What a Reckless Rogue Needs (The Sinful Scoundrels, #2)(11)

He wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do whatever you require.”

“Very well. You need to prove to me that you have matured and are ready to settle down.”

“That’s the point of allowing me to—”

The marquess cleared his throat. “You will give up your dissolute pursuits and choose a wife.”

A strange sensation gripped him as if the floor had shifted beneath his feet. “A wife?”

“You heard me. A female, preferably a respectable one.”

What the devil? Colin frowned. Had he heard correctly? “I think I should focus on renovating Sommerall first. Marriage can come later.”

The marquess took a pinch of snuff and sneezed into a handkerchief. “You’ll continue along the same rakehell path. One day you will thank me.”

Not bloody likely. “Do you mean to drive me away?”

“Do not be tiresome, Colin. It is past time you give up your wild ways.”

He took two steps toward the door with every intention of leaving Deerfield, but his father’s voice stayed him.

“I know you don’t like me ordering you about, but my own father curbed my wild ways. You may not believe me now, but I’m doing you a favor. When a man has a wife and children, he leaves behind his selfishness because his family means more to him than dissipation. In your case, enough is enough.”

“I intend to wed in the future,” he said.

“You’re thirty-one years old, the perfect age for marriage. You will adjust your mind to your new responsibilities.”

He turned around. “We’re out in the middle of the country, for God’s sake. Do you wish me to wed a maid?”

The marquess picked up another letter and broke the seal. “If you require assistance, I imagine your stepmother or the duchess would be happy to help you.”



He’d walked right into a trap.

Colin clenched his jaw as he strode out of the house. He was shaking with hot anger and left the house without a hat or greatcoat. He barely felt the cold. When the sun speared through the birch trees, he squinted. Ahead, there were mounds of fallen brown and orange leaves, but he took no pleasure in the autumn scenery.

He strode faster and faster along the leaf-strewn path. His blood must be boiling a thousand degrees or more. How dare his father demand he marry? For God’s sake, it was the nineteenth century, not the f*cking Middle Ages.

He felt as if he would explode at any moment. In the distance, he saw two laborers hacking at a huge tree limb on the ground. All he knew was that he needed to smash something to control the rage racing through his veins. His breath frosted in the air as he strode faster and faster, his fists locked tight. When Colin reached the laborers, they pulled on their forelocks and looked at the ground.

“Stand back,” he said in a growl.

He jerked off his coat, threw it on a lower limb, and untied his cravat. The two laborers’ eyes widened as he rolled his sleeves up to his forearms. Colin’s nostrils flared as he hefted the ax and brought it down in a giant arc. Splinters flew. He pressed his boot on the limb for leverage, gritted his teeth, and pulled the ax out with a groan. Then he stepped back and swung the ax over his head again. He grimaced as he pulled it out and swung it again…and again…and again with a guttural roar each time. Chunks of bark flew everywhere. One more swing cracked the limb in two.

“Colin!”

The feminine cry startled him. Salty drops of sweat stung his eyes as he spied Angeline running toward him. “Hell,” he muttered.

He let the ax drop and wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. He glanced over his shoulder at the two laborers. “Go on,” he said gruffly. They pulled on their forelocks again and retreated as if they’d just witnessed a madman. He certainly felt like one.

The cold wind picked up, blowing through the damp linen of his shirt. He gritted his teeth.

Angeline reached him. “You’ll make yourself ill in nothing but that thin shirt,” she said breathlessly.

“Angeline, leave. I’m not fit for company.” He picked up the ax again. “Go,” he said.

“No, I will not leave you in this condition. Obviously you are in a state.”

“For the last time, please leave,” he gritted out.

Her eyes widened. “You’re furious.”

“If you have any sense, you will leave. Now go.” God, why did she of all people have to witness his ire?

“You cannot stay out in the cold in that thin, damp shirt. You will make yourself very ill and worry your family.”

His nostrils flared. “Please go before I say something I regret.”

“Go ahead, but you’ll not stop me.” She unrolled his left sleeve and then his right. He looked at her from beneath his damp lashes. Her plump breasts rose and fell with each visible breath. He made himself look away. She might be comely and curvaceous, but she was trouble.

When she lifted her lashes, her eyes grew huge as she looked at the dark hair showing through the V in his shirt.

“What is it?” he asked. He rather hoped the husky sound of his voice would scare her off.

She cleared her throat and appeared to be looking over his shoulder. “You cannot go about with your cravat undone.”

He huffed. “That’s rich.” He’d gone about with far fewer clothes on many occasions, but he thought better of mentioning that in her presence.