Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue

by Maggie Fenton

  Which was very confusing, because she was pretending to be Leon. She was Davina.

  But even when she’d been Davina, hadn’t she always been someone else, played someone else, to please her mother or society? She’d been pretending, one way or another, for her whole life, and she’d done it for so long and so well that somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten who she truly was.

  If she’d ever known at all.

  Apparently she was a woman who enjoyed being pawed at by slumbering rogues in dingy coaching inns. A woman who, until meeting said slumbering rogue, had never been so stirred by the opposite sex. Who had, in fact, had very good reasons to give all males a very wide berth after Dalrymple.

  But all rational thought tended to leech from her with Hirst's mere proximity, and at the moment, he was closer than he’d ever been to her before. He made her want to throw caution to the wind and melt into his warmth. Kiss his nose. His cheek. The tips of his ears. His lips.

  She held her breath again and waited, just in case he’d been feigning sleep all along. But his breathing was too deep and slow, his face and body too relaxed. She leaned in closer, telling herself it was just to make completely sure he was asleep, but she was unable to deny the heated thrill that ran through the most secret parts of her body at being so close to him. Close enough to feel the blazing heat of his body, and the warm puff of his breath against her nose and cheek. Close enough to smell the scent of his skin—a scent that was completely his own: sandalwood and clean sweat and something else earthy but ultimately indefinable.

  God, he was an attractive man. The compulsion to touch the stubble on his chin and cheeks was nearly overwhelming. She imagined how it would feel—rough beneath the pads of her fingers, sending streaks of gooseflesh down her neck and arms.

  And the feel of his lips…

  The siren song of discovery was even more difficult to resist.

  Impossible, she scolded herself, trying to draw back. She’d already taken too many risks with this man, revealed too much.

  But it seemed her body didn’t care. Her fingertip was touching his bottom lip before she could stop herself. She froze and nearly gasped aloud at her audacity, terrified she’d finally woken him. But he didn’t stir at the touch.

  Emboldened, knowing she’d likely never have another chance, she traced the outline of his lips as lightly as she could. The pink flesh was just as soft as it looked, such a paradox in the face of the rest of his hard-edged masculinity.

  A shiver traced its way down her spine, and a forbidden heat bloomed deep in her belly, as if the connection between his lips and her fingertip completed an electrical circuit in one of his experiments.

  Just once, she thought, staring down at his lips where her index finger still met soft flesh, a great, dangerous yearning rising up inside of her. She wanted to know, just once, the feel of his lips pressed against her own. It was the most foolish urge she’d had yet—she’d already pressed too far tonight. And yet her apprehension was not enough to conquer her stubborn, selfish need. She’d never have another chance—who knew how long she had left at Arncliffe Castle?

  She bent down closer, then closer still, until she could feel his gentle exhalations against her mouth, careful not to touch him anywhere else. She hovered, eyes closed, savoring the moment, trying to imprint it on her memory so she’d have that, if nothing else, when she left.

  She wanted to memorize every part of him with all of her senses, so that even if she never saw him again for decades, she’d still recognize him, even on the darkest night. It would be so easy to close the distance, to press her mouth against the plump softness of his, silk against velvet.

  But she couldn’t do it. She pulled her thumb away and sat up in chagrin.

  God, what was she even thinking, kissing him without his consent? Kissing him full-stop?

  She got out of the bed and settled into a chair beside it, her heart racing.

  She was in so much trouble.

  She’d not planned on falling for Hirst, but that seemed to be what had happened anyway when she’d not been paying attention. The physical attraction had been immediate, of course. What woman with eyes could look at a man like that and not want to touch?

  The rest had crept up on her: his glorious intellect and devotion to his work, that soft underbelly hidden beneath all of his bluster, even the perverse pleasure he took in bickering with her. It had been such a short time, and yet she was absolutely, head-over-arse, gone on the man.

