crowd proved nearly disastrous; the music had begun again, and he was set upon by quite a crush of women—marriage-minded mama’s dragging along their debuting daughters—and he lost sight of Anna Beverley as she exited the ballroom completely.

  His frown at that moment cleared away at least half of the agenda-set women who’d clustered around him. Leyton March was a large man, well over six feet in height, with shoulders that hadn’t any need of the—thankfully declining— fashion trend of padded shoulders. His face was angular and long, with high cheekbones, his dark brows straight over brown eyes just a shade darker than his close cropped hair. Women found him fascinating, and his return from Wellington’s side less than a year ago had proved a thrilling addition to the available men in London. But to see his frown cast his person in an entirely different light. Gone was the affable, though sometimes aloof Earl of Newcastle. There was nothing about his current mien which screamed ‘approachable’, and hence a path was easily cleared, allowing him to pursue the charming Anna Beverley.

  He exited the grand ballroom through the same wide doorway she had used moments ago, considering the near empty ground floor foyer and multiple corridors from which she might have chosen an escape route. A man—Leyton thought he might be young viscount Manning—came rushing out from a half open door down the hall to the right and begged anxiously of Leyton, “You don’t happen to speak Spanish, do you, man?”

  Stifling his chuckle, Leyton shook his head and advised the man to find Lord Hornsby as he had, by far, the best command of that language. When Manning had thanked him and took off into the ballroom, unaware that Hornsby existed only in Leyton’s imagination, Leyton strode purposefully toward the room from whence Manning had come.

  This was a small music room, which might see use later if Lady Middleton could cajole her youngest, a bespectacled lass of questionable ability, to entertain the guests on the pianoforte. Presently, however, the room was occupied only by Anna Beverley.

  He hadn’t seen her in years before this evening, hadn’t even discussed her much with her brother since their return from the Peninsula to know that she’d evolved from a lanky, bothersome little girl in pigtailed braids to this willowy and graceful creature with such enormous and unforgettable blue eyes. She stood with her back to him, taller than most young women, splendid in a pale blue gown with a modest neck and open skirt, which showed her embroidered petticoat beneath. Her black-as-night hair was piled artfully atop her head in an array of shining curls, a stark contrast against the creamy paleness of her skin. It was no wonder she’d been forced to employ such tactics as feigning a foreign-ness to which she could not truthfully claim; a young woman did not look as she did and not attract such a gross of admirers, be they desired or not.

  “Miss Hepplewaite would be proud, given your command of the French she so rigorously drilled into your head,” Leyton said in his own flawless French, hoping he recalled the name of her governess correctly.

  She turned from her study of the single set of built-in shelves and their offering of books to stare at him. Her expression bordered on something betwixt curiosity and guilt. “Pardon me?” Perhaps she hoped this bought her time, while she studied him. Leyton thought she might not have recognized him, it had been that long.

  “Or should I try Spanish—I hear you’ve a command there as well.” He moved further into the room, stepping fully into the soft light cast off by a few strategically placed candles and one huge candelabra atop the pianoforte.

  “Leyton March,” she declared, breathless. For just the space of a bare moment, she seemed to want to run to him. But she did no such thing, likely recalling that she was no longer the gawky child whom Leyton had often swung merrily off the ground, seeming never to find her quite the brat her brother did.

  “Anna Beverley,” he said to her, teasing her with the same breathless and surprised tone she had just used. She smiled at this, and for the briefest second, Leyton was truly breathless. Anna Beverley had need of a charade—she was absolutely too beautiful to escape notice.

  “When did you return?” She asked.

  “Last fall only. I spent the winter in the country, my mother
was ailing.”

  “I had heard. Papa and I sent ‘round a card.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “She is better, I understand.”

  “Much, yes,” he told her, scratching at his jaw, trying his darnedest to keep his eyes from those lips of hers—like soft, juicy cherries they were, red and ripe and oh, so tempting. Damn, but this was Noah Beverley’s sister! Not some daring and willing widow he might accost in the music room at a public affair. “Mother stayed on at Newcastle in Gloucestershire. Perhaps she’ll make it to the city by the end of next week.”

  “I should hope so. Your mother is great entertainment,” Anna informed him with an impish smile.

