As Rich as a Rogue

by Jade Lee

  “Because you are a wealthy lord?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed and kicked idly at a stone. “If you wish to pursue this, you need only speak to my father. He will put me on bread and water and lock me in a dungeon until I accept your proposal.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Your father would do that?”

  “Probably,” she said with a laugh. Her expression was easy despite what she was suggesting.

  “So your father is a harsh man,” he pressed. This was something he needed to know.

  “What? Papa? Well, no more than the usual, I suppose. He’s considered merciless in business.”

  “How merciless?” In his experience, a man’s business practices could be very ugly indeed. “I need particulars, Miss Powel.”

  She faced him squarely. “Then you should talk to my father.”

  He took a deep breath. “Very well,” he said. “I will.”

  It took her a moment to process those words and then another breath before she grabbed his arm in alarm. “Oh no. I misspoke. My father is the gentlest man in the world, and you should definitely not speak to him.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Afraid of bread and water, are you?”

  “Yes! Well, no, not literally. Good God, why are we speaking of my father? You are correct, he is the one who wants the title and would do a great deal to see me wed to you. But after the vows are exchanged, you would not be shackled to him. It would be me in your bed. Day in and day out with a wife who spends most of her time wanting to throttle you.”

  He heard her words, but most of them were lost under the fantasy of her in his bed. Of her beneath him night after night and well into the morning, when he could wake her with sweet kisses and bold thrusts.

  “My lord?” she pressed when he had been silent too long.

  He forcibly drew himself out of his reverie. “So what is it that you want in a man, if it isn’t a title or money?”

  She glanced at him but quickly looked away. “Shall I name for you the countless well-heeled peers who would be a nightmare as a husband? There are exactly fifty-three.”

  “Are those the eligible gentlemen?”

  She shuddered. “Goodness, no. The unmarried or widower titles number thirty-seven. Beyond that, there are over a dozen in my acceptable column, and exactly none who wish to court me, a wayward Welsh cit.”

  “Lord Rimbury is courting you.”

  “Well-heeled, my lord.”

  “I am courting you.”

  “You are in my nightmare category.”

  He turned to her. “Why?”

  “And here we are full circle. I have explained to you that we do not suit. We fight constantly. You make me want to do violence. Every single one of my good intentions fly to the boughs the moment you enter a room. You make me insane, my lord, and—”

  He did not allow her to say more. He knew her words were meant to dissuade him, but he heard what she didn’t say. He heard that she lost her careful plans when he was around. That she was mad for him. And if they were wed, she would be this creature who challenged him at every turn to speak better, to think more clearly, and to act in every way better than the lummox he had been. That he often still was.

  So he kissed her.

  He jerked her into his arms and put his mouth on hers. He wrapped her tight against his chest, knew the glorious feel of her breasts flush against his torso, and when her mouth opened on a gasp of surprise, he thrust his tongue inside.

  He would have stopped if she’d fought him. At least he believed he would have. Either way, it didn’t matter. His mouth slanted across hers, his tongue boldly thrust between her lips, and though she started out stiff in shock, a moment later she turned sweet.

  Her tongue began to thrust and parry with his. Her arms, which had been caught spread open, now went slowly up to his shoulders. And her hips, that perfect cradle of womanhood, pressed pillow-soft against his thickness.

  He groaned as he felt her body mold against his. His mouth pressed harder; his tongue danced faster. She matched him. He knew she would. And then one of her hands that had been clutching his shoulders slid up over his neck and into his hair. And when he would have eased back, when he would have softened his possession of her, she gripped his head and pulled him to the angle she wanted.

  Their mouths were sealed together, and her tongue pushed at his. She might even be biting down just a bit, just enough to add spice as her leg rose against his thigh.

  Hot. Hungry.

  Lust slammed through him, and his hands dropped to her hips. While she pulled at his head and shoulders, he hauled her against his groin and thrust against her belly. Throbbing delight rolled through his organ. His buttocks tightened again and again. Her leg pressed against his thigh. And their tongues dueled in a fever of need.

  It went on forever and only for a blink of an eye. For a glorious time, he lost himself completely in her. The heat of her body, the scent of her musk, and her erotic whimper of need inflamed his blood.

  It was the most glorious kiss, beyond even his fantasies. Except that they were in public. And someone was tugging on his arm. Something was pushing her away, and that someone was a man. Then he felt it: a sharp whip across his backside. A crop hitting hard and painfully on his flesh.

  He pushed Mari behind him as he rounded on the danger. His left hand became a fist while his right drew his knife with a reassuring hiss. He was well into his throwing position, a split second from releasing his blade with deadly accuracy, when his mind came back to him.

  The interloper was not a man at all. He was a boy. Miss Powel’s young groom, not out of his teens, and he had been protecting his mistress, as all good servants did. The boy’s face blanched, but he did not give ground.

  “My lord, there are people coming,” he said in a high-pitched undertone. It didn’t work. The words came out more as a squeak, but it only underscored that this child was not a threat. Neither were the pair of well-dressed gentlemen walking their horses a bare hundred yards away.

