A Rogue’s Pleasure

by Hope Tarr

  Standing in the humble little room, Anthony appeared even more imposing than he had in his own grand surroundings and even more handsome. Despite the fact that he’d spent the better part of the morning baking on her doorstep, he managed to look very dapper in an amber coat and buff breeches. If she bent forward, she was certain that she would be able to see her reflection in his highly polished top boots. His only concession to the unseasonable heat had been to loosen his neck cloth and unbutton the top button of his shirt. A dark brown curl peaked out at base of his throat. Lord, what an absolutely beautiful man. What a pity he was also an absolute cad.

  “May I inquire where you’ve been all morning?” he asked.

  “No, you may not.” She jammed the rose stems into a chipped vase and untied her bonnet.

  After leaving the goldsmith’s, she and Jack had stopped at St. Mary-le-Bow. To get the “lay o’ the land,” Jack had said. The church was deserted when they entered, heels clanging on the stone flagging. Chelsea selected a back pew and knelt to pray. The sanctuary was pleasantly cool, the air scented with incense and cedar. But, as soon as she closed her eyes, images crowded her head. Robert, head bowed, confessing that he’d bought into the Army. Her, marching across the library, demanding to know how anyone—even someone who’d gotten himself thrown out of Oxford—could be so foolish as to pay—actually pay—for the privilege of getting shot at. Robert on that final day, handsome in his officer’s red coat and white breeches, waving one last time before he turned his horse and rode off. She’d refused to come outside, but he must have known she couldn’t resist watching him from the window. But then Robert could always read her.

  And so, it seemed, could Anthony. Heart-meltingly handsome in the candlelight, he’d known just how to kiss and fondle and coax until she gave in. Until she wanted to do things she hadn’t names for. Until she stood but a hairbreadth from becoming the kind of woman respectable women shunned.

  The torturous thoughts twisted about her brain like a tourniquet. She couldn’t form a cogent prayer, let alone a cogent thought. Communicating with the Divine required peace, and she hadn’t a shred left. She would have bashed her forehead against the pew in front of her if she’d thought it might help.

  Now that Anthony was here, she’d much rather bash him. Or better yet, toss him out on his ear. She swung around, only to find him making himself at home in a bedraggled armchair.

  “I suppose next you’ll be expecting to stay for tea,” she said with deliberate sarcasm.

  He flashed a brilliant smile. “Tea. What a delightful suggestion. I’ll stay, of course.”

  A traitorous trill of excitement sliced through her anger. Only cold reserve would save her. Summoning her frostiest voice, she said, “Of course,” and handed the vase to Jack. “Put these in water, please.”

  Scowling, he snatched it from her. “I don’t knows as I should leave ye alone wi’—” he shifted to glare at Anthony, “—’im.”

  “I’ll be quite all right until you return. Lord Montrose did not come here to ravish me, did you, milord?”

  “I believe I shall be able to hold myself in check this once.”

  Jack backed into the hallway. “If the blighter tries anything, scream.”

  As soon as Jack was out of earshot, she whirled on Anthony. “You followed me last night, didn’t you?”

  His eyes, unrepentant, met hers. “I did.”

  “At one point I fancied I heard someone in the alley, but I thought it was only a large rat. Now I see that I was right.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t care for being spied on.”

  “And I don’t care for being burgled and lied to, so I suppose we’re even.”

  Since there was no defense against the former charge, Chelsea concentrated on defending herself against the latter. “How dare you accuse me of lying.”

  Anthony stood and hobbled over to the mantel. “I suppose Jack really is your butler, then?”

  What was he getting at? “Jack is more than a servant. He’s family, really.”

  “Family?” He stared at her. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “The lad next door called you Mrs. Bellamy. I thought that perhaps…”

  “That Jack was my husband?” She started to laugh but stopped when he didn’t join her. Could he be serious? A look at his stiff expression told her he was. “Jack practically raised me. He’s been like a second father to me, particularly since—” She paused, struggling to push the words over the lump in her throat. “Since my own father passed on.” Grief descended on her chest like a lead weight.

