One for the Rogue

by Charis Michaels

  He crossed the verge behind him and slipped around the edge of a building into a narrow alley. The gutter ran with a trickle of rancid water, and he kept to the side, his back against the wall, balancing on the border stones that formed a small ledge.

  “I can’t remember the last time someone has turned his back on me and walked away,” said the duchess’s voice from the mouth of the alley.

  Beau looked back. She’d hovered in the entrance, the voluminous black bell of her skirts puffing into the slim opening. “Are you mad?” he rasped.

  “Possibly.” She studied the murky water and gathered her skirts in thick handfuls.

  “If you step one foot in this alley,” he warned her, “you’ll disprove all your elevated claims of propriety. It’s a sewer, madam, make no mistake.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, taking one careful step, and then another, and then another. “This is not impropriety. This is . . . thoroughness.”

  “You are mad,” he said, marveling at her dexterity as much as her gall. She was picking her way to him.

  “I . . . I know you must feel rather pursued.” She came to balance directly across from him on the opposite ledge. They were separated only by three feet of dim alley and the cold, dirty water at their feet.

  “ ‘Pursued’? Try ‘hunted.’ ”

  She answered this with a nod. Beau watched her, hating the veil for blocking her eyes. He waited, anticipating . . . what? He could not say. She drew one deep breath and then another. She raised her chin. Would she now scream? Cry? Launch herself at him? It was a rare moment, indeed, when he could not read the intent of any given female. But he’d never met such a young widow before, nor any high-born lady who would chase him into an alley.

  He was just about to suggest that she find her way back out into the street when she reached to her veil and rolled it away.

  Just like that, the dismissal died on his lips.

  Beau stopped breathing and watched. Her nose appeared first, small and pert. It wrinkled from the rank smell of the alley.

  Next, her eyes. He could only make out their shape beneath the veil, but now they shone with warm, brown color.

  “I’ve struck a deal with your brother,” she told him next. “You might as well know. The two of you are said to be very close. He would have told you about our bargain soon enough.”

  “Bryson and I rarely speak,” Beau admitted carefully. “What deal?”

  “Well,” she began, “I am in urgent need of passage to America.”

  “Aren’t we all,” Beau said. “Why?”

  She ignored this question and said, “Your brother has promised to accommodate me if I can . . . educate you.”

  “Why do you require passage to America?” he repeated. “Americans hold duchesses in even lower esteem than I do, or so I hear.”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss my . . . business in America. I can only reveal that your brother has promised to grant me passage on one of his ships if I can teach you anything. Anything at all.”

  “You told me Bryson rescued your cousin,” he said.

  “Not a cousin. He rescued my brother. Teddy. Well, his wife’s charity rescued him, and then Mr. Courtland located me and delivered Teddy back into my safekeeping. This is how I met both Elisabeth and Mr. Courtland.”

  “If your brother was lost, why aren’t your parents making some compensation to Bryson?”

  “Oh,” she said, “my parents are dead. Lost at sea, I’m afraid.”

  Beau scoffed. “Of course they are.”

  “Surely I don’t have to point out that this is another entirely inappropriate response.”

  Oh, I am the master of inappropriate, he thought, but he said, “Forgive me. I am marveling that my brother managed to dispatch both a widow and an orphan to me in the same woman.”

  “I am not meant to be pitiful, my lord,” she said. “I am meant to be useful.”

  “What you are is in my way.”

  “When I learned that your brother was the owner of a shipyard,” she pressed on, “I became determined to both repay him for the great favor of rescuing Teddy and earn my passage on one of his ships. This is when he offered me the arrangement. Your training for my passage.”

  Beau whistled. “Quite a bargain.” Why Bryson would strike such a deal with a young widow was inconceivable, but he was loath to invite any more of the story than strictly pertinent to him. “And what am I meant to get?”

  “Well, the knowledge of how to carry on decorously, I suppose. Confidence in every situation. An air of nobility. Proper address, to the right sort of people, at the correct hour, in all the most important places.”

  “So nothing, effectively speaking.”

  “If it’s my qualifications that give you pause,” she said, “please remember that I managed to marry a duke.”

  “Right. The dead duke. And what if I’ve set my cap for a prince?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  She laughed at this, a light, magical jingle that seemed to surprise them both, like she may not have laughed in a very long time. Something very male and very needy inside him responded to this, and he instantly scrambled to say something to make her laugh again. He wondered if she knew what came next—after the next joke, and the next.

  She raised a gloved hand to her face, touching her pretty mouth with delicate fingers. It was a gesture he’d elicited a thousand times by hundreds of girls, but he’d never seen it done quite so naturally or without pretense.

  It occurred to him suddenly, forcefully, that perhaps he had approached this woman in all the wrong ways. He’d been defensive and dismissive to her—his natural responses to the title and the threat of rules and manners and “training.” But this was hardly his natural response to a beautiful woman. His natural response to beautiful women (really to any woman) had been to flirt and charm. It was what he did best. Why in God’s name hadn’t he come back with that? He’d seduced every female from whom he wanted anything for as long as he remembered. Rarely, if ever, did he fail.

