Free Anita Mills by The Rogue's Return Page B

him. Determined to appear the proper lady despite all that had befallen her, she tried to eat daintily, taking small bites. Ladies, she reminded herself fiercely, did not gorge themselves even when starving.
    The pasty was good, but salty. Long before she finished it, she wished she’d not declined the wine. But it was vastly improper to drink with two men. And she could still remember the pain from whatever Quentin Fordyce had given her. Still, she could not help eyeing the bottle of port with regret.
    “Another pie, Miss Morland?” Bertie asked. “Got plenty.”
    Another one and she’d need a gallon of something to wash it down. Still hungry, she forced herself to shake her head. “No, thank you.”
    “Don’t be a ninnyhammer, Miss Morland,” Deveraux advised her shortly. “Surely by now you can acquit Bascombe and me of any designs on your person. Neither of us is a Quentin Fordyce, after all.”
    “Egad, no,” Bertie managed between mouthfuls. “It don’t make any difference even if you was to drink a little wine. Ruined, anyway.” Then, perceiving what he’d said, he hastened to add, “Well, you would be if ’twas known you been with us, but daresay it ain’t going to get out. I ain’t telling anybody. Promise.”
    She knew she was ruined, but it was lowering to hear it, particularly since the situation had not been of her making. She had no position, no money, and no place to go now—except Newgate. And she ought not to care what an amiable fool and a self-styled rogue thought of her. Not at all. She had nothing to lose but her virtue, and they were apparently uninterested in that. She wavered, then told herself that it was all of a piece anyway. Whether she drank with them or not, if the story were ever told, there would be those who would suspect her of considerably more than that.
    Dominick watched her face, seeing the momentary fear, then the resignation betrayed in the brown eyes, and despite his earlier words, he did feel for her. Unlike him, she’d not been totally alone in the world before. For a female, that must be devastating. “Blue-deviled, my dear?” he asked with uncharacteristic gentleness.
    Used to his gibes, she was unprepared for the kindness in his voice. Her throat constricted painfully. Swallowing, she nodded. “Yes, Mr. Deveraux, I am,” she managed to answer finally. “But I shall survive.”
    “Shouldn’t wonder at it!” Bertie said forcefully. “Got reason, after all, and it ain’t right! Serve Fordyce right if he was to be dead.”
    “Bascombe—”
    “Very good sort of a girl, I can tell. And if I was in the petticoat line, which I ain’t, I’d as lief offer for you as for Miss Brideport.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Bascombe, but I fear I’d decline.”
    “You would?” Bertie brightened visibly. “I say, but you are a brick, Miss Morland! Most of the females don’t care how they get a fellow into parson’s mousetrap, you know.”
    “I would consider it very lowering to wed a man I did not love, sir.”
    “The romantic Miss Morland,” Dominick murmured.
    “Is everything a jest to you?” she retorted, stung.
    “On the contrary, my dear—I salute you. I would that my mother had felt the same. Here …” He handed her the half-empty bottle. “Bascombe’s right, you know—neither of us will tell. Besides, ’twas so cheap, ’tis probably watered.”
    She sighed and took it. “I daresay it would not matter if you did tell. Ruined is ruined, after all.” Lifting the bottle, she took a sip of the wine. It was surprisingly sweet. She wiped the opening and held it out to Deveraux. “Thank you, sir.”
    “Keep it. You’ll need it if you are to choke down another pasty. Besides, there is still this one.” As he spoke, he held up the third bottle of port.
    That settled, they ate and drank freely, polishing off the meat pies with relish. By the end of her third one, Anne was no longer sipping her wine daintily, but had taken to drinking it with as much