  “Is she now?” He raised a brow.

  “Oh, quite.” Anna nodded, tossing her onyx curls a bit. “Why, I daresay no one can send a suitor packing so quick as your mother. Never mean, mind you. Never heartless. She is a true diplomat, but an effective one.” Her eyes moved to the doorway, and Anna grinned as she whispered, “Ah, would that she were here now.”

  Leyton turned and found viscount Manning crashing their little reunion. He bore down purposefully on Leyton. “My man, this Hornsby fellow seems a veritable phantom. Can’t find him anywhere. How are you managing with the fair lady? I couldn’t understand a blessed thing she said.” He seemed all at once exasperated and then, turning his eyes again to the alluring figure of Anna, determined once again to gain some ground with the lady.

  Leyton felt his lip curl, simply watching the fool stare so greedily at Anna. For her part, she wasn’t helping her circumstance, tilting her head and offering an innocent smile that rather floored Manning for all its loveliness. Leyton sighed and decided to rescue her, moving close and extending his hand.

  “Sometimes, no words are necessary, Manning.” He met Anna’s ridiculously blue eyes and felt her soft hand join his. He led her away from the viscount, and out of the room.

  Anna kept up the ruse and said something to him in Spanish, just as they passed through the doorway. Leyton chuckled and whispered at her ear. “Perhaps stay with the French, my dear. You’ve just told me that his goat was tied too tightly around his elbow.”

  Anna quickly glanced up at him, her free hand coming to rest against her bosom, drawing his eye there. “Oh, my. Did I really? French it is, then.”

  Leyton was only further enchanted, as he should never be with his best friend’s little sister. “Come, let us see that your dancing tutor was more successful than your linguist master.”

  ANNA BEVERLEY FOLLOWED the Earl of Newcastle back into the grand ballroom and out onto the dance floor. Had she not been so keenly aware of his strong hand holding hers, she might have been more aware of the frank gazes and frowns that tracked their progress as they took their places, just in time for the next cotillion.

  Her excitement over their coming dance had nothing at all to do with the flush currently darkening her cheeks. This heat was created solely by the mere presence of the man now standing across from her, grinning at her as if he knew all her secrets—some of which he apparently did.

  Leyton March. Why, she’d not thought of him at all in the past few... days. That was not entirely true; just yesterday, when being fitted for the very gown she now wore, she’d wondered absently if the boy—now quite clearly a man—she’d secretly sworn to love forever, the one who tolerated her constant tagging along when her own brother had not, might finally show himself again.

  The dance began and Leyton and Anna moved in time with the other dancers, coming together and then moving apart as the steps demanded. She felt his eyes upon her, attentive as a partner’s should be, and wished as she had a million times before that one day those dark brown eyes, speckled liberally with gold, she knew firsthand, might settle upon her with something other than merely brotherly affection.

  This was likely never to be, she’d known for quite some time. Leyton March was, aside from being an earl of immense popularity, and eagerly sought, not much given to dallying with the young and innocent. Anna was both, and she knew that often she was considered rather quirky for her adoration of books and sometimes eccentric ways. If they had not had such a long-standing acquaintance, she knew Leyton March would never be caught dead in such close proximity to a debutante, for everyone knew that widows and—it was rumored—married women were more his thing.

  So as much as she thrilled at his present attention to her, to the possible detriment of his carefully honed reputation, she knew he did so only out of remembered affection for the little girl she used to be. He smiled again as they came together, his arm barely touching her as it slid around her waist for one quick moment before they moved apart again, and Anna’s insides curled at the very thoughts her mind allowed to take flight in her head.

  When the lively dance had ended, Leyton and Anna left the floor, his hand at the small of her back, their smiles harmonious, though she thought for sure hers was of a more personal thrill than his. They were immediately set upon by several people, first and foremost being Lady Wellsley, whose sultry figure sashayed rather purposefully toward the earl, the bodice of her gown displaying to great effect the very reason she was referred to as “Wicked Wellsley”.

  “She’s bound to hurt someone with those things,” Anna mumbled beneath her breath, her eyes—like those of so many others—unable to be lured away from the presentation of her enormous bosom and daring cleavage.

