Dancing with a Rogue

by Potter, Patricia;

  “Yes,” she said starkly. “And you? You must feel the same.”

  He had. He tried to tell himself he still did.

  He could not do it. Vengeance might be worth his life. It certainly wasn’t worth hers. They were skirting that all-important fact. As for telling her everything about that evening in his father’s study, he could not. How could he tell her he had left his father to kill himself? Just as he had not been with his mother when she died. He had failed everyone important to him.

  And how could he tell her that the only way he could atone was to fulfill his father’s request?

  She was watching him as if she had a view into his soul. Compassion was in her eyes. Compassion and empathy. Her eyes were moist.

  “Do you have family now?”

  “No.”

  “No … lady?”

  Gabriel felt a certain satisfaction at the question. “No.”

  “Was Pamela right? That you really have no intentions toward her?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “Do you really think that I could make love to you and court another woman?”

  “I do not know. I still know so little of you. And you left so … secretly the other night.”

  “You were not in my plans, Monique. Nor do I believe I was in yours. I had to leave or …”

  “Or?”

  “I would never have left.”

  “And now?”

  “And now … I care too much. I am dangerous to you. I want you out of London.”

  “I want you out of London.”

  They glared at each other. But it was a glare that held far more than competition or challenge. The storm was back with all its wild promises. He felt its intensity as the winds raged between them, sweeping away everything in their path. Reason. Caution. Reservations.

  All those considerations left her eyes, as he knew they left his own. He took a step forward. She took one. They were in each other’s arms, their lips meeting, their bodies melding into each other, their fingers teasing and caressing.

  His tongue plundered her mouth, and she explored his. He drew her closer and knew she felt his arousal. Her body responded to his.

  God, how he wanted her. They were the two worst people for each other.

  Or were they?

  He swore to himself.

  He had never been weak. Not since …

  Her eyes were searching his. Asking. He wasn’t sure of the question. He wasn’t sure of his own answers. He only knew the draw was irresistible. He had always loved storms, had always been drawn to them despite the peril. His lips tightened against her, then as they remained melded together, he picked her up.

  She pulled her lips away. “Mrs. Miller …”

  “To hell with Mrs. Miller,” he said as he started to mount the steps.

  Her arms went around his neck, and he sensed more than heard something drop. At that instant he did not care. He only cared about her. Monique. The only woman who had made his heart beat quicker, and warmed his blood and quickened his senses.

  She was magic. It did not matter who or what she was, or what the future might hold.

  Nothing mattered except her.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Monique felt his strength as he lifted her so easily. His lips played with hers as he ascended the stairs and somehow managed to open the door of her room.

  She heard Dani’s gasp. Then a giggle as her friend scurried out the door. Dani never giggled. Monique was so startled at the sound she barely heard the words, “I will tell Mrs. Miller to delay supper,” and the sound of the door closing behind Dani.

  The marquess lowered her so she was standing, his lips still melded to hers. Only very reluctantly did she move away. Very slightly.

  She gazed up at him, at the intensity in his face, the fire in those usually cool eyes.

  Monique had known she should say farewell at the door of her lodgings. Once inside, she knew that she would succumb.

  Still, she’d invited him in. Standing here before him, her legs trembling slightly, she wished she could blame someone else. Perhaps even the devil.

  But if nothing else, she was honest with herself.

  She had not wanted him to leave. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to know what he intended to do with the jewels. She wanted to know …

  Drat, she wanted to know everything about him.

  So she had invited him for supper. She thought she could control herself. Now, standing before him, she knew she had been lying to herself.

  She had known it when she had changed from the dusty, stained clothes she was wearing. She knew it as Dani took the pins from her hair and brushed it until it shone. She knew it when she’d pinched her cheeks and even added a small bit of color to her lips.

  She merely wanted to know more about him, she told herself again. She also needed him to yield this battle to her. They were interfering with each other. She was sure she had the greater grievance, and the greater right to seek justice.

  Stanhope was her father.

  She knew she could not tell him that.

  What would he do with that knowledge?

  She did not know. How much did he want his own revenge?

  He stood silent, cravat wrinkled and pulled apart by impatient hands, eyes weary.

  Her pulse quickened as his eyes turned emerald with desire. An unconquerable aching inside smothered all her arguments. Her words had been armor. His had been the same.

  They parried, both knowing that neither would win.

  She had never considered herself a weak person. But the moment they were alone it was as if some sorcerer had taken away her will. She’d relished his arms. His confidence. His strength.

  Their gazes met as she stood there. Too near. Yet too far. She swallowed hard, then fixed her eyes on his neckwear.

  “You can rid yourself of that silly cravat.” His imperious dandy cravat that he had worn since they had left Stanhope’s home in the middle of the night was now stained and wilted.

  “Surely not silly,” he said, drawing himself up in fake indignation. And yet there was a huskiness to his voice, a catch in it that told her he was feeling all the emotions that she felt.

