One for the Rogue

by Charis Michaels

  Beau stared at her, seeing now a newer, younger, entirely innocent girl wrapped in a blanket on his bed.

  A virgin.

  A virgin whom he had undressed and pulled down on top of him.

  Whom he had kissed senseless and been prepared to do so very much more.

  Swearing softly, he dropped his head between his knees and stared at the rumpled sheets. He was a great many rotten things—a scoundrel and a rogue, just as Lady Frinfrock had said—but he was not a despoiler of virgins.

  Even if she was a widow.

  Even if she did kneel beside him in his bed, wearing only his nightshirt and a deliciously curious expression.

  Even if she had driven him to delirium and back with her beautiful body and hungry mouth and—why hadn’t he seen it?—innocence.

  Beau made a noise of frustration and swung his feet off the side of the bed. “Please tell me that I don’t have to explain what happens, Duchess, when a man and a woman fall into bed on a kiss, as we have done. Please tell me you know what comes next, even if they are kissing for the very first time.” He laughed bitterly. “Especially if it is for the first time.” He glanced at her. Her expression suggested that she might not, in fact, know what happens. He groaned and pushed out of bed.

  “Well,” she began, speaking to his back, “unlike you, I can be taught—”

  “That will not happen.” He laughed coarsely, dropping onto a trunk and reaching for his boots.

  For a moment, she was silent. He thought of how she must feel—rejected and embarrassed—and he cursed. He raised his head to make some excuse that blamed himself, but she cut him off.

  “Like so many things since I left home,” she said, “I am learning a revisionist version of the real world. My mother was not honest with me.” She looked down at her hands. “She was determined that I learn everything exactly, precisely right and behave accordingly. If I was to learn so much correctness—day and night, for years—why were so many things misrepresented?” She shook her head and then looked up again.

  “Why would she suggest that men prized innocence above all things?” she demanded. “Clearly, it is not prized by all men. Not by you. I have bored you with my inexperience.” There was no manipulation in her words; she wasn’t trying to wheedle him. She was trying to sort it all out.

  “Do I appear bored to you, Duchess?” he said.

  “Well, you are . . . away.”

  “Yes, I am away, but at the cost of my personal comfort and with an exhausting test to my self-control. I am not bored, Duchess. I am trying to protect you from my . . . lack of boredom. It is a lack of boredom so great that I would have had you on your back, helpless to pleasure, in less than a minute. Your mother was not misrepresenting the value of innocence. For better or worse, innocence in a female is prized above all else. I did not make the rules, Duchess, but I won’t break them with you. The untimely loss of your innocence can, as you’ve surely been told, bloody ruin your bloody life. Of all the wrong I may have done in my life, I’ve always taken care not to corrupt anyone else on my way down. And that goes for you too.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No matter how exquisite the wrong might have been.”

  “But all I wished for was another kiss,” she said, laughing a little. She kneed off the bed and stood beside it.

  Beau was shaking his head. “You know, I actually believe you.” He threw open his wardrobe to rummage for his hat and coat. “Another kiss would be lovely, wouldn’t it? But if we’ve learned nothing else today, Duchess, we’ve learned this: rarely, if ever, is it simply ‘another kiss.’ ” He found his hat and jammed it on his head. “One leads to two, two leads to four, and then we are lost. And after that, well . . . ” He jerked his duster from the hook. “Trust me; I never would have touched you if I’d known we would never get to the ‘after that.’ I don’t deal in virgins—never have, never will.”

  “It was only a kiss,” she said, more to herself than to him. She’d backed against the wall.

  “Are you not hearing me? Men do not stop with ‘only a kiss.’ I do not stop.”

  “But you have stopped,” she told him. “You leapt from the bed and began storming around, lecturing me.”

  “Better than what I want to do,” he snarled. He glanced at her, saw the spark of interest in her eyes, and before he could stop himself, he dropped the coat, strode across the cabin, and trapped her against the wall. If he could not make her see, he thought, he would scare her.

