Lady Rogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  Unexpectedly he touched the wavy blond hair brushing her cheek, and gently curled the ends around his fingers. Kit froze and shut her eyes, her scalp tingling all the way down her spine. She stayed completely still, fearing even to breathe lest he stop playing with her hair. Her breasts tightened beneath the flimsy nightshirt.

  “With you, if you want the company.”

  Kit’s heart flip-flopped. “What about your meetings?”

  “Hang the meetings.” His fingers gave her hair a tug and then released her. When she looked at him he was grinning that dazzling smile of his, azure eyes lighting. “I’ve been behaving far too respectably. I’m attempting to make up for it in one fell swoop. So what’s it to be?”

  “A picnic,” Kit answered promptly, then blushed when he raised an eyebrow.

  “A picnic where?” he asked slowly.

  “In the country.”

  “Give me a moment, chit. You have baffled me.” He gave her a look of mock suspicion, which might have been real. “You have all of London to explore, and you wish a picnic, out of town?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  Because I want you to myself. “I haven’t been on a picnic since I was five,” she answered. “If you wish to do something else, I will, of course—”

  He raised a hand. “A picnic it is.” Alex stood, the bed rocking slightly as his weight lifted from it. “Do you wish me to invite Ivy and Ger—”

  “No,” she interrupted sharply. She wanted no one else there. No more lies to spin, and no one for him to look at but her.

  He gazed at her. “Just us, then.” He nodded, not questioning her further. “I’ve one brief errand to run, and I’ll have Wenton see to preparing things.”

  “Do you want company?” she asked, telling herself she’d asked because she was supposed to be keeping an eye on him.

  Alex shook his head. “I’ll be back in a shake. Get dressed, and don’t forget…that.” He gestured at her wrap. “Unless you want to.”

  “Blackguard,” she muttered, and he laughed and exited the room.

  Given the opportunity to go anywhere in London, Alex would have thought a spy would opt for a tour of Parliament, or one of the other government buildings. At least a good look at some strategic point or other would have been expected. Never would he have anticipated that a French spy would want to go on a country picnic, and certainly not alone with one of the few people who knew her secret.

  He rode to Reg’s under a lowering sky, only to find that the baron had gone out riding with Lady Caroline. It was likely just as well that Hanshaw was not available, for there was a great deal Alex wasn’t yet ready to tell his partner. Intercepting the second load of weapons would buy him a little time and provide a distraction, but until he heard from one of his men in the field, it would be foolish to make a move. He left his calling card with Reg’s butler, and returned to Cale House to prepare luncheon and fetch Kit.

  “No, Wenton, the Madeira,” he instructed as the butler entered the breakfast room to load a bottle of wine into the picnic basket he’d had Mrs. Hodges dig out of the cupboard. The butler turned on his heel and exited again.

  “My lord?” a timid female voice came, and he turned to view one of the kitchen maids hovering nervously in the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “My lord, Mrs. Hodges says the peach pies for luncheon are set out to cool, but that Brundle put too much wood in the oven, and the apple tarts are burned.” She curtsied.

  “Blast,” Alex grumbled, for he had noted several days ago that his houseguest was fond of apple tarts.

  “My lord,” the girl continued hurriedly, her face paling, “Mrs. Hodges said I might go down to the bakery to inquire for tarts, if the pies won’t do.”

  Wenton stepped back into the room and took a moment to eye the girl hostilely, obviously feeling she’d overstepped her bounds in coming into the main part of the house. “My lord?” he queried, presenting him with a bottle.

  “Yes, that’s the one.” Alex nodded, and the butler deftly wrapped it in a cloth and deposited it into the basket. “And no,” he continued, turning back to the girl, “peach pies will be fine. Wenton, take the basket down to Mrs. Hodges, will you?”

  “Of course, my lord,” the butler said, lifting the wicker and, with a cluck of his tongue, sending the girl out of the room before him. After a moment Alex heard his chastising voice, and the girl’s sharp-voiced answer. He smiled.