  All at once, his features relaxed. “I see.”

  A squeal outside provided her with the opportunity to turn away from him. Blinking back surreptitious tears, she crossed to the window and peered out. A cluster of ragged boys congregated around a polished crimson curricle. One lad, older and bolder than the rest, climbed up onto the velvet seat. Another followed suit, pulling on the fringed canopy.

  Over her shoulder, she asked, “I suppose that perfectly vulgar vehicle is yours?”

  “One of them.” He came up behind her and laid a light hand on her shoulder. Even through the stiff twill of her gown, she could feel the heat radiating from his fingertips.

  She faced him. “I really should chase them off before they do any damage.”

  “To the devil with the carriage. I’ve been up most of the night thinking about you…about us.”

  “Us?”

  He braced a hand on the windowsill and leaned into her. “You’re all I can think about. All I want to think about.” His other hand cupped her cheek, his thumb moving in small, slow circles. “I hoped you might feel the same.”

  A quiver of desire shot through her, settling in her belly. Her nipples tightened beneath the heavy fabric. A moment more of him touching her like this and she would melt in his arms like butter left out in summertime.

  Annoyed by her body’s treachery, she lashed out. “Think about you? Why should I want to? So far, in our blessedly brief acquaintance, you’ve shown yourself to be insufferable, conceited, deceitful…” She groped for fresh insults.

  “Don’t forget rakish.” He grinned. “You see, I own my faults freely. As Wellington once said, ‘Better the devil you know…’”

  Only Anthony could manage to be so infuriatingly charming while she insulted him. And so blasted attractive.

  “You’re…impossible.” To her chagrin, she was smiling.

  His hand moved to the nape of her neck, his fingers kneading away the stiffness.

  “And you’re beautiful, particularly when you’re angry.”

  She looked at him askance. “Really, Lord Montrose, given your reputation, I was expecting more originality.”

  A roguish smile that might have belonged to the devil himself stole about the corners of his mouth. “Give me time, Miss Bellamy, and I shall endeavor to produce something more worthy of you.”

  Time. The word jarred her. Only nineteen days to raise Robert’s ransom. Now was the worst possible time to dally with a dangerously attractive viscount, one who seemed to have no other avocation than to follow her like her proverbial shadow.

  Her smile dimmed. “You came here because you have something to say. I’m listening.”

  He took a deep breath. “Last night, when I said I’ve never wanted another woman as I want you, I meant every word.”

  Heat crept into her cheeks. And between her legs.

  She shook her head fiercely. “Last night was a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

  He grasped her shoulders. “I don’t believe that and neither do you. Last night can be the beginning of something wonderful for us both.”

  His fingers flexed on her shoulders. She looked up into his face, the eyes dark and earnest. The beginning of something wonderful. What did he mean?

  It was impossible to think with him touching her. She tried to lift his hands. “What are you saying?”

  “That I think I could m
ake you happy. That I’d like to try.” His hands went around her waist, drawing her against him.

  Her stomach fluttered. This, him…it was all so perfect. Exactly how she’d envisioned her future husband proposing. But they were virtual strangers. Could it be that the night before had meant something to him beyond physical gratification?

  He cupped her buttocks, crushing her into the cradle of his thighs. Even through layers of clothing, she could feel his arousal. “Last night convinced me that you and I will deal well together.”

  Deal well together? The words ripped the fabric of her romantic reverie.

  She tried to step back. “What did you say?”

  “We will deal well together.” He rubbed against her, his hardness probing her belly. “Extremely well, I should say.”

  And then understanding dawned. And with it, hurt, anger—and disappointment so bitter it nearly choked her. “Are you offering me… Can it be that you want me to be your mistress?”

  Smile lines bracketed bright, brown eyes. “You will find me a generous protector. I will keep you in style such as you’ve only dreamt existed. Gowns, jewels, a town house in London. Of course, you must have your own carriage and driver as well. Do you fancy a box at the theater? Then you shall have it, provided it sets across from mine. I’ll want to be able to look out and see you gazing back at me.”

