A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

Her heart tossed against her ribs, like a piece of driftwood pummeling against cliffs. She whimpered and clamped her mouth shut. If she was going to die, she would do so with dignity. She clutched hold of the sides of her bed and refused to be pitched to the floor.

  “We’ll be fine,” Gerard said as if he’d read her thoughts.

  “I keep thinking of my brother,” she admitted.

  She regretted the words as soon as she uttered them. She wasn’t the type to lament things. Not to others. But now, on this ship, in this weather, it was all she could think about.

  “It’s only a small storm,” he said.

  “I’m fine.” Her voice hitched.

  “Good.” Gerard paused. “Tell me about your brother.”

  She shrugged. “He was nice.” The word hardly described everything she felt. “He was heroic. Gallant. Charming. Of the two of us, he was the one people noticed.”

  “But then he died.”

  “Yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Somehow she’d never truly believed the fact until now.

  “I’m sorry, lassie,” Gerard said.

  “I suggested the navy to him,” she said, her voice miserable. “I’d seen the ships in Portsmouth. And I told my older brother he should join.”

  She didn’t want to tell him that. But it seemed wrong to enjoy the feel of Gerard’s arms around hers. He should know what she’d done.

  She waited to be scolded. She waited for him to cease his rhythmic strokes. But neither happened.

  “It was a war. A great big, brutal war,” Gerard said. “There would have been casualties anywhere.”

  She nodded. He was right. But perhaps—perhaps if he’d joined the army, he would be back. Perhaps missing a limb, like the Duke of Alfriston, but it wouldn’t matter. Not if he were here. “I encouraged him to join the navy.”

  Gerard pulled her closer to him, and his chin rested against the nape of her neck. “No one wanted Bonaparte to invade. I fought in Spain, and I survived, but don’t think I don’t know how lucky I was.”

  “I’m glad you returned,” she said.

  “Anyway—I seem to remember that he liked the ocean.”

  She laughed softly. That part had been true.

  “And maybe he’s still alive,” Gerard said.

  “Maybe,” she said, though she didn’t desire to allow herself to hope. “I hoped that when the war ended he would return, but he never did.”

  Her parents had never received formal notice of his death, only that he had been lost at sea. But that had been years ago, and he still hadn’t shown up.

  The waves thrust hard against the ship.

  “It’s just a storm?” This time her voice didn’t just hitch. This time her voice sounded too much like an actual cry.

  “Darling.” He’d taken to using the term of endearment to tease her, but now the word seemed heavy in unexpected meaning.

  She laughed, but the sound came out bitter. “You should sleep. I—I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’m not accustomed to sailing. Forgive me.”

  Gerard narrowed his eyes. “It is not in the least bit strange to suffer some misgivings at being in a storm.”

  “My poor darling.” Gerard’s baritone voice reassured her. “My poor dear darling.”

  Blankets rustled, and she extended her arms toward him as if she were reaching for a beacon.

  She wondered at his ability to traverse the room without injury, but in the next moment the bed sank.

  Dear Lord, mere inches separated them.

  Goosebumps prickled her skin as if every cell in her body recognized his presence. It was discomfit, she reminded herself. Lack of awareness of the exact social norms.

  Not because she was remembering their kiss.

  Not because her arms remembered the feel of his skin against hers.

  And certainly not because she wanted to feel that sensation again.

  Not in the least.

  “You need not worry,” Gerard said solemnly. “The safest place in the world is beside me.”

  She was conscious of the man’s warm, masculine scent. Then his limbs brushed against hers. And then he swept her into his brawny arms.

  Lord, this was nice.

  The ship continued to topple, and her heart continued to pound unsteady beats, galloping at a rate associated with the finest Arabian stallions, but her mind focused on the feel of his hands stroking her back.

  Cordelia swallowed hard. “I keep thinking about the cargo van.”

  “Oh?”