  When the servants had departed, Everton dropped into his customary chair at the table and blew out a noisy breath. He was practically frothing at the mouth over the contents of a damned picnic basket. All for duty and country indeed. That was why he’d decided this picnic was going to be the most magnificent alfresco luncheon since the heyday of Rome.

  A long, low rumble sounded outside, and he turned toward the window. Lightning flashed over the stable, and as he watched, a gray cloud swept across the rooftops and crested Cale House with a heavy patter of raindrops. “Damnation,” he grumbled, his good humor dashing into the ground along with the rainwater.

  Kit’s low, lilting laugh drifted down the stairs, followed by the self-assured padding of her booted feet on the steps. “The all-powerful Earl of Everton will grant me any wish for the day,” she announced regally, laughing and swinging into the room to view him sitting like a dour gargoyle in his chair. “Except that he didn’t count on it raining.”

  Alex gave a reluctant grin. “All those books in the library, and I didn’t think to consult the almanac,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she replied, sobering a little as her green eyes studied his face.

  He returned her gaze, wondering how long he would be able to continue his charade of ignorance and still look into those lovely eyes. “My other offers for the day still stand.”

  Kit glanced toward the window and gave a small sigh. It was fairly obvious that despite her jesting, she had truly wished a picnic. Alex frowned. It was bad enough that he was fretting over a picnic like a half-wit with his purportedly male cousin in front of the servants, but now he was worried that he had somehow ruined a spy’s day in London.

  Wenton reappeared with the basket, and took a moment to glance dubiously at the window before he placed the heavy thing on the sideboard. Alex started to motion him to take it away, then stopped. “Wenton,” he said, gazing at his houseguest and feeling a smile tugging at his lips again, “bring that to the library, and get us some help.”

  “Help, my lord?” the butler asked, obediently lifting the basket again.

  “We’re going to move some furniture.”

  Kit waited until the butler had left the room before she ran her finger along the edge of the table and looked up at Alex sideways. “A picnic with your cousin in the library?” she drawled in a fine imitation of him. “Quite irregular.”

  “And?”

  “And so I thought you wanted to avoid rumors and that I was already too much trouble, anyway.”

  She was right, and the servants had likely guessed a great deal more than he cared to inform them. They’d already proven themselves a discreet lot, however, for shortly after Mary’s death, he’d had several spectacularly disastrous affairs which had for the most part escaped the ears and sight of the ton.

  “The omnipotent Earl of Everton will do his best to satisfy your wish,” he said dryly, trying to make light of the fact that he knew damned well he had other things to be doing, and that being alone anywhere in private with Christine Brantley was unwise.

  He followed her into the hallway, and instructed Wenton and the footmen who had gathered at his summons to move his mahogany desk, the overstuffed chairs, and the occasional table to the far end of the room.

  “Wouldn’t it simply be easier to move the couch in the morning room? We could picnic in there just as easily,” Kit suggested from beside him.

  “No. Not the morning room,” he said flatly, turning his back so she wouldn’t see that her remark h
ad agitated him.

  “Oh.” She took a step closer. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her low lilt at his shoulder making him pause. “It reminds you of Mary?”

  He stiffened again, then took a breath. By now he should have known that Kit would not let up on something that had caught her attention, until she had an answer that satisfied her. “It reminds me of perfection,” he answered, stepping into the library. “Wait here.”

  Kit stood looking after him for a moment. In the short time she had known him, Alex had spoken of his late wife very seldom and only reluctantly. She glanced over her shoulder at the morning room. The earl certainly hadn’t left her with the impression that he continued to deeply mourn his wife, but from his conversations with both her and Barbara Sinclair, neither did he seem anxious to lose his heart again. And though with him it was difficult to be certain, his voice for a moment had sounded almost contemptuous. Odd, that.

  “Kit, m’boy,” Alex’s voice drawled several minutes later from the library as the footmen trooped out again, “do come in.”

