The Rogue's Conquest

by Lily Maxton

  Which might have been why she answered so readily. “Mostly I read. Since I’m not making my own studies, winter is a good time to catch up on all of the natural history articles that have been published.”

  “Do you only read the ones regarding entomology?”

  “I read as many as I can. Entomology first. But I enjoy botany, as well. Anything, really, that involves living things. I keep up with my sketching, too.”

  “What do you sketch?”

  “I’ll make sketches of insects from my cabinets. Or I’ll practice images from someone else’s article. Sometimes I’ll draw people, but not as often,” she said.

  He cocked his head. “Have you drawn me?”

  The question was in jest. She should have laughed. She should have brushed it off. All she did was look at him mutely, her tongue thick in her mouth.

  “Cecil?”

  She had sketched him. That first day, after they’d gone to the public house. She couldn’t not sketch him. She’d tried to capture the strength contained in his body, the strange grace. It was difficult to capture him without motion, but she’d attempted it, an accurate but pale facsimile. She hadn’t been satisfied.

  “No,” she blurted out, unconvincingly. Silence filled the room, taut and anxious. She wished Robert and Georgina would break in, but they appeared just as interested in her answer as MacGregor did. “And if I did happen to sketch you,” she finally said, “it was only because your proportions are so odd.”

  His brow furrowed, but he was still smiling slightly. He seemed more amused than offended. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “You’re the size of a tree,” she said. “And your arms account for about half of that.” She knew she was being mean—and untruthful. He might be larger than most gentlemen, and certainly more muscular, but there was nothing wrong with his size or his proportions. But her options were either humiliation or lies, so she took the latter.

  “Some women happen to enjoy large men,” he said silkily. “They sometimes like the feeling of being dominated…or so they’ve told me.”

  Blood rushed to her cheeks. And to somewhere a little lower in her anatomy.

  “Not appropriate,” Robert barked.

  She wished her brother had been so concerned about her dignity a few minutes earlier.

  “Mayhap it would be a good time to stop for tea?” Georgina suggested.

  “Yes, let’s,” Eleanor said quickly.

  She moved as far away from James MacGregor as the drawing room possibly allowed, leaving Robert to glare at him.

  She took the opportunity to snatch up a pair of gloves she’d left on the end table by the settee, and she began to breathe a little easier. As long as there was no skin-to-skin contact, she should be able to focus enough to make it through the cotillion.

  She wouldn’t think about MacGregor’s entirely inappropriate comments. She wouldn’t think about him crawling over faceless, welcoming women, easing between their spread thighs, pressing them into the mattress…dominating them.

  And she most certainly wouldn’t imagine herself in the place of those faceless women.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eleanor was sketching a moth that had gotten stuck in her room when Georgina dropped off a letter.

  “I had to grab that before the footman looked at it too closely. It’s addressed to Cecil.”

  Eleanor broke the seal and unfolded it, brow furrowing when she saw the name Arthur Smith scrawled at the bottom. She read it, and then read it again to make sure she wasn’t imagining things.

  “What do they want?”

  “I’ve been invited to a gentleman’s club,” she said. “Apparently the members of the Natural History Society frequent it.”

  “Will you go?” Georgina asked.

  “Of course not,” she responded automatically.

  Her sister shrugged, spoke to her a little longer, and went along her way. A few minutes later, Eleanor heard Georgina begin to practice the harp—the melodic plucking drifted up the stairs. It was a slow, haunting tune that reminded Eleanor of the Highlands. Distracted, she put down her sketch and picked up the letter again.

  Arthur Smith, who was a respected member of the society, praised her lecture and her specimens with such admiration her cheeks heated. He said the gentleman’s club would be a chance to further her acquaintance with like-minded people.

  But it was too risky. She pushed the letter away.

  Of course, she’d already been caught by an unscrupulous boxer. And only because he was unnaturally observant. She didn’t think anything more dire would befall her, simply from one visit to the club.

  And wasn’t this what she wanted? Wasn’t this what she’d yearned for?