  It was a single syllable, but Cordelia still noticed the man’s sharp intake of breath. Perhaps, just perhaps, he felt the tension too.

  “Those kisses . . . ” She breathed.

  “You want another one?”

  “I think—” Her cheeks heated as the ship continued to dip, and she was thankful the room was dark. “I think I want everything.”

  *

  Everything.

  She’d spoken the word softly, but it seemed to roar through Gerard’s mind.

  Cordelia was everything he was not. The lass was slender and delicate, almost fragile. It was no wonder her edges were hard.

  He’d misunderstood her so completely. That blasted woman was so dear to him.

  His cock ached, and he toppled her onto the bed. He pulled the blanket over them both, sealing them from the outside world. The coarse wool prickled his body.

  His heartbeat thrummed through him, and he longed to take her. He wanted to—lord—he wanted to devour her. But this wasn’t about him. This was about her.

  He wanted to trace the sharp curve of her hips, and he wanted to trace the smaller, no less interesting ones of her face. He longed to memorize everything about her.

  He pressed himself against her soft, lithe form. Her hair toppled down, and he ran his finger through silky locks.

  This was Cordelia. Right here, right beside him.

  She was bloody crazy if she thought he wasn’t going to make her feel wonderful.

  He had permission to touch her. Really touch her. To kiss her luscious skin. To brush his fingers against her every curve, and to run his fingers through her silky hair. Perhaps he couldn’t see her, but he didn’t need to. He’d long ago memorized the exact shade of her hair, distinguishing between the various times of day. He’d long ago memorized the slender swoop of her upturned nose, and her dark blue irises.

  Her arms wrapped around him, and his heart thudded. The sound seemed to roar over the splash of the waves.

  “Hold me,” she pleaded.

  “Aye.” Lord, he could do that.

  He didn’t wait an extra instant before he found her lips with his. He inhaled her, devoured her, and she only squeezed her arms more tightly around him. She seemed to answer him with a moan, and her hands moved to his head. She wiggled against him as if she couldn’t stand the thought of any space between them.

  He knew better.

  He knew this was just new for her. He knew she’d expected to be with one of those fancy Englishmen in their silk pantaloons and slippers. But he wasn’t going to remind her about that now.

  The lass was going to be his wife. If she desired him now, he wouldn’t protest. No matter how much his mind revolted tomorrow.

  “Is this mad?” She asked.

  He halted. “If it is, tell me to stop.”

  She didn’t tell him, and he didn’t stop.

  He tore at her clothes, even as water sloshed against the sides of the hull, even as sailors shouted over them.

  “There will be some pain,” he warned her.

  “And then pleasure,” she said.

  He blinked in surprise, and she giggled. “Women do talk somewhat.”

  “Thank bloody hell for that.” He pushed inside her, noting tightness and silkiness. This must be what utter bliss was like. She kept her arms wrapped around him.

  “I’m going to thrust, lass.”

  “Then take me with you,” she answered.

  It was easy to find a rhythm, easy for her to follow
him, even though his heart tinged dangerously when he heard her pants, heard her breath soar in pleasure.

  The pleasure intensified, and he gripped hold of her, her skin now slick with sweat.

  He pulled out of her and spilled his seed over her stomach. She wouldn’t be with child, but instead of the normal pride he felt at his habitual timely withdrawal, he felt a tinge of sadness.

  He wondered whom she would choose as a lover when she settled in Kent.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Cordelia awoke, she was not cold and she was not alone.

  A pleasant feeling soared through her, and it took a moment for her to determine the reason.

  She stirred in her bed, and something warm and firm and wonderful tugged against her.

  Arms wrapped around her. Male arms. Golden, sun-kissed arms. Firm arms that rippled in perfect muscles and smelled like cedar and cardamom.

  It took her another second to remember that the night had been wonderful, and then another three before she remembered that they’d broken all their rules.

  They shouldn’t have done that.