  “Lord Montrose!”

  He held up a hand. “No more titles and formality. From now on, you are to call me Anthony.”

  “Anthony, I’m—”

  “Speechless, yes, of course you are.” He beamed at her. “After the ramshackle life you’ve led, it must seem too good to be true, but I assure you, ’tis not.” He brushed his lips against hers.

  “But first, you are to have done with mourning. No more black. I want to see my lady in bright colors from now on…or nothing at all.” His fingers went to the jet buttons at the front of her gown. “Let me help you out of this hideous thing…now.”

  “Stop.” She batted his hands and backed away, bumping against the window seat.

  He was little better than Squire Dumfreys with his talk of gowns and jewels. Worse because Anthony had made her want him. The night before he’d changed her from a child into a woman. He’d used gentleness and pleasure to destroy her defenses with the single, calculated aim of making her his whore. Didn’t he understand how deeply he’d hurt her, how complete was her humiliation? She searched his face. Obviously not. But he would. He would.

  “Lord Montrose, I am not your lady and you, most certainly, will never be my protector.”

  Anthony frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “What I have been trying to tell you since you arrived. I will never consent to be your mistress.”

  His frown deepened. “Do you realize what you’re giving up? Most women in your position would not take it amiss to be offered carte blanche by a viscount.”

  Such conceit. Such arrogance. What a snob he was, expecting her to be impressed by his title. “Then I suggest you offer it to one of them and leave me in peace.”

  He shook his head. “I thought you would be pleased.”

  “Pleased!” Needing to put some distance between them, she brushed passed him and crossed to the fireplace. “I assure you, Lord Montrose, I find nothing remotely pleasing in your revolting suggestion.”

  Hypocrite. Even with his true colors blazing, she wasn’t sure what she wanted most—to slap him or to kiss him. Summoning all of her willpower, she did neither.

  Facing the chimney, she dug her fingernails into the plasterwork mantel and added, “Why, you are practically a married man.”

  “That did not seem to bother you overmuch last night,” he reminded her, an edge to his voice.

  The taunt amounted to salting a very large, very open wound. Emotions raw, Chelsea pivoted to face him. “Last night, I had drunk too much wine. Today I am perfectly sober, and I tell you that I find your offer loathsome, just as I find you!” Liar.

  He advanced on her. “Loathsome, am I?” He stopped, so close that she could see the angry muscle working in his jaw. “You did not appear to find me so very loathsome when you were clawing at my back and arching against me.”

  “Kindly lower your voice.” She peered over his shoulder to the open door. Fortunately Jack was nowhere in sight. Teeth set, she whispered, “Just because I forgot myself for a moment or two last night does not mean that I will agree to be made into a plaything to gratify your beastly lust.”

  “Lust went both ways,” he roared, ignoring her shushing. “Or have you forgotten that you were the better part of naked and writhing in my arms. The way you moaned and begged for my kisses gave me the distinct impression you rather enjoyed them…among other things.”

  “Eh hem.”

  They both swung about to the doorway.

  “Yer tea’s ready.” Expression murderous, Jack plunked the tray down with a bang that set the contents rattling. “I’ll bide in the kitchen.” Over his shoulder, he cast Anthony a menacing scowl. “Meat cleaver wants sharpenin’.” With that, he shuffled into the hallway.

  Chelsea turned on Anthony, still lounging by the mantel. In his eyes Jack was only a servant and a rough-hewn one at that. But Chelsea had not exaggerated when she’d said Jack was like a second father. Jack’s good opinion had always mattered to her. Never more so than now when, thanks to Anthony, it seemed she’d lost it.

  “Now see what you’ve done!” She stabbed a forefinger toward the door. “Leave, now! I never want to see your face again.”

  “I’ll leave, if that is your wish, but not until you’ve told me why you’ve just turned down my offer in favor of a life of crime.” His dark gaze narrowed. “This may come as a shock since you find me so loathsome, but it has been my experience that most women would choose to satisfy my beastly lust over going to the gallows any day.”

