A Rogue of One's Own

by Evie Dunmore

  “Currently, we are not only not finding a solution; I am preoccupied with an entirely new, unplanned undertaking that demands time and resources away from my actual work.”

  They fell into a drowsy silence. The sherry was taking effect; Lucie’s core was warming, and her head spun in lazy circles, not unpleasantly. She studied Annabelle, looking cozy and benevolent in her armchair, and the grating sensation returned.

  I’m jealous, she realized. I’m jealous of a dear friend.

  She did not envy Annabelle her besotted duke, though she supposed it had its charms to be the wife of a man who was keen to lavish his enormous wealth and affection upon her.

  No, she envied Annabelle her contentment and her grace and softness, wrapped around a core of steel, and that she was able to receive and bend a little if required, and thus she would not break even when a formidable force like Montgomery was bearing down on her. She was like a blade of grass, could be near flat one day, upright again the next.

  She suspected it was quite the other way around with her—her exterior was steely, useful for plowing paths where there were none, but beneath the rigid shell, outside the facts and figures and goals to be achieved, matters were quite nebulous. Her emotions were rarely graceful, and they had been an unrefined riot ever since she had watched a naked Tristan take a candleholder in hand. Hard shell, malleable core. She was not a blade of grass. She was more in the way of an exoskeletal insect. An overwrought one, as of late.

  She swallowed the remaining sherry in one gulp and put down the glass, feeling dizzy. “Annabelle. If I were to take a lover, what would be the consequences, do you think?”

  Annabelle went very still.

  She was shocked, Lucie supposed. And she would have never put this question to any other woman, but she suspected that Annabelle and Montgomery had not just left it at exchanging longing glances before deciding to jilt convention and get married. Surely, her friend could not be too shocked on the matter of taking lovers.

  “Well,” Annabelle finally said. Her gaze was uncompromisingly direct. “I believe you know the effects an intimate association with a man can have on a woman better than most, given your occupation.”

  Lucie inclined her head. “Possibly.”

  “Your now asking me to lay it out for you leads me to believe you desire confirmation that it would be a poor decision,” Annabelle continued. “Which in turn leads me to believe you are already rather too fond for your own liking of making that poor decision.”

  “I have always admired your deductive skills.”

  Annabelle huffed. “I suppose,” she said, “I suppose it depends.” Her mouth curved into a hesitant smile. “Have you met a gentleman you like, then? Though I suppose if he were truly a gentleman, he would not just offer you a dalliance.”

  “Goodness, no—I don’t like him much at all.”

  Annabelle’s face fell. “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Neither do I.

  There were Tristan’s sinful good looks and his reputation, of course, which could lead a woman to think it would be worth it despite his ungallant character. But it was more complicated than that. She might think about him precisely because he was a scoundrel. The thought of an intimate affair with an upright, mild-mannered gentleman bewildered her—as Annabelle said, such a man would offer marriage, which was not an option for her, and entanglement of any sort with such a man would be destined to end in disappointment. But a rakehell like Tristan? She would never owe him her courtesy. She would never have to struggle to maintain a sweet disposition or prove herself to be someone she was not around him—he’d care nothing for her manners anyway.

  “It would still be risky,” she muttered.

  “Indeed,” Annabelle said evenly.

  “If anyone found out, my reputation would be ruined.” Plenty of married women and widows discreetly took lovers with little consequence, but never-married ones? She’d had a taste of how it would look like back in Claremont’s breakfast room: stares and turned backs, as though she were contagious. Her daily experience magnified tenfold. Except that the people who mattered to her would be compelled to ignore her, too—the women and activists she’d come to admire and rely on over their shared efforts.

  “There’s certainly the danger of rumors and a soiled reputation,” Annabelle said. “But there’s always the risk of more severe consequences.”

  “A child.”

  Annabelle gave a small nod.

  “There are ways of preventing that.” She was familiar with them all. She was also aware that none were guaranteed to work.

  “And diseases, since we are already shockingly frank,” Annabelle said. “And then, of course, all the other ways in which a man like him can ruin a woman.”

  Lucie froze. A man like him?

  “Don’t worry,” Annabelle said pointedly. “I don’t know who he is. But if you contemplate a clandestine affair with a man you do not care about, I certainly know his sort. He must have captured your attention thanks to base attraction alone; he strikes you as an outstanding lover. He probably is, and Lucie, these men all have one thing in common: a mere affair with them hurts a woman’s soul.”

  Lucie made a face. “But I told you I have no care for him.”

  “Very well.” Annabelle leaned closer. “What I know is that a good lover can addle your brain. He can make you feel things you neither expected nor wish to feel. And what if the passion you share with him is second to none, and ruins you for all others?”

  Lucie waved a dismissive hand. “But if one takes a lover, there’s hardly a point in selecting a mediocre one? I do, however, worry about jeopardizing my reputation—it would hand the opposition to our cause splendid ammunition.”

  Annabelle’s features softened. “What about yourself?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. If you did wish for a happy-ever-after with a man, you could have it.”