  And yet she did not appear scared. Her eyes were huge; her mouth was parted and smiling, just a little. Her hands went immediately to his shoulders, latching on.

  Dipping down, growling into her ear, he whispered, “You don’t want to know what I would do to you if I could.”

  She gasped and fell into him. He growled again and kissed his way from her ear to her mouth, catching her lips in a searing kiss. He filled his hands with swaths of the loose fabric of his shirt and squeezed, trying to resist the lithe, subtle curves beneath it. She whimpered and kissed him back, trying to keep up.

  When he could stand it no more, when he was a fraction of a second from lifting her back to the bed and falling on top of her, he tore his mouth away and took two big steps back.

  “Stay away from me, Duchess,” he said, breathing hard. He willed his legs to take two more backward steps. “I’m warning you. I’ve used up a lifetime of restraint in one bloody morning, and I cannot be counted upon to do it again.”

  And with that, he snatched up his jacket, whirled around, and strode from the cabin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jocelyn Breedlowe told Teddy they were going on an adventure, an adventure so secret even Jocelyn had not been told why or where. She told him that Emmaline had gone ahead of them, and the demands of the adventure had required that they follow in a second carriage and bring along a change of dress for his sister.

  This narrative, she found, was the only way to get Teddy out the door. Teddy (not unlike Jocelyn) was suspicious of change and of unexpected carriages and vague-but-urgent missives that required either of them to play along with a fiction riddled with considerable gaps.

  But the vague urgency of Emmaline’s note could not be denied, nor could the Rainsleigh carriage waiting outside the dower house.

  When they were safely four or five blocks from Portman Square, out of sight of the duke’s suspicion, Jocelyn slid the glass aside in the carriage window and asked the groom to name their actual destination. If nothing else, she could prepare Teddy, not to mention herself.

  “Paddington Lock,” came the reply. “Lord Rainsleigh’s summons.”

  “You mean Mr. Courtland’s order,” Jocelyn said, shouting to be heard over the noise of Oxford Street. On occasion veteran members of staff still reversed the title of the former viscount with the new.

  The groom shook his head. “No, ma’am. The viscount himself asked that we collect the pair of you and deliver you to him.”

  Jocelyn nodded and sat back in the carriage seat, her mind a whirl of possibilities and second guesses about the duchess, and Rainsleigh, and the dress that swayed bumpily from a hook beside her head.

  Twenty minutes later, the carriage rolled to a stop along a canal lined with bobbing narrow boats. The sunlight was bright for December, and they squinted as they stepped out on the gravel path, looking carefully around, wondering how they could possibly know what they were expected to do next.

  Jocelyn spoke gently to Teddy about the canal and the boats and the possibility that they would see gulls and perhaps even jumping fish.

  “Miss Breedlowe, thank God,” said a voice behind them, and they turned to see Beau Courtland, Viscount Rainsleigh, striding up, a dog at his heels.

  “Lord Rainsleigh,” she said, shading her face with her hand.

  “Hello, Teddy,” he said to the boy. “How grateful your sister will be that you’ve come to her rescue. She’s gotten herself into quite a scrape.”

  “Is the dowager duchess qui
te all right?” Jocelyn asked lowly. She would not alarm the boy.

  The viscount nodded—one curt nod—and then he looked away. “Now that you’re here.”

  He looked at the water. “May I take the boy to the canal and show him the lock where they control the water level? While we are occupied, it is my hope that you might . . . see to Her Grace. Did you bring the change of dress?”

  Jocelyn nodded, studying him. She had spent far less time with the viscount than any of the other gentlemen in Henrietta Place, but she knew him well enough to know he was, at the moment, rankled, which was very rare indeed.

  “Is she . . . ” Jocelyn began, hoping to learn at least something of the duchess’s state.

  “She fell into the canal,” the viscount said, too low for Teddy to hear.

  Jocelyn stifled a gasp, but the viscount held up a hand.

  “She is unharmed,” he said. “Soaked through and without the necessary dry clothing to reach home. She’s waiting in the cabin of my boat.” He pointed. “More than anything, she is worried about raising the suspicion of the duke. Did he see you and the boy leave?”