  Damp strands of hair clung to Cordelia’s brow, yet happiness thrummed through her. The ship rocked, but its motions were gentle. The storm had passed.

  She leaned back and succumbed to the pull of the arms.

  Lord, the man’s chest exuded strength.

  She’d felt it last night, tracing the bulge of his muscles with her tongue.

  His face scratched against her, reminding her that her life had changed.

  Her fiancé had bedded her.

  Despite all their careful plans, all their negotiations, all their practicality, he’d bedded her.

  And she’d enjoyed the night.

  She’d behaved with all the decency of a courtesan, and she knew, she absolutely knew she should be feeling regret—but the emotion failed to arrive.

  She shifted in the bed. The mattress was still uncomfortable, the straw still sagged despite all her attempts at frequent fluffing, and the sheets were still coarse and uncomfortable.

  And yet—

  She was sure she’d never felt quite like this before.

  She couldn’t bring herself to wake him and make him leave the bed.

  She couldn’t even bring herself to leave the bed.

  His breath was warm against her ear, and she relaxed at the sound of its regular rhythm, more steady, more reliable than that of the waves or the most immaculate Alpine clock.

  She would need to pull herself from the bed, untangle his arms from hers.

  But right now, this was happiness.

  Right now it was possible to imagine that when he stirred, he would continue to stroke her hair, continue to whisper affectionate phrases, continue to seem to adore her.

  In fact she might imagine he actually adored her.

  Her shoulders sank against the rough sheets, and she closed her eyes. The man was a rogue. When he woke up, he would likely grunt an apology for staying in her bed so long, and then march off elsewhere to find breakfast with other people.

  She knew about rogues.

  She’d read enough articles about them in Matchmaking for Wallflowers.

  She’d seen them saunter around enough ballrooms, paragons of masculinity and charm, and rumored to possess lists of all their conquests.

  Perhaps she was simply too innocent, too inexperienced. Perhaps her hands fumbled too much against his, less sure of her motions. He was a rogue. Wouldn’t he be used to more assertive, more forceful women? Courtesans who lived in the most lavish brothels? Or perhaps he paid for apartments for them? Perhaps they were actresses, opera singers—women who were confident throughout their life, whether it was performing before all London or giving a private performance to a marquess. Perhaps . . . She shook her head. The reason wasn’t important.

  She’d warned enough debutantes about it, dutifully passing on information about fallen women.

  Rakes might be handsome, they might be charming, but they made poor husbands. Everybody knew that.

  They were even worse after they’d succumbed to their desires. She’d seen women crying in gardens, after being ravaged by a yet another bored rogue. Rogues enjoyed the bedding part, not the rest of it part. And the one thing she knew about rogues was that the thought of being trapped in a cabin with the woman he’d just conquered would not be desirable.

  She shut her eyes.

  She didn’t want to hear the coldness in his voice. She didn’t want to see his lips stiffen and his eyes darken as if the only emotions he felt now were shame and calculation at how long it would be until they could gracefully separate.

  She didn’t want to witness his eyes wandering to the other females on board, their merits suddenly heightened by the fact that he’d already bedded Cordelia, and needed someone new. She didn’t want to see the smirk in his lip when his eyes rested on her, and the knowledge that the man could always, forever draw up images of her as he thrust into her.

  Gerard stirred, and her heart raced.

  Lord, they’d consummated a marriage that had never taken place. Might never take place.

  “Cordelia.” Sleepiness resided in his voice. It rumbled against her ear. He shifted in the bed, and she stiffened.

  This is when he would leave the bed. This is when he would make the excuse to go on deck to check what the other sailors were up to.

  She knew this. Every debutante knew man’s nature, and how fleeting their interest was. She’d studied her Matchmaking for Wallflowers pamphlets. Every serious debutante did.