  His steady gaze unnerved her. She looked away. “I prefer my independence.”

  He shook his head. “I know this much. You are no common thief. As I discovered the day you overtook my carriage, you’re not even terribly good at it.”

  That was going too far. “Why is it men always think they are the only ones who can do anything?” Chelsea raised a fist and punched the air. “I had everything under control…at least until you grabbed me and I dropped the pistol, a mistake I was careful not to repeat.”

  “Oh, really. I suppose then that you were aware that I had my Manton tucked into my jacket pocket the entire time? Had I not been traveling with my fiancée and her mother, I would not have submitted so tamely to your demands.”

  Chelsea felt the blood leave her face.

  His dark eyes blazed. “You little fool, you could have easily found yourself shot or…worse. You’ve not an inkling of the damage a bullet can do at close range. I’ve seen men, whole one minute, reduced to pulp the next.”

  She thought of Robert. What deprivations, what tortures, he’d endured by now, God alone knew. “Enough!” She covered her hands over her ears. “I shan’t listen to another word.”

  “Oh, yes, you shall!” Following her, he tugged her hands downward, clasping them in his.

  If his intention was to break her, he’d succeeded. Chelsea pulled away and folded into the nearest chair. Elbows on her knees, she hid her face in her hands.

  Stiffly, he went down on one knee beside her. “The day you robbed me, you weren’t out simply for a lark, were you?” Gently, very gently, he drew her hands away. “Look at me.”

  She obeyed. How could he be so cruel one minute and so compassionate the next? She felt herself weakening. She wanted to trust someone. She wanted—needed—to trust him.

  Misery weighed on her. It was hard to breath but she managed to answer. “A life is hanging in the balance. My brother’s life. Now please, please, don’t ask me anything more.”

  “If your brother is ill, I shall be glad to pay for a physician to…?

  A traitorous tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped at it. “No, you d
on’t understand.”

  Gripping the chair arm, he got to his feet. “Then help me understand.”

  His kindness mastered her in a way that his anger couldn’t. She rose and retrieved the ransom note from the writing desk.

  He took it from her and quickly perused it. He looked up, eyes dark. “I knew you must be in some sort of trouble, but I never suspected anything like this.”

  She slipped the well-worn paper into her pocket. “Well, now you know. Robert has been kidnapped and I have fewer than three weeks to raise the rest of his ransom.”

  His eyes widened. “So you plan to continue burgling houses until you get it?”

  She stiffened. That was precisely her plan, if one could call it that. Being confronted with the obvious truth that it didn’t amount to much rankled. “Perhaps to you, Lord Montrose, with a title and fortune at your disposal, my actions do seem laughably absurd, but we humble folk must live by our wits.”

  He spread his hands. “Why didn’t you just bring this before your magistrate?”

  She couldn’t resist a soft snort. “He and my father were political rivals, polite enemies if you will. I doubt he’d go out of his way to help me and, even if he did, he’s…well, he’s an idiot.”

  “I see. If you are determined to pay the ransom, why not take out a bank loan? Or are such conventional means of acquiring funds too lackluster for your tastes?”

  He might be only trying to understand, to help, but his clipped tone and disdainful attitude grated.

  “A loan, how very clever of you,” she flung back. “As a matter of fact, the possibility did occur to me, but the tiresome requirement to guarantee it caused me to abandon the notion.”

  Expression skeptical, he said, “But your family owns a sizable portion of prime farmland.”

  “Owned. What isn’t tied up in entail is mortgaged to the hilt.”

  “Surely you have some relations who could advance you the sum?”

  She’d hoped for advice, perhaps even sympathy. Instead, she’d received skepticism and reproach and this pointless, tiresome interrogation.

  She tapped a foot. “Only an aunt in Kent, and I can’t imagine her widow’s portion would come close to the three hundred pounds that remains to be raised. Even if it did, I couldn’t ask. It’s all she has to live on.”