  Blithely, without really thinking, he stepped off the ledge and sloshed through the water to the spot where she balanced on the opposite wall. He stared at her openly, hotly, eye to eye. He lifted his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and then dropped his hat back on his head, propping the brim rakishly back. He raised one reliable brow.

  As if on cue, her cheeks shot pink and her eyes grew. Her hands felt for the bricks behind her. She began to inch sideways.

  He propped one hand on the wall to stop her. “Careful,” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re very clever, you know. If we were having this conversation over tea instead of . . . ” She looked right and left.

  “In the gutter?” he offered.

  Another laugh, and Beau felt the familiar hum of blood pumping through his own veins.

  She clarified, “I was going to say out of doors, but I suppose that is more to the point.”

  She started again, “If we were having this conversation over tea, that would be a perfectly diverting thing to say. Setting your cap for a prince.” Her eyes were still smiling, a very good sign indeed.

  Beau leaned down, just a little. “Despite what my brother believes,” he said, “I require no instruction on how to make conversation with a pretty girl.” She was more than pretty, he thought objectively. In fact, saying the words out loud seemed to emphasize that she was, more to the point, beautiful. Thin, willowy, with brown eyes that seemed lit with a sort of amber glow. He dare not clarify this, however. There was value in understatement.

  She cleared her throat and looked beside her at his hand on the wall. Her gaze traveled back, following his arm, over his shoulder, and up to his face. She licked her lips and swallowed hard. Beau stared at those lips. He knew this dance well.

  “I didn’t set my cap for anyone,” she volunteered softly, “not even a duke. The title was my parents’ dream.”

  “Do tell,” he said, inching closer. He could see her tightly swept-back blond
e hair. He could see her eyelashes. He could see one particularly lovely freckle beside her small nose.

  “In particular, my mother wanted a title for me,” she went on. “She was very ambitious. My father worked hard to be a great success, but he came from nothing. I wasn’t even raised in London. I left my home in Liverpool to marry the duke. I was not a traditional debutante.”

  “We have that in common,” he said, and she laughed again. The more she laughed, the more he wanted to hear it. He stared down at her with an expression that rarely let him down.

  “To make up for all of this,” she said, speaking faster, “my comportment had to be perfect. My knowledge of the accepted customs of a lady or gentleman was—is—exhaustive, taught from birth. My manners had to be impeccable if I wanted to catch the attention of a duke.”

  “Your big brown eyes couldn’t hurt.” He gave a half smile.

  Another laugh. “I think it was more like my father’s golden piles of money.” She looked away, offering him her delicate profile and the curve of her neck. Now it was his turn to melt, which shouldn’t really be the plan, should it? He saw the pulse jump in her throat, and his own heartbeat kicked up. He told himself that no seduction would play out authentically if he didn’t feel it too.

  They were so close now. Close enough that he could smell the scent of her skin, even in the dank alley. She was warm beneath the layers and layers of black, and he could feel that too.

  “Regardless of my . . . er, resources,” she said, “I would not have been a serious prospect for the Duke of Ticking, or any gentleman, if I had not been taught to behave properly. You’ll not find a more qualified teacher than I.”

  She turned her head and met his eyes. They locked gazes. Beau’s body, which had been stirring and buzzing, now hardened with awareness.

  She licked her lips, and Beau doubled down. “You know, Your Grace, I could be persuaded to explore your offer if . . . you consented to make it more interesting.” He craned back just enough to sweep her body with a predatory gaze. “When you speak of lessons and a capable teacher and an attentive pupil, certain subjects do spring to mind. Quite the opposite of why you’ve been sent, but I’m doubtful you’d find fault with my version of education.”

  She blinked once, thick lashes closing over rich brown eyes. Her perfect mouth puckered into a surprised O. She bit her top lip and slid it slowly free. He watched with rapt attention, surprised to realize he was holding his own breath. How utterly stupid it had been not to lead with seduction. Not only was it effective, but there would be a delectable reward for him too.

  “This is the opposite of what your brother had in mind.”

  She was trying to invoke authority, but she looked impossibly young. And flushed. And . . . curious?

  Beau swallowed hard and moved closer. His coat grazed her skirts. Their faces shared the space beneath the brim of his hat. The closeness suddenly wanted more closeness, and he fought the urge to move all the way in, until her back was pressed against the wall, and he was pressed against her.

  “My brother’s not an idiot,” he said, speaking almost into her ear. “I think we can all agree that he did not send an ugly woman to whip me into form. Perhaps we can strike our own bargain, you and I? Learn a little and play a little?” His voice was just above a whisper.

  She answered with a small, low intake of breath, one of Beau’s very favorite sounds. She tipped her head up just a little, the universal gesture of invitation. Beau locked eyes on her mouth. He bent toward her, hovering just inches away. He was a heartbeat from the heaven of her mouth when was seized by the unfamiliar choke of restraint. He blinked and raised up, just an inch. If and when he seduced her, he thought, it must be a conscientious, measured sort of thing. He mustn’t take more advantage than his brother was already taking. He might be a rogue, but he was not a debaucher of desperate widows. In alley ways. Even so, his concentration was rapidly slipping. Measure and conscience were hardly his strong suits under the best of circumstances.