  It was a shame she couldn’t go as she was, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still enjoy herself.

  She stood and went to her wardrobe. Atop a pile of stockings rested a gray powdered wig. She lifted the wig gingerly and remembered how wonderful she’d felt when she’d finished her lecture and been greeted with applause. A fierce longing gripped her. The longing was mixed with trepidation, yes, but desire was a very powerful thing.

  Everyone wanted to find a place they fit, didn’t they? Everyone deserved that, didn’t they? Didn’t she?

  When she had returned from the lecture, she’d assumed Cecil Townsend wouldn’t make any more appearances. It would be stupid and reckless. Robert certainly wouldn’t allow it if she told him, after what had happened the first time.

  But then, she was feeling a little reckless.

  …

  The next day, she managed to sneak out, dressed as Cecil, fairly easily. Robert was gone, and she simply dodged the other servants and waited until the footman in charge of answering the door left the entrance hall for a moment, possibly to use the necessary. She didn’t run into Georgina, though she wasn’t worried about her.

  She had a feeling she could concoct any number of wild schemes and have Georgina’s full support. She wondered if her younger sister was a bad influence.

  She set a brisk pace down the walking pavement. The sky was a deep gray and snow fell softly on her greatcoat and melted almost as quickly as it landed. When she’d put a safe distance between herself and her family’s town house, she hailed a hackney.

  The gentleman’s club was almost exactly what she’d imagined a gentleman’s club would look like. Tall sash windows lined a long room. The velvet curtains were closed, but soft winter light seeped in through the cracks. Almost all of the expensive furniture was occupied. Deep-red settees with gilt frames and matching winged chairs pointed toward a large fireplace. There were several round tables surrounded by chairs.

  The men by the fireplace were reading the newspaper while most of the men at the tables were playing cards or eating. Almost all of them were drinking. Many were smoking or using snuff. She grimaced as she watched a man close to her pinch a generous portion of the powder between his thumb and index finger and hold it to his nose.

  There were no women in sight.

  She felt like she’d unwittingly stepped into a world where everything feminine had been eradicated with a vengeance.

  Someone stood from a table at the back, and she recognized Arthur Smith.

  After a footman took her hat and greatcoat, Mr. Smith greeted her jovially and led her to the back table. She recognized almost all of the men at the table from the Natural History Society. Each man had a drink in hand.

  “We were just discussing James Hutton’s work, are you familiar with him?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. James Hutton had been a leading geologist who’d lived in Edinburgh. Geology wasn’t her favorite scientific field, but she had read Hutton’s theories.

  “Sir William here was acquainted with him before his death.” Smith nodded at the older man. “He says Hutton put forth a rather intriguing idea.”

  Eleanor leaned forward. “Do tell.”

  “It’s a principle of variation. Hutton believed that a species can adapt the traits t
hat are most essential to their survival. For instance, in dogs—if a keen sense of smell is necessary to survival, dogs without this sense will be more likely to perish, which would then produce a species of well-scented hounds.”

  Eleanor was mesmerized. “And this was never published?”

  “No,” Sir William said. “I don’t even know if he completed the manuscript he was working on at the time. But it’s just as well—it cannot possibly be true. And anyway, Hutton was more a geologist than a naturalist.”

  “But it seems sound. If we can deliberately produce traits that are deemed useful…as in breeding fast horses to produce race horses…why is it not possible that a similar process could also occur naturally?”

  “But where would it end? If the earth is as ancient as Hutton claimed, and if this process occurs naturally…one could claim that cats were once dogs, or, or”—he waved his arm wildly—“humans were once monkeys, or something equally ridiculous! His theory leaves the door open for that sort of delusion.”

  “Didn’t Lord Monboddo suggest a relation between apes and humans?” Eleanor asked.

  “Monboddo,” Sir William sneered. “If you subscribe to the ideas of an addle-pated fool, I certainly can’t help you.”