  She smiled at the summons. Ten days ago she had never expected to be invited for a picnic in the Earl of Everton’s library; even less would she have expected to feel pleased about the notion. Her smile faded. After she betrayed him to her father, she doubted she would be left with any pleasant memories of London at all.

  She stepped into the library, and stopped. Alex sat cross-legged on the blanket that had been opened out in the middle of the floor, the wicker picnic basket beside him. The painting on the far wall, a beautiful white country manor she had assumed to be Everton, had been removed and sat on the floor facing the blanket. The other side of their picnic spot was flanked by one of the paintings from the formal dining room, a pastoral with a lake and deer and a flowering meadow.

  “Welcome to the country.” His eyes dancing, he lifted a bottle of Madeira in her direction.

  Christine couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t do anything but stand and stare at the Earl of Everton sitting on the floor of his library, just for her. Her heart hammered, trying to burst through her ribs. That was what it felt like, then, a rush of lightning through every nerve and muscle. Quickly she turned her back as though looking for something, hoping that Alex wouldn’t see it in her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see that she was in love with him.

  “Is something wrong?” his voice came after a moment.

  With a deep breath she turned around and flashed him a grin. “I was merely trying to imagine you doing this sort of thing with Barbara Sinclair,” she replied, plunking herself down on the blanket beside him.

  “I wouldn’t,” he noted mildly, handing two glasses over for her to hold while he poured. “She would hardly appreciate it.”

  “Why not?” Kit queried, furtively studying his profile. Everything had been an impossible muddle before. That, though, was nothing compared to this. Her father would be furious.

  “I don’t believe she would find it dignified,” he commented, drawing out the last word and sniffing at the end.

  Kit laughed. “So she is always ‘dignified’?” she returned, imitating his pronunciation.

  He pursed his lips and glanced sideways at her. “Almost always.”

  This was becoming interesting. “When is she undignified, then?”

  His amused eyes holding hers, Alex took one of the glasses back. “You may look something like a boy, chit, but I happen to have it on very good authority that you are a virgin who wishes her purity maintained. I am not going to relate any sordid sexual tales to you.”

  Kit made a face at him. “You’d rather enact them with me, I suppose?”

  He smiled, something very enticing touching his eyes for a moment. “So bold, you are. One would almost think you were trying to seduce me.”

  It gave her an idea, a sort of last chance. Remembering how Mercia Cralling had flirted with her, Kit lowered her head to look up at Alex from beneath her lashes. And she had no idea whether she was acting to help her father or to help herself. But she had begun to doubt very seriously whether she could follow through on any plans to help Stewart Brantley that would in some way hurt Everton. Distracting him from his duties seemed to be the only option left her. Her fingers shaking a little despite her efforts to keep them steady, she reached out to brush them along his collar. “What if I were?”

  His eyes had followed her hand, but slowly he lifted his head to gaze at her. “Hypothetically speaking, of course,” he murmured, the change in his eyes pointing out that she had just stepped into a game in which he had far more experience than she, “what would this seduction entail?”

  It would have been easier if he’d simply fallen upon her. Now, though, she was expected to answer in kind. Thinking as quickly as her muddled thoughts would allow her, Kit leaned closer. “Perhaps a trip to Everton, just the two of us?” Just for a few days, until her father’s shipment was in Calais and Alex would be safe from him. She would be lost, of course, but then she already was.

  He tilted his head a little and then took a slow sip of Madeira. “And for this journey would you wear lace instead of lawn, and pearls rather than pocket watches?”

  Christine swallowed. “If you wished it.”

  For a long moment Alex looked at her, then slowly he shook his head. “You give in too easily, chit. What is it you want?”

  She scowled, then covered it up by batting her lashes at him. “You’ve simply worn down all my resistance,” she breathed.

  Alex threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, good God.”

