Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  Some of the drawings Michael supposed he had deserved. He was indeed a shameless flirt. He did, in fact, love wine, music, and people of all walks of life. Perhaps he was the “Lord of Pleasure.”

  But the other caricatures, the truly hurtful ones, had not been earned. He had never cuckolded a friend—or anyone at all. There was no secret chamber of debauchery hidden within his house. His thoughts while in the House of Lords were not on women, as the artists depicted, but rather the very real problems of the day.

  There was a time and a place for being derelict. Parliament was not that place. Michael’s vote carried the same weight as any other, and he did his best to ensure he used it wisely.

  Perhaps now that his name wasn’t splashed across every scandal column in England, he might finally develop a reputation he could be proud of.

  “Wainwright.” Gideon motioned for one of the serving girls to bring an extra glass. “Haven’t seen you in over three weeks. How is the wager coming?”

  “The fact that you have to ask means you know I’m winning,” Michael said as he accepted a glass of brandy.

  Gideon laughed. “You’re not winning. You’re twenty-five days into a forty-day wager.”

  “Twenty-four days longer than I had him pegged for.” Lord Hawkridge lifted his glass. “A toast to you, Wainwright. Whether you make it to day forty or not.”

  Michael tried not to let his irritation show. “I’ll make it far past day forty. I don’t intend for my name to return to the scandal columns at all.”

  Gideon arched a dark brow. “Shall I fetch the betting book?”

  “Amusing,” Michael said through clenched teeth. “I’m in earnest.”

  “I’m in dire straits,” Lord Hawkridge put in. “That’s a wager I would take.”

  Michael set down his glass. He loved his friends, but the jests at his expense had lost their humor. He shoved a hand through his hair in frustration.

  If he ever had been the dashing but frivolous rake depicted in the caricatures, he was not the same man now. Thanks to the Grenville sisters, he had a new respect for the impact “meaningless” words could have on others.

  Thanks to Lady X, words held more than mere meaning. Their long, candid conversations on everything from family to society expectations to dreams of the future connected them on a level he hadn’t realized possible. The best nights of his life had not been hunting conquests on a dance floor, but strolling beneath the stars with Lady X.

  “Take your wagers,” he enunciated, “and shove them up your—”

  “Ah.” Gideon’s smile was wide. “There’s a woman.”

  Michael started in surprise. “How do you know?”

  Gideon lifted a shoulder with a knowing expression in his eyes. “What else could make a rakehell wish to be a better man?”

  “Fair enough.” Michael didn’t bother trying to deny it. With any luck, his connection with Lady X would not have to remain secret for long. He swirled the brandy in his glass, then looked up at his friends. “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Don’t believe in love,” Gideon answered without hesitation. He used his glass to gesture at the gaming tables behind him. “I don’t believe in anything but money.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in money,” Lord Hawkridge said drily. “It’s been so long since I saw any. As much as I do believe in love, I cannot afford it. My best hope is an heiress who can stand my company long enough to beget an heir.”

  “And a spare,” Gideon reminded him. “It would be dreadful not to have multiple hungry mouths to bequeath your destitute marquessate to.”

  Lord Hawkridge cut him a flat look. “Heiress, I said. They tend to come with dowries. Veritable pots of precious gold.”

  “If you find one. You say you’ll wed for money,” Gideon granted, “but anyone who believes in something as ephemeral as love cannot be trusted with matters of the heart.”

  Hawkridge ignored him and turned his pointed gaze back to Michael. “What about you, Wainwright? Will you wed for love or for the earldom?”

  Michael stared back at him wordlessly. Although he had no lack of finances, Michael had always supposed he’d marry for the earldom, not for love.

  Not just anyone could be a countess. The position required the right woman. A virginal paragon of excellent breeding, impeccable manners, the right connections. It was an earl’s duty. Michael had always known the title came before personal considerations.

  For the first time he wondered not whether Lady X would accept him—but whether he would be able to accept her. What if she were a dressmaker? A courtesan? A performer at the theater? It hadn’t occurred to him to worry about her pedigree. But what type of women attended Lambley’s masquerades? He doubted it was the sort that later went on to become countesses. Upper class women would not risk their future for a masked gala.

  Michael rubbed his face. He had let himself obsess for nothing. She was a mystery, and would have to remain one. Lord help him, he could not afford to fall in love with someone he couldn’t wed. It was better to never know her name at all. He would spend as much time with her as the Fates allowed, but he would not push for anything more than the masquerades offered.

  Probably.

  His fingers clenched inside his pockets. He was already half in love, damn his foolish hide. But it didn’t signify. His obsession with Lady X would stay in the shadows where it belonged.