  Apparently, along with all his other fine attributes, the earl was also possessed of a very keen sense of hearing. “There have been rumors to that effect, my dear,” he surprised her by whispering into her ear.

  Lady Wellsley approached, followed quite by accident by Mr. McNair, whom Anna had been confronted with earlier in the evening beyond a potted plant. Egads! She thought, trying to remember if it had been French or Spanish she’d used to rid herself of his presence.

  “French,” said the earl, which caused Anna to gasp and consider the man at her side. He explained that he was not, indeed, a mind reader. “You were frowning, little Anna, and I assumed it is hard, after all, to keep track of your nefarious tactics.”

  Just before the pair reached them, Anna asked quietly, “So what tactic might you employ to be free of the very focused Wicked Wellsley?”

  Leyton March chuckled at this, removing his arm from around her. “My dear Anna, with a name like Wicked Wellsley, I should think I’d not want to be free.”

  She knew her eyes widened at his incorrigible reply, though it seemed not unlike his roguish nature, truth be told. But Anna did acknowledge as she allowed Mr. McNair to lead her out for another dance, having not the heart after all to deny him, that Leyton March’s response twisted something harshly within her belly.

  Chapter Two

  Two evenings later, finding herself yet again considering use of the Foreign Miss tactic, Anna sighed with enough force that her exhale moved the wayward curls off her forehead. She glanced around the drawing room of Lord and Lady Milton’s fine townhouse, debating whether or not she’d accept any invitations during the season if not for her fear of disappointing her dear father. He wished only for his children to be well-secure and happy, and imagined that the only way to be so was to find a mate to make you so. Therefore, as much as Anna would rather be home with her new first edition copy of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, she had accompanied her father to the Miltons’ soiree, hoping to God that the good Lady Milton did not request that she play their never-in-tune pianoforte. Anna was well capable of plucking out a fine and decent concerto, but Bach himself would struggle mightily on this ill-kept piece.

  Andrea Dillon, one of Anna’s closer acquaintances, stood beside her, bemoaning the fact that Lady Milton tended only to invite eligible men, and not specifically desirable ones, to any of her functions. Dear Andrea seemed entirely unconcerned that as she went about castigating all the offerings present, the two men who stood before them now exchanged frightful glances; they were either loath to leave their company for fear of being next in line to be slan
dered, or they waited only for Andrea to draw breath that they might insert their request for a dinner partner, their hopeful eyes on Anna.

  “I mean, really,” Andrea was saying as she applied her fan with more vigor than coquettishness required, “I cannot see why Lord Littleton should be so well thought of—Little Ton, is more like it, if you ask me. He hasn’t a farthing to his name, and even if he did, he’d not be able to squeeze it into his too-tight puce coat. Who wears puce these days? I’d thought Brummel had done away with all those nasty peacock colors for evening wear.”

  Anna cast a sympathetic glance at the Baron Mumfort, who stood before the ladies in his striped jade and magenta waistcoat, his low boots being jade as well. The short and stodgy man shifted uncomfortably in his colorful boots, then frowned with some nastiness at his friend, the viscount Landers, who was perusing Mumfort’s clothing as if he, too, were offended by such a color scheme.

  At such nonsense, Anna rolled her eyes heavenward, praying for patience, wondering if Andrea’s prattle might ever stop.

  “Miss Beverley, I seem to recall that you promised to partner me for dinner.”

  Anna turned around to find Leyton March standing behind her, not waiting for Andrea to draw breath, but having spoken right over her. She smiled, showing a thankful joy for his interruption and a simple joy at his coming.

  “Ah, my Lord Newcastle,” she greeted him with a small curtsy, while Andrea finally closed her mouth, though only for a second before her jaw gaped completely as Newcastle extended his saving hand to Anna. “How good of you to recall,” Anna continued. “Excuse me, Andrea, gentlemen.”

  Once out of hearing, with her hand tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow, Anna gave a conspirator’s laugh and confided, “Such a cad you are, my lord, to drag me away from so stimulating a group.”

  “You may thank me later,” Leyton March said and laughed with her. “Trust me, you are sparing me the company of Milton’s cheeky daughter, what’s-her-name?”