  She gave a little huff of surprise. “I confess I find a fairy-tale ending involving a man difficult to envision, given the circumstances.”

  She used to think that she was lucky to have been born now, rather than a century or two ago. “Spirited” girls with ambitions could respectably get by as spinsters these days, or eventually settle down with staid old professors called Bhaer.

  Annabelle sighed. “Well, whichever path you choose, doing something in your mind is different from doing it. Reality has unpredictable consequences. You could accidentally cross the Rubicon.”

  * * *

  The following morning, she took an early train to London in her powder blue dress, her hair locked into the most sensible bun she had managed, because that was precisely what was required of her now: being sensible. It hadn’t come naturally, lately.

  Bemusement set in when she approached the imposing granite façade of London Print.

  An orderly queue of smartly dressed women lined the pavement up the front steps to the publisher’s lobby.

  The queue continued across the foyer.

  Covert glances and nervous smiles greeted her as she strode past, and still it did not dawn on her until she had reached her office floor, where the queue had derailed into a small crowd around a flailing Lady Athena, that these were her applicants for the positions she had advertised.

  “Good morning,” she said, baffled and to no one in particular.

  A chorus of good mornings rang back, reminiscent of a class full of well-trained pupils in a village school.

  A small smile spread over her face as she made her way into her office. What an unexpected, wonderful development this turnout was.

  The first applicant was a Miss Granger, five-and-twenty years of age, from Islington. Hectic red splotches bloomed on the woman’s neck above her high collar as she pushed the binder containing her references across the desk.

  Lucie gave her an encouraging smile a
nd picked up her pen. “Miss Granger, why don’t you tell me a little more about why you are interested in working for London Print?”

  “Well, milady, there just aren’t enough gentlemen to go around for marriage these days, are there?”

  “. . . Right.”

  “I considered applying for one of the government grants that help single women find husbands in Australia, but after due consideration I decided I’d prefer to stay in England and find employment instead. Either way, we must be prepared to make our own bread these days.”

  “Indeed,” Lucie said, “but why should you like to work here rather than say, a government office?”

  The blue of the woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh. I do enjoy the magazines. My mother has a subscription to the Home Counties Weekly and I read every issue.”

  Lucie nodded as her pen scribbled away in her interview diary. This was the enthusiasm she needed to see. Working life in London held challenges for a woman; some motivation besides a wage would help sustain anyone who joined the office.

  “I also adore A Pocketful of Poems,” said Miss Granger, a slight pitch in her voice.

  Lucie slowly raised her eyes from the page. “You do?”

  The nervous flush claimed Miss Granger’s cheeks and nose. “Yes,” she said. “I was so surprised to hear Lord Ballentine was the author.”

  “Weren’t we all,” Lucie drawled, not liking the heated gleam in Miss Granger’s gaze.

  “He has such a scandalous reputation, but his poems made me believe it is based on rumors,” Miss Granger enthused. “Surely a true rogue wouldn’t be capable of such emotional depths?”

  “What an interesting thought.”

  “Is he here at London Print often? Lord Ballentine?”

  “I’m afraid not, no.”

  It had come out decidedly too dark, for Miss Granger’s face assumed a vaguely embarrassed expression, as if she’d been caught in the act of doing something naughty.

  Lucie took a deep breath. To no avail. The headache returned with pounding force.

  The next applicant was a Mary Doyle, heavily freckled, and twenty years of age. She had traveled all the way from Birmingham and the purple smudges beneath her eyes said she had risen at an ungodly hour to reach London on time.

  “Miss Doyle—you are applying for the typist position, but from your papers it is not quite clear for how long you took typewriting lessons or where you worked before,” Lucie said, rifling through the woman’s application with a small frown.

  Miss Doyle was studying the wood grain on the desk. “I have not yet fully trained as a typist, milady.”

  Lucie arched a brow. “I see?”

  A demure glance. “I was hoping I could acquire all the necessary skills here, at London Print.”

  Lucie shook her head. “I commend you for your aspirations, but this position requires a fully trained typist,” she said, and when disappointment turned Miss Doyle’s mouth downward, she added: “It is, however, a good idea to establish a course here to teach women these skills.”

  Such a good idea, in fact, that she was making a note of it in her diary.

  “Would working here also involve tending to Lord Ballentine’s administrative needs?” came Miss Doyle’s voice.

  For a blink, the swirls of her own handwriting blurred before her eyes.

  She looked up, half-surprised that the girl didn’t turn into stone as their gazes locked.

  “No position here,” she said, “involves tending to Lord Ballentine’s needs.”

  Mary Doyle’s shoulders fell. “I heard he owns London Print.”

  “Half. He owns half.”

  The little time waster from Birmingham perked up. “Are you in need of someone serving refreshments, then? I have some experience with handling a tea cart.”

  By the time the next candidate walked in, a woman in sunshine yellow muslin with a suspiciously enthusiastic spring in her step, the pulse in her temples radiated heat with every beat.

  She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Miss . . . ?”