  Perhaps Sir Wesley’s arrival wasn’t such a disaster after all, for it was past time she moved on. Never mind the precariousness of her masquerade: she couldn’t bear watching Hirst court Lady Ambrosia, now that she’d been honest to herself about her feelings.

  But her departure filled her with just as much dread as remaining at the castle did, for once she left, there was no guarantee that she’d ever see Hirst again. She’d certainly never see him again as Leon Fawkes. He wouldn’t know her at all—and if he did recognize her at some future encounter, he’d probably hate her for her deceit.

  It seemed she’d been digging herself a hole from the moment she’d cut off all her hair and donned Leon’s pantaloons, thinking she was escaping her troubles. Instead she’d only dug the hole deeper and deeper until she couldn’t see a way to climb out of it unscathed. But she had a feeling that instead of another black eye, she’d emerge with a bruised heart instead.

  ∞∞∞

  When Julian awoke, warm, content, and surrounded by linens that smelled faintly of bergamot and mildew, he immediately knew something was wrong even without opening his eyes. He felt suspiciously well rested and filled with an unspoken anticipation.

  When he finally did open his eyes, the early morning sunlight ghosted in through the murky windows of the inn, warming the bed, and momentarily blinding him. As he attempted to sit up, he became aware of a weight settled on one of his thighs, and he froze.

  He glanced down and discovered a spill of silky golden curls falling over the covers, and the whippet thin curve of Fawkes’ back. The lad had left the bed at some point in the night and fallen asleep in a chair next to it, somehow ending up half sprawled over Julian’s lower body. Fawkes’ slumbering head was nestled dangerously near his crotch, and if the lad made any sudden movements to the left, he was going to be in for a bit of a shock, for Julian had woken up as hard as a rock.

  He cleared his throat, and when that didn’t work, he dared to move his legs, making sure he shifted the peacock’s golden head in the opposite direction of his groin. Julian groaned, secured the sheets around his middle, and flopped an arm over his own eyes, for Fawkes’ sleep-pink cheeks, soft red mouth, and disheveled golden curls were doing nothing to lessen his erection. The lad looked freshly tumbled and far too much like the sort of woman Julian tended to prefer for his peace of mind.

  This couldn’t be happening. He was already confused enough by Fawkes.

  Man! Man! Fawkes was a man. He had to keep reminding himself of this obvious fact. Which didn’t seem to be so obvious to certain parts of his anatomy.

  He’d been too long without a woman, which had to explain this…this fixation.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on the most hideous things he could think of: Bones naked, Highbottom naked—the two men naked together—and his erection quickly fled in terror. His stomach also began to churn, but he’d take it. He slowly sat up and carefully shifted his legs from beneath the slumbering fribble. He didn’t want Fawkes to wake up when they were so…entwined. It would be beyond awkward.

  He finally extricated himself enough to stand up, but when he glanced down at the way Fawkes’ head now drooped against the mattress, his neck twitched in sympathy.

  Sighing, he carefully grasped Fawkes’ shoulder with one hand and his torso with the other, and pulled him upright against the high back of the chair, valiantly trying not to dwell on the sleep-warm feel of skin beneath his hands, or the faint scent of bergamot and petrichor that clung to the fribble.r />
  Fawkes was so slight he was easily maneuvered into place, but as Julian removed his hands from Fawkes’ person, the one on his torso slipped upwards and encountered something that shouldn’t have been there. And because it shouldn’t have been there, it didn’t register what he was touching at first. He pressed his hand a little more firmly against the unexpected protrusion before he could think better of it. And then it hit him. It was the gentle, soft curve of a breast. A very feminine breast.

  He jerked his hand away and stumbled back a few steps in shock.

  No. It couldn’t be…

  Could it?

  He looked down at Fawkes, at the golden curls and baby-smooth chin, and a delicate neck that bore no trace of an Adam’s apple, now that the ridiculously puffy cravat was stripped away. He looked lower, and could just make out the slight curve of a breast beneath the billowing lawn shirt—so slight he wouldn’t have bothered to notice had he not been looking for it.