  Drat but she was drawn to him. From that sandy hair and those clear green eyes that seemed to see right through her, to the lean hard body, he was irresistible.

  So was that bit of larceny she’d seen in him.

  She would be hard-pressed to say why she had been drawn to the popinjay from the moment he’d rescued her at the theater.

  Perhaps …

  There was no such thing as two souls intended for one another. ’Twas nothing but an accident of fate, and they both had futures that precluded the other.

  Still …

  Still, she could not step away from him. She heard a noise coming from deep inside his throat, a groan of private protest, but like her he seemed unable to heed it. She understood then that he had some of the same demons as she.

  He bent his head again and their lids met, and she was lost in a flood of sensations that had no reason. They were like gluttons, soaking up the essence of each other, and she realized they had been starving for each other during those wretched hours in the coach. All that time, they had been reaching out for each other, stopped only by their companions and their competing goals.

  Monique felt his mouth drive hard against hers and his arms went back around her again, one of his hands burying itself in her hair.

  He drew her body closer to his, as close as they could come with clothes separating them. She trembled as one shock wave after another jolted through her. Heat licked around the core of her as he pulled her tighter against him.

  All thoughts disappeared, swamped with an overwhelming longing even stronger than those on the first night he had taken her to bed. She knew now what to expect, the glorious sensations …

  She had no will when he was around, when he touched her. And now he was doing just that. Every place. His mouth was hard against hers, his tongue
seductive as it teased her lips into opening, then explored, hungrily at first and finally incredibly gentle.

  His fingers ran around the back of her neck, massaging her tired muscles until the tension faded from them, and her body relaxed against his. He unbuttoned her dress, and his mouth moved from hers and feathered her neck with kisses as his hands tugged her dress off.

  She stood in her chemise, her body shivering with reaction from the seductive gentleness of his touch. Hot searing need was building in her, sending tingling sensations through every nerve ending.

  Every resolve, every defense she thought she’d constructed tumbled away like sand carried away by seawater.

  He guided her to the bed, then took off his cravat, followed by his shirt. He sat down and pulled at his boots while she watched.

  He cursed under his breath, but she got the sense of it and couldn’t help but smile. He was usually very efficient when no one but her was around to observe.

  She left the bed and found a chair, moving it toward him. Then she took the heel of the boot and pulled.

  She went over backward as the boot pulled loose.

  Startled and chagrined to realize her chemise had flown up to reveal two stockinged legs, she scrambled up, knowing she looked like an awkward child.

  But he was there, one boot on, one boot off, looking concerned and amused. He leaned down and offered her his hand and with one gentle tug she was up on her feet.

  “You would not make a very good valet,” he observed.

  “You are an ungrateful wretch.”

  His finger touched her cheek. “Are you hurt?”

  “Only my pride.”

  “You looked lovely.”

  “With my legs over my head.”

  “Fetching,” he corrected.

  “And you look a bit odd with one boot on.”

  “I hate the bloody things,” he confided. “But they seem to be all the fashion in London.”

  “What do you usually wear?”

  Mundane things. They were talking about mundane things. And yet their words were breathless, underlaid with unsaid suggestion.

  She looked up at him, and his green eyes were intense, even brooding.

  “Not these bloody things,” he said, avoiding her question as he had avoided so many others.

  Her hand went up to his face. There was the slightest bristle now.

  “You still have a boot on.” She knew her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Do you want to try again?”

  “I think I will watch you,” she said.

  He obviously had more incentive. His boot came off swiftly.

  Then he stood. She untied the laces of his breeches, slowly, awkwardly, distracted as she was by lips that trailed kisses from her cheek to the nape of her neck.

  When she finished the ties, her hands went to his chest, exploring the hard ridges, the muscles that flexed slightly under her touch. His body was rigid, her own alive with shots of electricity.

  He released her, stepped out of the tight breeches, then pulled her chemise over her body. There was no corset. She had taken it off earlier when she had first arrived, and now there was nothing between them.

  He held out his hand and guided her down on the bed and lowered his own body until he hovered over her. He kissed her hard, demanding, seeking. The kiss—and the touch of his body—ignited an explosion inside her, a series of detonations that exposed a raw craving so strong she knew it must be satisfied or she might well explode.

  She put her arms around him, slowly pulling him down to her, feeling his need, the throbbing that teased, then entered her. Slowly. Carefully. There was no pain now, only expectation, only an overwhelming need to know whether this new journey would be as powerful, as exquisite …

  He moved in and out with a slow seductiveness that drove her to near insanity. Her body strained against him, and she felt him fill her, move inside with a rhythmic dance that made her body come alive with wonderful, exquisite feelings too complex to ever define. Her body reacted instinctively, joining a primitive dance that evoked exotic reactions that built and built …

  Her legs went around him, drawing him even deeper inside as sensations cascaded through her, even as she knew that this was but a prelude, that together they were rushing toward some paradise.