  Except, of course, they were. They were members of the ton, turning to look at him now with sharp eyes and curling lips. And him, standing there with his fist raised and his blade out. So he threw the dagger.

  It flashed in the sunlight as it tumbled through the air. And then it landed—thunk—in the trunk of a tree a few feet beyond their horses’ noses.

  “I say!” one of the gentlemen gasped. The other said nothing as he was settling his mount.

  “And that, Miss Powel,” Peter said loudly, “is how one throws a dagger.”

  He looked back at her, his breath held for fear that she would be mussed beyond recognition. Her eyes were gratifyingly dazed, but they cleared quickly enough. Her riding habit was no more out of sorts than expected, given that she’d tumbled into the dirt some minutes ago. And her hair…well, that too could be explained by her fall, though he longed to pull the remaining pins from her curls and toss her hat to the wind.

  “G-goodness,” she said, her voice wobbling but growing rapidly stronger. “That’s quite impressive.”

  He held her gaze, silently asked her if she was well. She dipped her chin slightly, a barely perceptible acknowledgment.

  Then he turned to the tree and his blade, pretending to be startled when he saw the horses and their riders. “What ho,” he called. “You came out of nowhere.”

  “You should be careful where you throw that thing. You could have impaled one of us.”

  “Stuck us like a pig,” the other whined. “And then what would we do?”

  “Squeal like one, most like,” he muttered under his breath.

  Beside him, he heard a muffled snort and was startled enough to turn. It was Miss Powel, her lips pressed tightly together but still twitching at the corners. Was she laughing? He wanted to pull her hand away and see her release her joy wholehearted
ly, but they were still in public. So he jogged to his knife, pulling it out of the tree with a quick flick of his wrist. Then he sheathed the blade and gave an insouciant shrug to the gents.

  “Sorry, what,” he said in his most jolly idiot tone. “I’ll be more careful next time.” Then he waved and returned to her side. Except when he reached for her, she shrank back.

  That hurt. After that kiss, to have her pull away was a visceral wound that bit sharply into his belly. Enough that he had to take a moment to be sure his tone remained neutral.

  “If you are ready, we should mount up again and ride to your home,” he said. Then he held out his hand to her. She was not in enough riding form to mount without help, and he would not allow her damned groomsman the privilege.

  She looked at him for a long moment. Her eyes were dark and her expression unreadable. Was she angry? Resigned? Inflamed? He was all of those things, and a thousand more, all jumbled together with a still-throbbing lust.

  “Miss Powel?” he pressed, his jaw clenching against the tide of his churning emotions.

  “Yes. Um, of course. Th-thank you.”

  She took his hand. Small, delicate bones engulfed by his palm. He wrapped his fingers around hers and lent her his strength as she mounted. He would give almost anything for them to be holding each other with bare hands instead of their gloved ones. Especially since hers were shaking, and he wanted to soothe her with a caress. A slow draw of his fingers down her flanks, and then, in time, between her thighs. He sighed. She was like a flame that danced and flickered before his eyes, but tortured his body to the point where he thought he’d burn alive.

  “Good thinking about the knife,” she whispered.

  She seated smoothly, then pulled back her fingers to tuck them neatly around the reins and into her lap. A breath later, and all that glorious fluttering of her eyes disappeared. No more trembling. No more light. Just a steadily calming expression and the suffocating descent of propriety.

  “You were born to be a countess,” he murmured.

  Her gaze sharpened on his face. “What?”

  “Cool and proper,” he said. “I have never been more pleased and disgusted at the same time.” His own heart was still beating hot and insistent. His mind kept flashing lascivious fantasies that he tried to banish but failed. And worst of all, his legs felt shakier than a newborn colt’s. He was in a miserable state, and she sat atop her horse like a queen.

  He waited a moment, but she had no words for him. Just as well, as his mind was still churning along wholly inappropriate paths. So he went to his horse and mounted up, wincing as he settled astride. Damnation, this was going to hurt.

  Then they rode sedately, thank God, to her home. It was as he’d expected for her residence. Ostentatious but not exclusive. A place for the wealthy without title. And as he dismounted to escort her up the walk, a butler opened the massive door and stood there with a curled lip like a disdainful statue. He had to speak now before they were within earshot of that man. He had no patience with supercilious butlers.

  “I believe I have answered your question, have I not?”

  He felt her startle and then saw her brows narrow in confusion. “My lord?”

  He waited a moment. He was learning that with her, timing was critical. So he paused until he had her full attention.

  “That is why I believe we will suit.” He leaned forward and whispered the last. “Most erotically suit.”

  He completed his lean forward with a bow before he kissed her hand. Then he retreated as fast as he could manage while she stood gaping after him.

  Nine

  The blighter. The bloody, arrogant, presumptuous man. To think that one kiss, one long, overpowering, amazing kiss could make her rethink her entire life’s plan simply because it was… Well, it was a bloody good kiss.

  Lord, she was still tingling. Thank heaven Nicols had been there as her groom. If he hadn’t interfered when he did, who knows what might have happened in the park where anybody—most especially Dim #2 and Fop #14—could have seen. And gossiped.