  “Not as far as I know. We were ready when the coach arrived, and we rolled away within minutes. Your staff is discreet and capable.”

  The viscount looked to the grooms, horses, and carriage parked beside the path as if seeing them for the very first time. Likely, he was.

  “Aren’t we lucky in that?” He gestured to the water and smiled at Teddy. “Shall we explore Paddington Lock, Teddy? Your sister will want to know what you’ve seen. And I don’t believe you’ve met my dog?”

  “Adventure,” said Teddy, going easily with the viscount.

  Jocelyn let him go and walked resolutely to the dingy, peeling narrow boat, second to the last on the end of the canal.

  Emmaline heard the knock on the door and stood, clutching the viscount’s nightshirt around her.

  “Your Grace?” came Jocelyn’s tentative voice.

  Emmaline could have wept with relief. “Yes, thank God. Please come in. Mind the trunk and the rifles and the rusty whatever-it-is on the floor.” She rushed to assist her, reaching for the boxes that Jocelyn balanced in one hand while she hoisted the dress high in the other. “Oh, bless you—you’ve brought it all. But how is Teddy?”

  “Quite well, actually. The viscount has taken him to see the lock. I’ve told him we are all on an adventure.”

  Emmaline toppled the boxes on the bed. “An adventure. That is one way of putting it.”

  In her head, Emmaline had rehearsed a long speech. She had constructed both justification for her actions and blame. She had released Jocelyn of all future association with her, citing the outrageousness of today. But now, looking at her friend, moving from box to box, pulling out shoes and petticoats and, thank God, a hairbrush, all she could say was, “Oh, Jocelyn. You will not believe what I’ve done.”

  Jocelyn turned from the dress and considered her. “Well. I have been told that you fell into the canal.”

  “Yes,” said Emmaline, “that too.”

  Jocelyn held out stockings, and Emmaline rolled one on, trying not to think of how the previous stockings had been removed.

  “You were not harmed, I hope.”

  She shook her head. “The viscount, he . . . he jumped in after me and fished me out. He swam with me to safety.”

  “I have heard he can be very resourceful.”

  “I came here to tutor him in manners and decorum. His brother, Mr. Courtland, and I worked out a trade for this service.” She told her briefly about her charge to teach the viscount to be a gentleman.

  “Mr. Courtland is known as an inventive businessman, I think,” Jocelyn said, holding out two shoes. Her voice was neither disbelieving nor accusatory. She sounded . . . pleased.

  Emmaline nodded and stepped into her shoes, closing her eyes at the feel of the warm, dry barrier between her still-cold feet and the dusty floorboards. “I’m sorry I did not tell you about it in detail—” She stopped herself and started again. “I’m sorry I did not tell you.”

  “Perhaps it’s better that I did not know.” Jocelyn laughed a little, and Emmaline laughed too. Jocelyn continued. “Elisabeth had not mentioned this arrangement. I can assume Mr. Courtland believes it is better that his wife not yet know. Can you go without a corset, madam, just until you get home? I did not bring one.”

  Emmaline nodded, and she pulled a simple petticoat from a box and gave it a shake. “Honestly, even Mr. Courtland did not know I’d taken his offer seriously until the viscount complained to him. I am highly motivated to get my father’s books to America, and my resources are limited. The duke watches every move I make, as you know. As plans go, it was improbable but working. It was actually almost working. Until today.” She stepped into the petticoats and pulled them to her waist.

  “Well, surely you did not fall into the canal on purpose,” her friend said.

  “No. Not the canal.”

  Jocelyn reached for the dress, another overwrought gray winter gown, too formal for daytime, but it had been the easiest excuse for the summons. They sat on the bed and laid it across their laps, working together to unfasten hooks at the back.

  “He undressed me, Jocelyn,” Emmaline whispered, not looking up from the hooks. “He gave me this nightshirt. He dried me. He wrapped me in a blanket.” Her cheeks burned as she said this, but when she said the words out loud, she found that she could not—would not—regret it.

