A Rogue for Miss Prim (Friendship Series)

by Julia Donner

  Instead of heading to his bed, he rode to the house that would soon be his. Shod hooves clopped on cobbles as he directed his horse under an arch to the back of the house and stable area. He waved away an undergroom, staying mounted, as he watched while a horse was led out of the traces of a gig. Its driver was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 8

  Gordon left his horse in the stable and walked around to the front of the house. He interrupted a maid scrubbing the steps when he approached. She swiftly moved the pail out of the way and curtsied. “Sir, the house is not yet awake.”

  He tugged off his gloves. “I saw Miss Primrose in the park this morning. Please tell her I am here and happily cooling my heels in the lobby.”

  The maid left the bucket on the step and hurried to open the door. Inside she said, “I’ll have someone announce you, sir. Her maid is still at breakfast.”

  Gordon strolled around the vestibule while he waited. It wasn’t all that impressive. A rather nice landscape hung on one wall. Much could be done to improve the entry. Some of the furnishings were shabby-gentile, while Vera and George Abercrombie dressed very well. When he’d first met them, the hint of something self-serving in the Abercrombies alerted him to their attachment to Miss Primrose’s fortune and reluctance to let go of it. They wisely kept their disgruntlement at the loss of its management well concealed. No matter. They would soon be gone from this place. Showers had someone hunting down a possible living arrangement for them. If they chose not to accept it or the generous stipend he had written into the contract, that was no concern of his. He couldn’t blame them for wanting to keep the control of such a juicy fortune. When clarified, he discovered that Miss Primrose was indeed very plump in the pocket. And now, because of her, so was he.

  He pivoted when he heard footsteps. A footman asked, “If you will, sir, you may join Miss Adele in the breakfast room.”

  Gordon followed the footman up a flight of steps and down a narrow passage. Bright sunlight filled the room he entered, where Miss Primrose didn’t bother to stand to greet him. Instead, she bit into a slice of toast after wishing him a good morning. She reached for a pot of jam and gave it her complete attention.

  Gordon didn’t smile on the outside. Two can play this game.

  He went to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of coffee. He didn’t like to eat before he went to sleep and ignored the food. This visit wouldn’t take overlong and his bed waited. In order to achieve a sound sleep, certain questions required clarification.

  Since she had outlined the rules for this morning, he discarded etiquette, pulled out a chair for himself, and sat across from her. He had toyed with the idea of taking the seat next to her but preferred an unhampered view to study her responses. He found that he rather liked the fact that she was a sly minx.

  As he had ridden here, after leaving the nervous man she’d met in the park, he’d come to understand that Miss Primrose was something very different from what Society assumed. This was no tremendous surprise. Their recent and extremely irregular negotiations for their marriage had revealed that she was not the vacuous spinster everyone assumed. She had specific plans and demands and no doubt reasons for them. Settlements were the purview of her guardian, but she had gone around Abercrombie to have her future husband outline her demands. Irregular and unheard of behavior. She wasn’t merely clever, she was shrewd. And this morning he discovered that she was also sneaky. That was why he felt entirely comfortable with barging into her house at an unseemly hour. If they were to be married, she needed to understand that he wasn’t entirely stupid and certainly not passive.

  “Miss Primrose, I have come with a question that requires privacy. Would you ask your servant to leave?”

  She glanced at the footman and sent him away with a lift of her chin. As the door closed, she took a sip from her cup and said without looking at him, “What brings you here so early in the morning? One would think that this hour would be the usual bedtime for a man like you.”

  He stirred the sugar in his coffee in slow silence. “A man like me?”

  She looked up, a steady, almost defiant gaze. “I believe the term is a buck about town.”

  To hide a grin, he tasted the coffee. Not sweet enough. He added another lump. “I was on my way home through the park with my friends and thought I saw someone I knew. Actually, my friends pointed her out. In a gig. Meeting with a man.”