  That hurt. “I don’t think it’s amusing that you find me laughable, Everton,” she snapped, the part of her that said the conversation was just a game, flattened by the part of her that wanted him to take her seriously as a female.

  He blinked and sat back, his smile fading. “I hardly find you laughable, Kit.”

  “You’re always teasing.”

  “No, I’m not,” he protested.

  “Always, always, always,” she countered. “And I’m sorry if you think the way I look is so stupid. There’s nothing I can do about it!” she shouted, climbing to her feet. She still held one glass of Madeira, and angrily looked about for a place to set it down.

  Alex stood as well, and she shoved the glass at his chest. Reflexively he grabbed it, and she turned and strode for the door. Behind her she heard both glasses hit the carpet, and then came to an abrupt halt as Alex’s hand clamped down on her shoulder. He spun her around and shoved her back against the wall.

  “I was not teasing,” he said, his eyes glinting, and bent his head to close his mouth over hers.

  After a stunned moment Kit leaned up into him. His hard, strong body pressed her into the wall as a tingling rush of arousal ran through her. Alex’s arms came around her waist, pulling her closer against him. This was what she had always imagined. All the times she had seen couples embracing and had wished to someday, somehow, place herself there, this was what she had imagined it would be like—the breathless, time-stopping sensation of being on fire. He lifted his head to look down at her, but before she could protest his absence, he captured her lips again in a deep, hard kiss.

  His mouth teased at hers, and when she parted her lips in response, he ran his tongue slowly along her teeth. The gesture felt shockingly intimate, as did his hands as they stroked down to her hips. Her own hands lifted to run across his muscular chest and shoulders. She took a shallow, ragged breath when his mouth released hers again. “Alex,” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer, but gently pulled her short tail of hair and tilted her head back. His lips, his mouth, caressed the sensitive hollow of her throat, so that she gasped. One thigh shifted to press up between her legs, rubbing slowly at the sensitive, throbbing place through her breeches. A growing swelling pressed against her abdomen, achingly hard. She held desperately to him, aware of nothing but his warmth enfolding her. If not for his body against hers, she thought she must fall to the floor in a boneless heap.

  Thu
nder boomed so close that the window rattled with the force of it. Alex lifted his head and looked down at her, a dazed, disjointed look in his beautiful eyes. “My God,” he murmured, drawing a ragged breath. “My God.”

  Farther away thunder rumbled again, and he blinked and took a step back. Another step followed the first, and her hand reluctantly slid from his chest. “What is it?” she asked, her voice and body trembling.

  “I…apologize,” he muttered.

  “But, Alex, I want—”

  “And I want you.” He gave a grim smile. “But too much rests on it. Too many others might pay for my…weakness.” Slowly he reached out and touched her lower lip with fingers that shook a little. “I’m sorry.”

  With that he turned and was gone, shutting the door softly behind him. A tear ran down Christine’s cheek as she turned back to their ruined picnic, the spilled glasses of burgundy wine staining into the blanket and the carpet beneath. He knew, then. At least part of it. He knew. Her heart felt like it was rending in two, and she closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself. There was more at stake than her stupid, shattered dreams of a life and a love she could never hope to have. Even with nothing else between them, she was a smuggler’s daughter, and he was the Earl of Everton.

  One thing had become clear, though. She needed to find her father, after all.

  Martin, Lord Brantley, Viscount Trawbry, Marquis of Fens, and Duke of Furth, disliked London.

  It was not that he resented the amusements of the Season, or that he discounted the importance of Parliament or the rules of law. Far from it. Rather, and very simply, London was two days’ distance from Furth. That left him with a round trip of four days, at the least. And four days away from Furth, as far as Martin Brantley was concerned, was four days too many.

  Circumstances, however, one opportune and one not nearly so, had dictated that he make the journey. And so it was with an annoyed, impatient sigh that he stepped down from his crested, mud-spattered coach and climbed the granite steps of his town house on Grosvenor Square in the heart of Mayfair, while his butler bowed in the entryway.