  “Yes?” Her voice squeaked, and she swallowed hard. Her voice wasn’t supposed to squeak. It was supposed to be low-pitched, a pleasant alto sound. Her voice was supposed to sound calm and reassuring, the sort of sound that made a man confident that she could mother his children, the sort of sound that made a man think she wouldn’t complain at rumors that he might be tupping the chambermaid.

  His hand shifted, gliding over the cover. She shut her eyes. She could pretend to be asleep. Even if she’d just been awake. She didn’t actually have to make awkward conversation with the man.

  Yet the heat that surrounded her did not shift. Instead his arms pulled her even closer to him, and her back felt his chest hair.

  She was not going to moan.

  Absolutely not.

  His hand smoothed the sheet, pulling it more tightly around her.

  “Good morning.”

  Could the man sound more calm? Cordelia pressed her lips together. It was so tempting to give in to her imagination, to think of his arms wrapped around her every morning, to have his company forever. But she knew better.

  People had a tendency to disappoint. It wasn’t their fault, it was just the way there were. Her parents might not mean to be distant, but wouldn’t it be natural for them to be reserved, if their son had died?

  That’s why there were rules, and Cordelia had broken the most important one.

  Gerard continued to smooth the sheet, even though the man had never seemed to interest himself in bed linens before. His fingers were long, and warmth roamed over Cordelia’s cheeks as she remembered just where his fingers had delved the night before. Was her scent still on him?

  She squirmed in the bed, and his arm tightened around her. His head turned to her, and she prepared herself for his words.

  His eyes were light and warm, and she tried to force her own eyes shut. She didn’t need to see his eyes turn cold.

  Her eyes did not cooperate with her instinct to shut them. Not when they could be looking at his face. Not when they could be pondering why his face was growing larger and larger, not when they could be realizing that he was narrowing the distance between them, not when she could analyze why his eyes were still filled with warmth and not when she could—

  Hot lips pressed against her neck, sucking on the thin skin. Hot lips moved up her neck, and fingers, glorious fingers, played in her hair.

  It didn’t matter that her hair was tangled. It didn’t matter th
at she hadn’t worn face powder in days. It didn’t matter that jewels weren’t glimmering from her neck, and it certainly didn’t matter that she wasn’t wearing a gown made by Paris’s finest dressmaker.

  The lips trailed kisses from her neck to her cheek. Longing filled her, and each peck seemed to light her body on fire with more success than kindling.

  Her skin tingled, and she lifted her arms toward him. Right now he may as well be the bloody sun.

  “You shouldn’t do this,” she murmured.

  The kisses halted, and she cursed herself.

  “No?” Gerard dipped his head against hers again. His lips played against her. Feathery kisses turned to sucking.

  And Lord help her, she was kissing him back.

  She wrapped her arms about his neck, and he rolled on top of her. Her view comprised nothing but him. Nothing but burly arms, and an indecent smile. His skin was flushed, and his eyes lustful.

  She grasped his back, easily finding those firm muscles again. She tightened her fingers around his shoulder blades, and he shifted the sheet over.

  Lord, he was lying on top of her. All of him. Even that intimate part.

  He rested his weight on his forearms, and his hand brushed some hair from her eyes.

  He might not be crushing her, but he was so near. He drew the sheet down. “I’ve had dreams about that bosom.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  He laughed. The sound was a pleasant rumble, and she smiled in spite of herself. “We are Mr. and Mrs. Jones. What we are doing is perfectly natural.” He whispered in her ear. “And extremely delightful.”

  He was right. Dear Lord, he was right.

  Still, she shifted from his grasp. “We are not married.”

  “They don’t know it.”

  “But we can’t—”

  “Can’t?” His eyes twinkled.

  And then they became cold.

  She knew they would become cold.

  And yet it still hurt her.

  “I see,” he said. “Last night was—”

  “Last night,” she said. She turned her head over her pillow and eyed the dreary cabin room. She focused on the furniture.

  “You can go now.” She flickered her hand up.

  “Are you dismissing me?” His lips curled.