  After the Season was over and the masquerades ceased, they were unlikely to see each other again. A dull disappointment spread through his limbs at the realization. The loss of her company would be a severe blow. He would remember their shared nights for the rest of his life.

  But for the rest of his days, he would do well to recall that he was not Lord X, but Lord Wainwright. Guardian of an earldom. Representative in the House of Lords.

  He should focus not on fantasies, but on his responsibilities. When the Season ended, it would indeed be time to find a countess worthy of the title.

  Lady X would simply have to remain his favorite memory.

  Chapter 18

  Camellia did not hurry from the hired hack toward Lambley’s ducal residence, but rather took each slow, measured step with a renewed sense of awareness and freedom.

  Before, she had slipped away with Lord X for stolen moments, knowing full well she could let things progress no further than heated kisses, because she would soon be betrothed to another man.

  Tonight was different. She was different. When Mr. Bost returned to finalize his paperwork with her father, Camellia would force both men to understand that future was not a path she would be pursuing.

  If it meant remaining a spinster for the rest of her days, so be it. At least she would be free. Free of expectations, free of guilt. Free to explore her relationship with Lord X wherever it might lead. Free to fall in love. Free to walk away.

  It wasn’t until she stepped inside the duke’s antechamber and removed her emerald feather mask that she realized she’d forgotten to acquire a new codeword to use in lieu of a proper invitation. Nor could she use Lord X as a reference, because she didn’t even know his name. Her cheeks flamed.

  She stuttered in embarrassment. “I’m afraid I haven’t a proper invitation, but I’m… friends with…”

  “Everyone, of course.” The doorkeeper’s smile was genuine as he motioned for her to retie her mask. “The duke has a permanent place for you on his list of regular attendees. You’re welcome here anytime.”

  Wonder filled her. A permanent place on the list of regulars! A grin curved her lips as she straightened her shoulders.

  For the first time, she felt like the night truly did belong to her.

  The doorkeeper swept open the door from the vestibule to the hall of merrymakers. “Lady X, my friends!”

  “Lady X!” the crowd shouted back in delight.

  Before she could take so much as a step, strong hands swung her into a familiar embrace.

  “I have been standing by this doorway since a quarter till
ten,” Lord X scolded in his warm, husky voice.

  She arched a brow. “The doors don’t even open until ten.”

  “I was first.” He stole a quick kiss before letting her out of his embrace.

  She missed his warmth immediately and looped her arm through his. “First? Just you alone in an empty ballroom?”

  “I would have arrived straight after breakfast, had Lambley not instructed his man not to let me in until a reasonable approximation of the proper hour.” Lord X’s tone was teasing, but his expression was hidden behind the inky feathers of his ebony mask.

  “Why so early?” she asked. “You had to know no one else would be here yet.”

  “I don’t care about anyone else. I care about you.” He leaned close. “I missed you terribly, no matter how hard I tried not to. It was horrid. Quite shameful of you to tie up a man’s heartstrings so callously.”

  Pleasure filled her rather than remorse. “I didn’t do it on purpose, you know.”

  “I do know. That’s why it worked. If you had meant to ensnare me, I would have slipped the noose. As it stands, I didn’t even notice the gradual loss of air until you had stolen the breath from my lungs completely.”

  “What a dreadful analogy,” she laughed as she playfully straightened his cravat. “I should hope our interactions are nothing like a trip to the gallows.”

  “Only in the sense that I’m falling,” he replied, his tone cryptic. “Where are we off to tonight? The promenade? The garden?”

  “Tonight, I wish to dance.” She wished to do everything she’d been too frightened to try before. She wanted to be free.

  He glanced upstairs. “To the roof?”

  She shook her head. Last time, she had barely been brave enough to dance in private. This time, she was bold enough to let the entire world see. She wasn’t a wallflower anymore, or any other limiting label.

  “Right here.” She was Lady X. And she wanted to dance.

  Perhaps she’d even steal a kiss in the middle of the ballroom.

  He led her into the chamber with the orchestra and onto the parquet floor. “May I have this waltz, Lady X?”

  “I’m yours for the rest of the night.” She smiled up at him. Hadn’t stopped smiling, in fact, since the moment the doorkeeper welcomed her to the masquerade. She was utterly, deliriously happy. Tonight was going to be perfect.

  Lord X lifted her right hand in his and curved his other arm about her waist as he expertly led her about the dance floor in time to the music.

  Her pulse raced with every dip and twirl as she swirled through the crowd of masked revelers in the safety and excitement of his arms.

  “You look ravishing tonight,” he murmured into her ear. “Every time I see you, you’re even more beautiful than the last, but in that emerald gown… Every woman here tonight wishes she were you, and every gentleman wishes he were me. I might be the most fortunate man alive.”