  A cry escaped her and his mouth came down on hers, his kiss snatching the sound from her even as he made one last thrust and erupted inside her, sending waves of shuddering warmth through her, then explosions that rocked her body and cast a rich, mellow glow in its wake.

  He collapsed on her for a moment, then rolled over on his side, carrying her with him. He held her tightly, and she heard the beat of his heart, the sound of withheld breath.

  Her body still quaked with aftershocks of pleasure as she felt him move and withdraw from her. She felt him shudder as he held her for a long time, his hands moving possessively but gently over her. She, in turn, explored his back with her hands, her fingers catching in crinkly sandy tendrils at the back of his neck.

  “I never knew it could be like this,” she whispered.

  “It is usually not,” he said. “This is rare.”

  She was pleased at that. “Truly?” she asked.

  “Truly,” he confirmed with that deep, husky drawl.

  “Are you going to leave again?” she asked, hating the question but having to know the answer.

  “No, not now.”

  “Then later?”

  He wrapped his arm tighter around her and pulled her closer. He leaned over and feathered kisses across her cheek. “You know we might have a child.”

  She stiffened slightly. She knew. She had known nights ago when he had first taken her to bed. She of all people knew the dangers of such a liaison. Yet, she had closed her mind to the possibility.

  She did not answer, only opened her eyes to look at him. “You must have … made love before,” she said. “Did you not worry about it then?”

  “I was careful,” he said, his fingers drawing hair from her face. “The women knew what to do.”’

  “And you do not think I do?”

  His lips crooked at one side in a half smile. “Non,” he said, mimicking her in an oddly warm way. “I did not know you were a virgin the other night. Had I but known …”

  “Is that why you left? You did not want responsibility?” She forced the words out.

  “No, pretty lady. That is not why. I take responsibility for what I do. But I realized then …”

  She waited for him to continue.

  “That I felt far stronger than I wanted to feel,” he finally continued, his eyes intent on hers. It was one of the few times he’d allowed any emotion to show. “What I am doing is dangerous, Monique. I did not want you involved in it.” He took her fingers, catching them in his hands, which only now she noticed were hard with calluses.

  “Perhaps you did not notice I was already involved,” she said.

  “I did not know that you could also break into a safe.”

  “I did not know you were a thief.”

  He watched her carefully. “Perhaps it is time for more honesty between us.”

  She stiffened.

  “Why?” he said. “Why are you risking your life to steal something Stanhope would give you? Especially if you did not intend to keep it.”

  She looked at him straight in the eyes. “The same reason I started the contest between the three men. I wanted them to turn on one another.”

  “Why was that so important?”

  “I told you Stanhope hurt someone I cared about.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother. Stanhope ruined her, then tried to have her killed. She had to flee England but had no funds, no talents, no references. She was English in a French city. She ended up going from man to man, each a little poorer, each a little more brutal. From what you said, he had done that before.”

  His eyes never left her, but his fingers touched her chin. “And you … how did you escape the sa
me fate?”

  “One of my mother’s friends was an actress. She saw me mimic someone in the streets and took me to her theater company. I helped with makeup and costumes and studied. There was one small part and then another.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She died of pneumonia. Not enough food. Not enough heat. Not any hope. She just … faded away.”

  “She was English?”

  Monique nodded.

  His hand tightened around hers. “You cannot let it go?”

  “Can you?” she asked.

  “I am not sure what you mean?”

  Disappointment, even anger, filled her, making the sense of euphoria fade. She had told him her secrets—at least part of them and he was still playing the fool.

  She withdrew her hand and moved away. “I do not think you stole those jewels, or even came to England, to save an impoverished estate.”

  He caught her hand again and pulled her to him. “My father,” he said in a voice ragged with emotion. “Stanhope and his friends framed him. He was to be charged with treason. He shot himself minutes after asking me to clear his name someday. He wrote down the three names of the men responsible.”

  The smile was gone now. Agony was in his eyes. She wondered whether the same grief had shone in her own eyes minutes earlier.

  “I heard the shot,” he said in a cold hard voice. All the warmth was gone. “I saw him lying in a pool of his blood. It killed my mother as well but it took her several more years to take her final breath.”

  She slowly exhaled. She hadn’t realized the breath was caught in her throat. “How old were you?”

  “Ten.”

  “He asked that of a ten-year-old boy?” Horror edged her voice.

  “There was no one else,” he said. “My mother …” He stopped. “But that is something else …”

  He worked his fingers between hers, then clutched them tightly.

  “I had the same idea as you did,” he said, changing the subject away from his own pain. “Turn them against each other. But I have something else in mind as well. I need his confidence first. I have to be his partner in a venture, then there will be papers … I do not want to kill him. I want the government to do that for me. I want him disgraced. Then I want his government to punish him. They have ways … that I think would be worse than death for him.”