  Well, damn.

  Fawkes was a woman.

  He’d known Fawkes had secrets, but this…

  A wave of anger washed over Julian, but just on its heels was reluctant amusement. He—she had lied to him from the start. How had he not seen it when it seemed so obvious now? Granted, it had only been a few days, and he’d seen fops in London just as costumed and feminine as Fawkes. He’d not bothered to look too closely beneath the fine feathers.

  Or perhaps he’d not wanted to look too closely. He’d had other things on his mind, after all. He was on the brink of perfecting the combustible engine and bringing about the eternal misery of his greatest enemy. He’d hardly had time to spare for worrying about what lay beneath his secretary’s cutaway jacket. But in retrospect, his hindbrain had certainly been suspicious, if his constant, involuntary ogling of Fawkes’ arse had been any indication.

  Now it made more sense. Those glimmers of attraction…those moments when he’d looked at Fawkes and fixated on how feminine he was, how easier it would have been if he were. Though easier for what, Julian could not fathom.

  Well, he could fathom. He just didn’t think he was ready for that level of self-analysis. She’d made a fool out of him, and it was not a pleasant feeling. He should send Fawkes away, and damn their dubious agreement. But the mere thought of that sent a bolt of disquiet through his chest that wouldn’t have happened a few days ago. He enjoyed Fawkes’ company—perhaps more than he should.

  Definitely more than he should. Damn it, he didn’t want to send her away.

  He glanced down at Fawkes, and he felt a suspiciously fond pang in his chest alongside his anger. He was fairly certain that it was not indigestion and rather had something to do with finer feelings. Ugh. The fribble had gone from an annoyance to a distraction to…He didn’t even have a name for what Fawkes was to him now.

  He deserved an explanation, at the very least. Just as soon as he got her to admit who she was. He had a fair idea of her identity already. Her resemblance to Sir Wesley, not to mention Sir Wesley’s conveniently missing sister, was a fairly obvious giveaway. It hardly took a genius to put the puzzle pieces together…

  …Though apparently it did take a genius days to figure out there was a puzzle to solve at all. But he wasn’t going to dwell on his idiocy.

  And he certainly wasn’t going to confront her about it—not yet. Not until he made her squirm. It was the least she deserved.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Le Langage des Fleurs

  When Davina woke, slumped in an armchair, her neck felt as if it had been crushed under a rock for the entire night. She couldn’t decide if the smell of mold and decay was emanating from the room in general or her person. After a few minutes of sniffing, she concluded it was both.

  After another few minutes, she began to wonder why she smelled so foul, and why she had slept in a chair all night. When she finally woke up enough to remember, she jumped out of her seat with an appalled gasp and spun around the room.

  It was empty. She immediately relaxed, but a moment later, a thud from the taproom below jolted her into action. She peeled her still-damp jacket off a chair near the grate and began the unpleasant process of pulling the clammy material up her arms, all the while trying not to think too hard about the night before. Bad enough she’d nearly died in the charlière: she had to go and climb into bed with Hirst, as if that would have ever had a chance of ending well.

  Between all of the discarded clothing and unconscious fondling, it was a miracle she’d gotten through the night without revealing herself. She may have resisted her baser impulses, but that she had those baser impulses at all was, in the light of day, completely ludicrous. She’d nearly kissed Hirst. While he was sleeping. She must have been delirious to have even contemplated doing so.

  Thank hell Hirst had left her in peace, for she had no idea how she was going to face the man without blushing. He may have slept through the whole embarrassing episode, but she wasn’t going to forget what she’d nearly done, and—worse—what she’d felt.

  But as she jammed her feet into Leon’s muddy boots and gave up attempting to fluff out her ruined cravat, Hirst had yet to reappear. She began to fear that he’d returned to the castle without her, for he was just enough of an arse to do so. Why she could possibly think she was infatuated with such a rogue was a mystery she’d never understand.