  Eleanor was about to suggest that name-calling was perhaps not the best use of their time, but the conversation was cut short when a footman came by with more tumblers. The man next to her handed her one, and she frowned down at the murky brown liquid. “We call that Smith’s punch,” her companion said with a laugh.

  “What’s in it?”

  “That’s part of the mystery. Rum, we know for sure. Aside from that…” He shrugged. “Could be anything.”

  Eleanor stared down at the glass with trepidation. The man next to her slapped her on the shoulder. “It might hurt your head a bit, but you’ll be stronger for it.”

  She didn’t really see a correlation, but everyone else was tipping it back like watered-down wine. She forced herself to take a sip.

  And nearly spit it out.

  The liquor burned her mouth and her tongue. It was potent and fiery, sweet and disgusting.

  “Eh,” the man next to her said, profoundly.

  A moment later, lethargy hit her limbs and tingled. She wondered if she’d been poisoned—that would explain the noxious taste.

  But she didn’t die, and she continued to listen to the conversation around her—they’d moved from Hutton to the latest anatomical advances. She also continued to sip Smith’s punch. Everyone else was, and she had a feeling they might think it was odd if she didn’t join in.

  Eventually, though, the conversation disintegrated—and this was possibly in direct correlation with the amount of punch consumed—to talk of mistresses and gambling and horseflesh. She unwillingly learned about Mr. Thompson’s troubles with a mistress who was becoming more expensive with each passing day and a wife who was growing possessive and suspicious. She learned that Mr. MacKenzie was an inveterate gambler and seemed to think he’d always win more than he did. She learned that Mr. Black had just spent his new wife’s entire dowry on a thoroughbred.

  She wasn’t certain what any of these things had to do with the other.

  When the footman came by with more punch, she—without quite knowing how or why—took another glass. It tasted better than the first.

  Her thoughts began to drift. Or, more apt, they drifted from the topics at hand and shot, unerringly, to James MacGregor.

  To the feel of his hand clasping hers, large and callused and hot. To the intense blue of his eyes. To the deep voice that taunted and pushed and pushed and wouldn’t let her be. Even now, even here, it echoed in her mind.

  Eleanor swayed to her feet abruptly. The men looked at her.

  “I just remembered an errand,” she said. Was she speaking with her deepened voice? She thought she was. Though, at this point, she didn’t know if they’d notice.

  They raised their tumblers to her. “To Cecil Townsend, king of the stag beetles!” They laughed jovially, as though they’d thought of something too clever not to laugh at.

  In her haste to leave, she nearly collided with the Duke of Sheffield, who was just outside the door. They’d been introduced once—when she wasn’t dressed as Cecil—and she hesitated, realizing how close they were to one another.

  She hoped he didn’t find anything amiss.

  But he was only glaring down at her with pale, cold eyes, no hint of recognition in them. “You are in my path,” he said.

  He did not raise his voice—he didn’t need to—it still carried a thousand threats. He looked at her with the haughty, disdainful assurance that only came from years of being a duke, from snapping out orders and having them answered in the space of a heartbeat. He was used to being above everyone else, and Eleanor assumed he quite liked the view from the top.

  She’d almost forgotten how much she exceedingly disliked the man.

  Almost.

  She tipped her hat in apology and gave him a wide berth.

  Then, shaking off the unpleasant encounter, she hailed another hackney, and with some effort, climbed inside. It smelled like sweat and alcohol and the sharp tang of urine—her too-full stomach rumbled. Before she knew what she was doing, she gave the wrong address. Not to the Townsend’s house.

  No, she gave the address of one James MacGregor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eleanor Townsend was at his door, dressed as Cecil, leaning against the frame like she didn’t have the strength to stand up straight. Both her wig and her spectacles were askew.

  For the space of a heartbeat, James simply stared at her, certain he was dreaming. And then, when he blinked and she didn’t disappear, a spark of fear shot through his chest.

  “What are you doing?”

  She laid a hand on his stomach and pushed. It was a gentle contact, and if he hadn’t wanted to move, it wouldn’t have budged him, but he found himself stepping back to let her in.