  Certainly she’d been kissed before. Any number of unscrupulous gentlemen had tried to lure her into a compromising position just to force their marriage. But she knew better than to wander into dark corners with impoverished men.

  That didn’t mean she hadn’t allowed a kiss or three. One sweet press on the lips from the very nicest Dim, and two sloppy, repulsive kisses from potential husbands. She’d rapidly crossed them off her possible list, because a lifetime of that had made her want to retch. And then of course that earlier nip from Lord Whitly, which hadn’t truly been a kiss. More of a tiny bite. There had been no…well, none of what had just happened between them. So it didn’t deserve the label “kiss.”

  Except now she knew what a real kiss was like. One drugging press of his lips, and she’d all but stripped naked for him. She was beginning to think she was concussed. There was no other explanation for her behavior.

  Horrible Horace cleared his throat from his place in the doorway, and Mari belatedly realized she’d been standing in the walkway, gawking like a love-struck mooncalf.

  Well, no more. Once again—perhaps for the thousandth time—she resolved not to let Lord Whitly discompose her again. She was so determined, in fact, that she intended immediately to write down stratagems to avoid succumbing to his dubious charms. She would carry the list in her reticule and look at it often. Right after she taught Greenie his phrase and made sure to win that wager.

  She breezed inside and was halfway to the stairs when Horace upset her plans, and he did it with a single name.

  “Mr. Camden,” he intoned behind her.

  She froze, waiting for him to pronounce the rest of her doom.

  “He awaits your pleasure in the parlor.”

  Of course he did. Just when her mind was filled with Lord Whitly, her best husband candidate decided to make an early call. She looked at the mantel clock. “It’s rather early for callers.” It wasn’t even eleven.

  “He claimed he had an appointment with you. Your mother is entertaining him at the moment. Tea has already been served.”

  An appointment? As if she were a banker? Gentlemen called on ladies; they did not have appointments. But she didn’t say that out loud. It was just one of the things she would have to teach Mr. Camden if they wed. She took a breath, smoothed her skirts, and went to the parlor. Horace knew his job and was there before her, announcing her with echoing accents that were hardly necessary in the intimate room.

  Mari walked in, a smooth greeting on her face. Mr. Camden rose to his feet, his wispy blond hair floating about his ears as he tugged the crease out of his pants. Her mother turned as well, her face warm with welcome. Then both of their eyes widened in shock.

  “My dear,” her mother gasped. “Whatever happened?”

  Good God, they couldn’t possibly see what she’d done with Lord Whitly. Were her lips still swollen? Her breasts still heavy? Could other people truly discern—

  “Your riding habit is covered with dirt,” her mother continued. “And your hat is… Well, I never liked that hat anyway. You should throw it out.”

  Mari looked down, relief flooding her with a dizzying flush of heat. Of course. It wasn’t the kiss they could see but the results of her fall.

  “I’m afraid it’s been a long time since I’ve been riding,” she confessed. “I should have realized I needed to change before attending you.”

  Then she turned and cast a dark glare at Horace. He was hired to be a pompous, proper butler, but not at the expense of the house. She had been unable to dismiss him as long as he kept to that line, reserving his obnoxious behavior for riffraff and not them. But now he had crossed the line, allowing her to appear in such a state. Finally, she would be able to speak to her father about dismissing the man.

  She watched his skin pale, and he swallowed nervously. One dragon d
own, she thought with satisfaction. But now she had to salvage this situation as her mother gestured her forward.

  “But you ride beautifully, my dear. Was it the horse?”

  “I ride adequately,” she said as she leaned down to kiss her mother’s cheek. “But not for a very long time. The bruisers at Rotten Row startled me, and I’m afraid I fell into the muck.”

  “Oh, that is a terrible time to ride,” said Mr. Camden in dark tones. “Especially if one is out of practice. No way to appear anything but at a disadvantage.”

  Which had been her thoughts exactly. “I’m afraid I could have used your advice earlier, Mr. Camden. As it was, I had to endure an inglorious tumble.”

  Her mother clasped Mari’s hand. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “Only my pride.” Then she looked at Mr. Camden. “If you will forgive me, I’ll dash upstairs and become more presentable. Then I shall attend to you properly.”

  Mr. Camden executed a smooth bow. “I would like that most especially, Miss Powel. I have something interesting to discuss with you.” He glanced outside. “It’s a fine morning. Perhaps we could take a stroll down Bond Street.”

  In the morning? That was the time gentlemen shopped. Women were rarely seen there until after one. But it wouldn’t do to correct him. She simply nodded and flashed a warm smile. “Fifteen minutes, no more. I promise.”

  “I will wait as long as needed,” he said graciously. Or it would have been gracious if he hadn’t then proceeded to consult his pocket watch. Really, did he intend to time her? Perhaps. Which meant she had better change quickly.

  With a quick look of apology to her mother for abandoning her, Mari took herself off. Fortunately, her maid was up in the room, and together they stripped her out of the habit, wiped off the mud that had smudged her chin, and then brushed out the terrible mess that was her hair. Good Lord, had she really appeared in public like this?