  By some miracle, she spoke again, breaking the spell. “No,” she said softly, “I am quite determined to honor your brother’s original intent.”

  She lowered her chin and stared at the collar of his shirt. Beau knew a flash of disappointment so deep it registered as anger. He also knew just what to say to change her mind. The pretty words were on the tip of his tongue.

  But now she fidgeted. She cleared her throat. Despite his position looming over her, she began to slide away. She yanked her skirts from the grip of the rough wall. She staggered a little but managed to stay out of the wet. While he watched, she picked her way back to the street.

  He’d done it; he’d scared her away. Regret seemed to fill the space where she’d been, but regret of what? What he’d done or what he had not?

  “Everything about this exchange has been an example of what a gentleman would never, ever do,” she was saying, almost to herself.

  “Oh, I’ve only scratched the surface,” he warned smoothly. This was the truth.

  “Today we’ve learned how not to behave.” She was reciting now. Her voice was too loud, and it echoed on the stone walls. “Next time we’ll do it my way.”

  He hopped out of the gutter and balanced on the ledge. This was a threat, and he knew he should reply in kind. He thought for a moment, willing his brain to do its job despite the residual desire swirling in his head.

  “If you value your virtue,” he finally called, “there won’t be a next time.”

  There, he’d said it. She’d been forewarned. If she turned up again, he would not put her off. If she turned up again, he would do the opposite.

  But she gave no guarantees. She stumbled from the alley, smoothed her skirts, her gloves, the ridiculous hat on her head. Without looking back at him, she turned and strode away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Emmaline fought the memory of her assignation in the alley for the next five days. It was the week of the new duchess’s birthday, and she told herself that any memory would be an improvement over the hours she spent celebrating inside the ducal townhome.

  “I should like for you and Teddy—if he is able,” the duke had informed Emmaline on Sunday, “to pass the coming week with the family. The duchess will celebrate her birthday on Friday, and we’ve a lovely party planned. The children are excited to celebrate with their mother, and your help would allow Her Grace to enjoy the day without the full burden of their deafening joy. It is the least we can offer the duchess on her special day. She does love the children, but she and I should also like some time alone, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  Whenever Emmaline imagined the duke and duchess alone, she saw the conception of yet another child. In the spirit of the duchess’s birthday, she wondered when the duchess would reach an age that biologically disqualified her from procreating. Seventeen was a lot of children, even by the most fruitful standards.

  “What, exactly, do you mean, Your Grace,” Emmaline asked, “by passing the week with the family?”

  His tone made it clear she was being ordered rather than requested, but she refused to guess how much family time would qualify.

  Ticking licked his ruddy lips. “Why not simply begin with us after breakfast, hmm? See how the festive days unfold. The children’s nannies and governesses and tutors do not seem to coalesce in an organized manner until ten o’clock. The duchess struggles, before then, to keep everyone in line. After that, there are sure to be three or four children who are not at lessons or naps or diversions at any given moment. They would delight in your company. Stay through supper, if you like.”

  “You would have me stay all day, Your Grace?” Emmaline asked. She’d barely managed to keep the frustration from her voice. “For how many days would you have me arrive for breakfast and remain through supper?”

  Every day. She’d already known the answer. He’d hinted at this arrangement often enough.

  The duke shoved up from his desk. “Forgive me if I believe that your attention inside the
ducal household is more appropriate for a widow of your station than these unaccounted errands with which you occupy yourself around town. Shall I remind you that you are still in mourning, madam?”

  Emmaline’s face grew hot. She did not relish confrontation, but she would not be falsely accused. “I am in half mourning, Your Grace,” she said. “Your father has been gone for eighteen months, may God rest his soul.”

  “Quite so,” blustered the duke.

  They stared at one another. It would only complicate her plans to make him truly angry, and perhaps some time away would dilute her repeated thoughts of Beau Courtland.

  She said, “I should be happy to celebrate the duchess’s birthday on Friday.”

  “The celebrations begin tomorrow,” he countered.

  “Monday, then.”

  “And bring your brother, if he is able.”

  This will not happen, she thought, but she said, “I understand.”

  The days that followed were a weary slog of wailing infants, fighting boys, and pouting girls. Mealtimes were a whirl of chaos and mild, flavorless food. She passed afternoons listening to the older girls prattle on about their prospects for marriage or the boys’ plans for travel and horses. When the maids were stretched thin (which they always seemed to be), Emmaline cleaned porridge from the rug, swept broken lanterns from the tiles, and picked at torn pillows that blew feathers to every corner of the room. She changed nappies. She tied bows. She removed shoes and buckled them back on again. She endured pokes, prods, climbing, clinging, and the painful pulling of her hair, strand by strand, from beneath her hat.