  When she finally emerged from the inn into the early morning light, however, Hirst was still there after all, loitering around the well in the inn yard. “Finally awake, I see.”

  “It’s barely past dawn,” she protested.

  “It’s gone nine. Let’s hope Sir Wesley hasn’t noticed your absence yet.”

  She snorted at this. “I doubt he’d notice if I shot myself in the foot right in front of him.”

  “You are, alas, not wrong,” he said, smiling down at her so intently she began to squirm. “But he will notice his charlière is missing.”

  Oh, hell. She dreaded having that conversation with her brother nearly as much as she’d dreaded her wedding. “You’re telling him what happened, not me,” she said.

  “Yes, sir!” he said, sounding much too flippant for the gravity of the situation. Had he not met her brother?

  Without another word, he prodded her in the direction of a horse and cart, piloted by a man in the ubiquitous Hebden drab, and stuffed to the brim with cages filled with chickens. The noise and the smell was…something she’d never experienced before in her life. When Davina realized what Hirst intended, she dug her heels into the dirt and barely restrained a guffaw of disbelief.

  “What is this?”

  Hirst arched a brow at her, looking much too innocent. “Why, it’s our ride back to the castle. Mr. Mudge is heading that way and has graciously allowed us to join him.

  Mr. Mudge spat something brown and foul-smelling over the side of the cart, looking supremely unimpressed by the pair of them. “Ye cumin or naught?” he groused.

  From the small smirk on his face, Hirst was relishing her discomfort. “It’s either that, or we walk back, and I doubt you want to do that in your boots,” he pointed out.

  She frowned at him and then at Leon’s boots and climbed into the cart. Just as she was pulling herself onto the bench, a rooster in the cage right next to her left ear chose that moment to crow, and the noise startled her so much, she lost her footing and fell backward. Hirst broke her fall by placing both his hands on her backside.

  She squeaked at the liberty, and Mr. Mudge gave her a perplexed look as she scrambled onto the bench.

  Hirst grinned broadly and jumped up next to her. The bench was a bit too short for three, however, and as the wagon made its way out of Hebden and toward the castle, Hirst inched closer and closer to her with every bump of the wheels. And with every bump of the wheels, she nearly jolted off of her seat, unable to find a handhold that didn’t include molesting either Mr. Mudge or Hirst. After a while, Hirst’s arm clamped firmly around her shoulders, securing her tight against his side.

  On the on
e hand, she was no longer in danger of bouncing off the bench and into the lane. One the other hand, she was now pressed up against Hirst from knee to shoulder, with only a few layers of wrinkled clothing separating them. He was as warm as he’d been last night in their shared bed, and somehow, despite the last twelve hours, he still managed to smell wonderful.

  Certainly better than the chickens behind them.

  Another cock’s crow straight into her ear had her nearly leaping from her seat. Only Hirst’s arm around her kept her grounded.

  “All right?” he murmured into her other ear.

  She barely repressed a shiver. God, that felt excruciatingly wonderful.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” she said stiffly.

  He gave her shoulder a little squeeze. “You don’t mind, do you? The lane’s so bumpy I’m nearly falling out.”

  What to say to that. “Then perhaps we should have walked,” she muttered.

  He didn’t seem to take her response as a rejection, and pulled her even closer at the next rut in the road.

  Davina’s head was spinning by the time they arrived at the castle, and she didn’t think it had anything to do with the blow to her head last night, or her restless slumber, or even the stink of the chickens, for it immediately stopped once Hirst broke his hold on her and jumped out of the wagon.

  She’d not even realized they’d arrived. She looked down at Hirst, who was holding out his hand to help her down, watching her with an arched brow and a playful grin.

  She scowled at him. “Do I look like a simpering maiden who cannot climb down unassisted?”

  His brow arched even higher. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  The rooster squawked at her back, and she jumped down without another thought. She stumbled over Leon’s stiff boots and right into Hirst’s chest. She pulled away immediately, clearing her throat and straightening her clothing.