  “Where are your servants?” she asked, slurring her s’s.

  He paused at the startling revelation that Eleanor was foxed. But maybe it wasn’t that startling. She was always surprising him in some way or another.

  “I don’t have any who live here at the moment,” he said. “Just maids who come during the day to launder and cook.”

  “Just maids? And they don’t live here?” Her lips pursed in puzzlement. “Surely you can afford more?”

  “I’ve been using most of my money on new clothes and horses and a carriage.”

  “You are not wealthy, then?”

  He exhaled softly. “I do well enough, but I’m not wealthy by your standards, and certainly not by Lady Sarah’s.”

  His recent purchases had been…an investment, so to speak. Money put forth to court Lady Sarah in the fashion she was accustomed to. He couldn’t sustain this way of life on a moderate income indefinitely, but he wouldn’t have to, if all went well.

  She shook her head and said in a low, chiding voice, “Pretending again.”

  He expected her to say more, or at least to elaborate, but then she was peering around his entrance hall, looking a little blurry eyed, as if she’d already lost track of their conversation. That insidious worry crept into his chest again.

  “Where have you been?” he asked too harshly. He didn’t like this—worrying about someone. It had been so long since he’d done it, the emotion felt foreign and tight, like something unpleasant against his skin.

  “Is the saloon here? I’d like to see it.”

  He hesitated, sighed, and then led her up the stairway. The house was about half as large as the Townsends’ and not nearly as extravagant in its decorations, but it was his. He was proud of this residence. He didn’t want to admit this to himself, but a part of him hoped Eleanor liked it.

  They emerged in the saloon. What would have been two drawing rooms, side by side, or one large one, if they were open, was simply a bare, open space. Wooden chairs lined the wall, for men who wanted to observe or rest. A
table stood at one end, where refreshments would be placed. Clean linen towels and mufflers hung on hooks on the wall.

  Eleanor shrugged off her greatcoat and left it in a heap on the floor, then after pausing a moment, she tore off her wig and spectacles.

  It was a strange juxtaposition—Eleanor’s face, undisguised, her dark hair pinned back tightly, but her clothes unabashedly male.

  She went to the wall and retrieved a pair of boxing gloves. She pulled them over her hands. “I challenge you to fisticuffs,” she said, voice too loud in the silence.

  “You can hit me if you want, but I won’t hit back.”

  “Hmmph.” She marched straight to him and punched him in the chest. She eyed his body and then she frowned down at her hand, looking puzzled. “You barely moved. Did I do it wrong?”

  He pulled gently at her right glove until her hand was bare. “It’s best to learn the proper way to form a fist before you go around hitting things.” She formed a fist, and he readjusted her hand a bit. “Thumb here, along the outside. You hit with these knuckles.” He ran his thumb along the knuckles in question, held their contact for a touch too long. A shiver traced down his spine.

  He’d noticed it before, during the dancing lessons. This…awareness. This…magnetism. It was as startling as it was unwanted. It was as unwanted as it was frightening.

  “Try it again.” He held his hands up.

  She punched into his palm, first one, then the other, a series of resounding thwacks. “Better.”

  “I could get used to this,” she said with a smile. “I like hitting you.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure you’re not the first to feel that way.”

  She kept punching his palms, until sweat glistened on her forehead and her chest heaved with heavy breaths. He let her take out her frustration and restless energy. Eventually, when her hits began to slow, he caught her hands in his and held them there. “Eleanor…why are you here?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know,” she said. She sounded more alert than when she’d first arrived, but he could tell she still wasn’t thinking clearly. How much had she had to drink? “I was invited to a gentleman’s club. I went. And the conversation was glorious. Until Smith’s punch started taking effect. Why do men ruin things?” She shook her head. “It’s true. They ruin everything with their condescension, and their snuff, and their punch. And why, why have a scientific society and not allow female scientists? They’re limiting themselves, and their knowledge…and it’s…it’s bollocks!”