  Jocelyn’s hands paused over the hooks. “Did he take advantage of you, madam? Have you been . . . overcome?”

  “Oh, no. ’Twas nothing like that. There was . . . ” Emmaline looked to the window, as if she might suddenly see him outside. “We shared a kiss. I asked him to do it, and he did. But that is all. He . . . he refused to do more, and when he learned of my vast, er, inexperience, he regretted the kiss. He is regretful.”

  She looked back to Jocelyn. “I came here to teach him to be a gentleman, and I asked him to kiss me instead. I’ve no regrets; honestly, I do not. But I wonder . . . ” She stood up and paced to the window. “I wonder what Mr. Courtland will think of our bargain now? And I also wonder what you will think of me.” She dared a quick look at her friend. Her cheeks, already raw and chapped from the cold water, burned.

  Jocelyn smiled gently and gave the open dress a shake. She held it out. Emmaline paused, still uncertain of her friend’s generosity, but then accepted it.

  Jocelyn watched her pull it on, reaching to pull and fluff as she went. “I think . . . that if you came here to teach the viscount the ways of a gentleman, and he saved you from drowning. And then he undressed you but refrained from imposing anything more than a kiss . . . well, I’d say that you have given his gentlemanly tendencies a rigorous training indeed. I’d say that you have more than kept your promise to Mr. Courtland.” She crossed her arms and stepped away. “That is what I’d say.”

  “Oh,” said Emmaline, smoothing the sleeves of the dress over her arms. “Oh.” Her mind spun. Is that what they’d done? Reinforced gentlemanly behavior? Could this arrangement be salvaged?

  “As for me,” Jocelyn continued, stepping around to do up the back of the dress, “I have seen far more colorful interludes in service to both Mrs. Courtland and Lady Falcondale, so do not worry about my judgment.”

  “I . . . you are gracious, Jocelyn. How lucky I am to have such a gracious friend.”

  “Yes, well, that said, perhaps we should consider some joint arrangement for Teddy and you and me. Perhaps I can care for Teddy and offer my services to you as something like a chaperone. Assuming your tutorials with the viscount will continue.”

  Emmaline shut her eyes. “I shall never be able to repay you. But do you think he would consent to more lessons?”

  Jocelyn made a discreet coughing noise. “This would be my guess.”

  “I like the idea of a chaperone, if you could be so disposed. Would you do it, Jocelyn?”

  “Considering the circumstances,” Joce
lyn said, stepping away and folding the viscount’s nightshirt, “I think it might be best.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After Miss Breedlowe and Teddy were sent home in the Rainsleigh carriage, Beau followed the duchess to the church, where she’d left her own carriage nearly four hours ago. From a distance, he watched as she was bundled safely inside it and rolled away. Then he returned to his boat to pack. Given the circumstances, he saw little choice but to leave London. Immediately.

  He wouldn’t leave England—not yet. He still had at least one brothel to raid for Elisabeth and business to attend. Any long-distance journey would have to wait, but he should leave the city of London before he did something colossally stupid, such as call on the Dowager Duchess of Ticking. For any reason whatsoever.

  But especially for another tutorial.

  Beau stomped around the cabin of his boat to pack, dodging Peach, trying not to relive the memory of his and Emmaline’s time together.

  This was impossible, he discovered, because . . . what else was there? Her body was gone but the very feel of her seemed to linger in the small cabin. He could still smell the wetness of her hair. He could make out the imprint of their embrace in the tangled bed. He heard her voice in his head and tasted her on his lips. Briefly, he considered dunking himself in the canal again for good measure.

  What if he never recovered from the unrequited desire of kissing her but not . . . doing anything else to her? What if he never again looked at her face without remembering her expression when he taught her how to kiss?

  But this was why he had to go.

  He’d somehow managed to disentangle himself from her, although he had no idea how. Disentangling from anything as lovely as her was not like him at all.

  In contrast, it was absolutely like him to ride to Essex, where he was long overdue. If his eventual plan was to sail from England altogether, he should go to Essex and remain until the New Year.