  “Potter, milady,” the girl said, then blushed, curtsied, and pulled back the applicant’s chair.

  “Miss Potter. What made you apply to London Print, apart from the possibility of catching a glimpse of Lord Ballentine in the flesh?”

  The girl quite froze in the act of lowering her bottom onto the seat, her mouth opening and closing without producing a response at first. “Nah,” she said. “I must make my own bread, my lady. I’m in need of employment, here in London, to care for my mum.” She bit her lip and gave an apologetic shrug. “But I’m afraid it’s well known that his lordship looks like an angel.”

  “I see,” said Lucie. “Do excuse me for a moment.”

  In the antechamber, dozens of faces turned toward her, pale ovals beneath hat rims and artfully arranged front locks. How many of them had done their hair this morning with special care, with only one thought on their mind? By the time Tristan’s office door came into view, her heart was thrumming harder than her headache.

  He sat behind his desk in only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, head tilted, writing something. A lock of his overlong hair had slid loose and fell into his eyes.

  She pulled the door firmly shut behind her.

  He glanced up and looked bored to see her, though his eyes lit with faint intrigue on the interview diary in her hand. That was how she noticed she was still holding it. It would be satisfying to hurl it at his stupid, handsome head.

  “I’ll take it,” she said.

  A puzzled expression passed over his face. “Well, that’s lovely. And what would it be?”

  She flung the diary onto the nearest chair.

  “Your offer.” She raised her chin. “A night in your bed for a percent of shares. I’m taking it.”

  The bemusement was wiped clean off his face. His expression was an utter blank.

  Her chest rose and fell violently, her head filled with the bright roar of a storm hitting a forest.

  “Are you now,” came his voice, a low murmur.

  She gave a nod, her throat feeling too tight for words.

  His eyes bore into her, and she stared back into the golden depths, face hot, hands clenched. Let him try to call her bluff.

  She watched his gaze fill with an unholy light.

  He leaned back in his chair, toying with the fountain pen between his fingers for a beat or two.

  “Then I suggest you lock the door.”

  Chapter 22

  She had gone and done it. There was no stopping it now; her words were on the loose like hounds on a hare, like a tumbling rock already setting off the avalanche.

  She blindly searched the door behind her back for the lock.

  The metallic click of the key raised the fine hairs on her nape.

  Tristan was not moving a muscle there behind his desk; he appeared transfixed.

  She crossed her arms. “Did the cat get your tongue, my lord?”

  His lids lowered, making slits of his eyes. “Come here.”

  Her heart was trying to flee her chest, the erratic thumps almost painful. She dropped her arms to her sides and approached as commanded, but she slowed when she rounded the corner of his desk.

  She halted an inch outside his reach.

  The chair scraped across the floor when he pushed away from the desk to face her. His knees spread, head cocked, he was contemplating her, and she endured his inspection with a defensive little sneer fixed on her face, endured it as the silence between them stretched and hummed—

  He gestured at her head, a lazy flick from his wrist. “Take down your hair.” His voice was husky.

  Her knees turned shaky. He was going far to try and call her bluff. Or perhaps he was not calling her bluff at all. Perhaps he was serious. Perhaps he wanted to begin it right here—he would be depraved enough
to try.

  She raised a hand to her hairpin.

  The audible hitch in his breathing made her pause.

  His eyes were fixated on her fingers as they hovered over the pin, looking . . . hungry.

  Interesting.

  He might sprawl and issue commands, but unaffected, he was not. It made her give the pin a tug. Another twist, and her hair slid free. The scent of citrus soap wafted up as the long strands unfurled and cascaded down around her to her waist.

  Tristan shifted in his chair, color tinging his high cheekbones. Tiny flames of vindication licked amid her loathing, and she brushed her hair back over her shoulder, the flick of her wrist mimicking his, mocking him.

  His gaze was on her face as he patted his left thigh. “Take a seat,” he said, his voice very soft.

  She froze, all sense of triumph dissipating. “That is not necessary.”

  His smile was a little cruel. “You would sit on vastly more intimate parts of me very soon if you took the offer.”

  If? Took?

  “Fine.”

  She stepped between his legs, stiffly turned her back to him, and sat.

  His left arm immediately slipped around her waist, his hold light, but the gesture alone was deeply possessive.

  She stared ahead at the wall, dimly aware of a wooden cabinet, busily patterned wallpaper, outdated sconces.

  The alien, muscled power of a male thigh beneath hers registered even through layers of fabric. It made her body so weak, she could not have struggled had she tried.

  Tristan leaned closer, bringing his chest against her back.

  “Why are you here, Lucie?”

  His breath touched the sensitive side of her neck. His chest was warm and hard like a sun-soaked brick wall against her shoulder blades. Goose bumps prickled down her arms. You would sit on vastly more intimate parts of me very soon.

  “I am taking the deal,” she managed. “You said it was a standing offer.”

  He made a noise, half scoff, half growl. “Do you want me, then?”

  The gruff question was disorienting. The wall, the cabinets, the sconces, were swaying before her eyes.