  She drilled him with a stare. No answer, so he continued. “I immediately rode to your rescue. No lady I intended to marry would have an assignation with a man in a park. She had to be accosted, in need of my protection. This must be the case, even if she showed such poor judgment as to drive out sans escort.”

  “Sir, of what offense do you accuse me, other than leaving my maid at home?”

  Gordon set down the spoon and took a sip to make her wait. He carefully placed the cup in its saucer. “Let us be utterly frank. You laid down the particulars for our union. I offered marriage out of obligation and the protection of your name after my reprehensible behavior. I know why I am marrying you. Since you are not in need of monetary resources and your actions have made it clear that you are not interested in public opinion or censure, why did you accept?”

  Her eyes narrowed. She wore a dark emerald carriage dress that highlighted the green in her hazel-gold eyes. The dark rim that encircled the unusual eye color was spellbinding. He pulled his attention back to the conversation.

  When she didn’t answer, he leaned an elbow on the table, bringing him closer to her glare. “You wouldn’t want me to think that you planned to wed me to cover an affair.”

  She pinched her lips into a line. The narrowing of her eyes became a squint. He was having so much fun, he had to prod more to see how far he could push.

  “Miss Primrose, Adele, tell me that you have no intention of making a cicisbeo out of a married man with a houseful of children. I saw them, you see, when I followed him. Five of them came tumbling out of his little house followed by a plump, apple-cheeked wife a decade older than you. Shame, Miss Primrose, tempting a happily married man.”

  She shoved back and up from her chair, tipping it over. He got to the door before her. He forced himself not to smile when she backed up, whirled and went to stand by the window. Sunlight glinted on a sable-brown curl that had the courage to escape from beneath her cap. It was a plain cap, no ruffles or frills, but the shiny lock of hair, moving with the pulse at her temple, looked fetching enough to captivate, to wonder what was hidden underneath.

  She didn’t retreat when he stopped beside her and studied her profile. There was a bit of an upturn to the tip of her nose. Viewing her from the side, he saw that she had a strong chin. He curbed the urge to press against her, intimidate with his size, which was unfair but so tempting. He would use his voice instead, knowing he had a knack for lowering it to persuade. And entice.

  “You consented to this marriage, Miss Adele. You know my expectations. You know what my father wants. I cannot have any implications or uncertainties.”

  The shiny curl trembled against her temple. “How do you dare, sir?”

  She visibly struggled to contain her outrage, while he waited with what he hoped was a smile of polite anticipation. Internally, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle her or himself and knew he hid his inner turmoil well. She was not adept when flustered. That becoming flush brightened her cheeks. Her bosom under the plain frock rose and fell. Then the idea of something else took hold. They were engaged. A kiss before the ceremony was harmless enough.

  In a congested voice, she said, “I would never do such as you suggest.”

  The evil imp he could usually keep in check asked, “Do you mean cuckold me or a morning romp with a married man?”

  She slowly turned to face him. The blush of anger bloomed brighter on her cheeks, warm and tempting, but her eyes shot fire, evoking a thrill that sank into his marrow. This was no milk and water miss, no frump or whey-faced spinster. He’d thought himself too tired to arg
ue, but that something else flared inside from the evidence of the passion she carefully hid from the world. This was not defiance, no volatile reaction to stir up a guilty response from him. Adele Primrose was gloriously outraged. He prepared himself for a walloping great whack on the face for his impertinence, but again, she surprised him.

  Frigid and mocking, she arched an eyebrow. “Sir, there are some insults so vile and ridiculous that they do not require acknowledgement.”

  “Miss Primrose, Adele, I apologize. It was jealousy speaking. Do forgive me.”

  He hoped he delivered that in a manner that inspired belief. A jumbled mix of emotions made him wonder at his purpose here. He couldn’t decide if he wanted answers for the sake of his family name or for another reason too disturbing to be understood so soon. He’d never thought of himself as territorial, although his father had been attentive when it came to his wife. Constantly so. Never far from her side.

  He broke off the memory when Adele’s expression changed from insulted to suspicious. Her eyebrows came together in a frown. “Sir, you speak of jealousy. Of me? Do you cast insult only to follow it with making sport of me?”

  Something about that remark lit a spark. No woman should feel unworthy of a spouse’s regard. The brief flare up of outrage caused him to speak more harshly than he wanted. “You might as well know right now that I will never tolerate adultery, before or after an heir is born. The same applies to my own activities.”

  Her expression changed again from amazement to puzzlement. “You astound me. I know few men who do not have mistresses, married or not. And jealousy? You should not wonder that I would fly up at the suggestion of infidelity on my part. And I am not the sort to inspire such violent feelings.”

  “But I am unfortunately afflicted with a possessive nature. Can’t be helped. It comes down from my mother, not my father. He would react with alacrity if he thought she might be harmed, but would forgive her anything. It is more in my nature to smash someone to bits.”

  That stunned her to silence. She turned her gaze back to the window, the traffic on South Audley Street. He watched her think through what he’d confessed before gently saying, “Adele, you had better tell me now, have you ever lain with a man?”

  She jerked her gaze back to him and answered with careless distraction. “What? Oh, certainly not. I am intact and untried in every other way.”

  That threw him for a moment. More than a little blunt for a lady. And what the devil did she mean about being untried? In every other way? Her next question diverted that ambiguity.

  “Mr. Treadwell, are you exaggerating when you talk of jealousy, of enacting physical retribution for a slight real or imagined?”

  He pushed out a lower lip and wobbled his head from side to side as he mentally debated the question. “Best be up front about it. Father would rather it be a dignified duel, but I’d prefer to smash the fellow into a bloody mass. There’s something marvelously satisfying about the total vanquishing of one’s opponent.”

  Her mouth dropped open and she looked at him as if he’d grown another head. He was about to apologize for his rendition of the crude truth and then the something else he’d kept in the back of his mind moved directly to the forefront. He leaned down and kissed her. Some opportunities were not meant to be left ignored. She didn’t immediately respond, then her mouth softened. She shocked him when the tip of her tongue glided over his lower lip. The world went up in flames.

  Chapter 9

  Adele sank into a well of sensual contentment. Curiosity fled when a zinging thrill obliterated an opportunity to examine something she’d never experienced. She stopped analyzing the many astonishing bodily reactions, just stopped—to enjoy. She never considered shying away from this chance to learn about kissing, even when it became an overwhelming physical experience that numbed her mind, while engaging every fiber of her body.

  It began with the soft touch of his lips. Then it intensified when he stepped closer and cupped her head in his hands to hold her still for a most fascinating, but ultimately unsatisfying, investigation of her mouth, since it made her wanting…more. Sadly, she couldn’t remember much of it, since his actions created another person within her body. Was she actually humming? Or purring?

  His image looked blurry when he stepped back. “I beg your pardon, Miss Primrose. We are engaged to be wed, but that does not give me the right to take such liberties.”

  Now that she was no longer rendered mindless, she acutely felt an annoying sense of being left abandoned—and worse—unfulfilled. For a moment she considered telling him to continue, to resume whatever magic he possessed for dissolving her into a lump of flaccid femininity. But no, he might cry off if she made a harlot of herself and just told him to get on with it.

  Her voice sounded odd—another curiosity—when she replied. “Think nothing of it, Mr. Treadwell. I’ve set it down to a learning experience. It appears we shall suit in some ways. It is my turn to apologize. Having never been kissed before, I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I obviously did something to invoke your…vigorous response.”

  His cheeks were still flushed, a condition her lunatic body liked too well, expressing itself with strangely sympathetic warmth and tingles in regions best ignored.

  In the process of checking that his neckwear hadn’t been disturbed during the heated embrace, he paused to stare at her remark, openly perplexed. “Are you saying that you’ve never been kissed before?”

  Her physical condition—shivers still roamed over her flesh—didn’t allow for nonchalance. “I expect I have been, when my parents yet lived and I a child, but no, I have no recollection of any such event.”

  “But that thing you did—”

  “What thing?”

  His perfectly knotted neckwear looked to be constricting him as he said, “That…move with your…tongue.”

  She felt a frown wrinkle her brow. “I did something unseemly, Mr. Treadwell?”

  “No, ma’am, absolutely not. I’m sure you could not.”

  “I am relieved, sir. One shouldn’t wish to summon in one’s intended an off-putting sentiment. If I have done or acted in some manner to give you a disgust of me, please do explain so that I may never repeat the offense.”

  “If only you would,” he muttered.

  “What did you say, Mr. Treadwell?”

  “Nothing of import. I believe it is time to take my leave.”

  “But sir, you gave me to understand that you came here so early due to a wish to ask me something in particular.”

  “Did I? It’s forgotten, whatever it was. I bid you a good day, Miss Primrose.”

  She watched him stride away, carefully closing the door for a silent exit. She stared at the painted panels. What an odd morning. At least he’d been distracted enough to forget about her meeting with Morrison. She hadn’t expected to provoke a kiss—an argument or an interrogation, yes—but not the mind-numbing, body enflaming experience.

  And she hadn’t lied. It was her first kiss. She’d always wondered what it would feel and taste like and only used the tip of her tongue to investigate. She got a good dose of what he tasted like when his tongue invaded her mouth. How curious that he couldn’t explain in explicit detail what had set him off. If she recalled correctly, it happened when she instinctively savored the texture of his bottom lip. He’d gotten rather insistent, clutching her head just so. She would have to remember exactly what she’d done. Her own reaction had been almost…violent.

  Oddly restless, she decided that it was necessary to perform some energetic endeavor to calm the unusual stirrings. Perhaps she should do more research into the foreign materials she’d found among her parents’ boxes brought down from storage. Both of the ancient books she’d discovered tended to capture her attention and not let go. So colorful and shocking. She would certainly need to hide those materials from Mr. Treadwell. If he responded so swiftly with so little encouragement to the tip of her tongue, there was no telling what his response would be if she employed the
instructions within those ancient works. The images brought about shivers she chose to disregard in her present state of agitation.

  What if he found her attempts to excite him off-putting? Budding confidence shrank at the thought of him repulsed. The barriers she’d laid to protect her heart crumbled with the idea of him finding her a figure of fun, a pathetic creature, or worst of all, using her as a source of hilarity with his friends. No, he wouldn’t do that. He could be set down as something of a wastrel, but he wasn’t cruel. At least, not to her face. If he was, she would rather not know.

  There was much to do before her cousins moved out and Mr. Treadwell took up residence. For one thing, she had to find a better place to hide everything, especially the materials involving Mr. Morrison. That would lead to disaster. Her cousins paid little attention to her, other than Vera barging in whenever she felt the need to act as if she cared. Hopefully, after marriage to Mr. Treadwell, privacy to carry on her secret works would no longer present a problem. He was known as a vastly popular fellow, a sportsman with a host of friends to keep him occupied with his own amusement so that she could focus on hers.

  A tap on the door interrupted the organization of her plans for the day. A footman announced, “Miss Percival.”

  Annabelle Percival flashed the footman a thoughtless smile as she swept through the door. The poor man, flustered, almost fell down from the barrage. Annabelle didn’t mean to render men insensible. She was merely being her sunny, pleasant self, until circumstance required that she not be. Perfect features, guinea gold hair and beguiling eyes usually distracted from the fact that Miss Percival was as sharp as the proverbial tack.

  Due to his benumbed mental state, the footman allowed My Precious to dash into the room. Annabelle’s sweetly shaped mouth thinned. The footman quickly closed the door. The servants had been given strict instructions to never disturb the cat. Had Vera dared to say the same to Annabelle, her friend would simply smile a pretend-stupid grin and ignore the edict. My Precious started to saunter her way, but stopped when Annabelle lifted her skirt hem. The cat remembered the last time he’d attempted to spray on her. She’d used her dainty foot to kick him across the room.