  Her cheeks heated behind her feather mask. Had anyone ever envied her before? Tonight, they should. She had Lord X and she had no intention of letting him go.

  “Thank you,” she said softly over the thumping of her heart.

  She felt beautiful tonight. The shimmering emerald silk of her dress, the sparkling teardrops of her earrings, the faux diamonds adorning the cat-eye cutouts of her scarlet-plumed mask. Even her satin slippers were new, cradling her feet in luxurious softness.

  In Lord X’s arms, she soared and dipped in tandem with the music of the orchestra, as if the flutes and violins played not for the masquerade but solely for the two of them.

  Though his expression was hidden behind the black feathers of his mask, the focus and intensity of Lord X’s gaze had never once wavered from Camellia. It was as if, as it was for her, everyone else had ceased to exist.

  The champagne-drunk merrymakers, the thousands of shimmering candles in the chandeliers overhead, the night itself was naught but a buoyant blur, serving only as an excuse to remain locked in each other’s arms.

  Not that any excuse was required. The opposite! She could not imagine willfully leaving his embrace. Every moment in his arms only made her long for another, and another. A waltz was merely a prelude to a kiss, each kiss merely a promise of something more.

  And, oh, did she want more. She yearned to feel the warmth of his hands not only on the curve of her spine but on all of her curves. Every inch of her trembled with wanting to feel his touch, his tongue, his kiss.

  When he pulled her close to brush his lips against the lobe of her ear, the base of her neck, ’twas all she could do not to melt into his arms and beg him to steal her away to a private nook. Somewhere their tantalizing kisses need not be teasing hints of forbidden pleasure but rather only the beginning of a passion too incendiary to deny.

  When at last the waltz ended, the orchestra set aside their instruments for a brief intermission. The other merrymakers deserted the now silent ballroom.

  Lord X stole a long slow kiss, then tucked her hand against his arm. “Shall we watch the stars from the roof? Escape to the garden to walk amongst the flowers? Or should we find our magic elsewhere?”

  “Elsewhere,” she said without hesitation. Before she could change her mind, she twined her arms about his neck and pressed her body to his with a kiss so passionate it threatened to consume her entire soul. For this one perfect night, she would be his. “Let’s make our own magic.”

  Chapter 19

  Camellia kept her arms wrapped tight about Lord X’s neck as he carried her into a darkened chamber. The embers of a faint fire cast a small section of the interior in a soft glow.

  He kicked the door shut behind them and laid her in the center of a large, soft bed before dashing back to the door to ensure the lock was engaged.

  The wide, arched bedchamber was bathed in too much shadow to discern anything but the smudge of orange within the fireplace. Even colors had disappeared, making her deep emerald gown almost as charcoal black as Lord X’s tailcoat and breeches.

  Voluptuous darkness bathed them in even richer anonymity than mere masks could provide, yet simultaneously grounded her more fully in the moment. Being unable to see only heightened her other senses. The luxurious softness of the bed, the heady sandalwood scent of his cologne, the firmness of his warm lips as they sought hers.

  She required no coaxing to respond in kind. Every part of her reached for him, drawing him closer with her arms, drinking him in with her mouth, with her every breath. She thrilled at the weight of his tall, lithe body pressed into hers atop the feather mattress.

  He was so solid, so warm, so big. Everything about him was larger than life. Harder, hotter, better than she had even dreamed. She never wanted the evening to end. He drew his kisses ever lower, from her mouth to the sensitive area just below the lobe of her ear, from the pulse point at the base of her neck to the curves of her breasts just above the scandalous dip of her bodice.

  Heart thumping, she arched into his touch, pressing her bare flesh toward the tantalizing heat of his mouth in sensual abandon. It was as if the past four weeks of soul-baring conversation and whirlwind romance had led them to this place, this moment. For this one perfect night, she would be his and he would be hers.

  She longed to sink her fingers into his hair, but did not want to risk dislodging his mask. Tonight was not about who they were to the world, but rather who they were to each other. They could no more stop this moment than they could stop the sun from rising.

  An incredible sense of happiness, of peace, of life finally being utterly and completely right flooded her with joy and confidence. This was who she was meant to be. Who she was meant to be with.

  Her eyelids fluttered in mindless pleasure as he closed his mouth over her breast and teased the straining nipple with his expert tongue. She wanted more. The thin silk of her gown was too great an impediment, the many layers of his tailcoat and waistcoat and undershirt unnecessary barriers between them.

  She tugged loose his cravat from his neck, fumbled at the buttons
hiding him from her touch. As if reading her thoughts, he lifted his mouth from her trembling body only long enough to shuck his tailcoat to the floor, his waistcoat, his billowing linen undershirt.

  His bare flesh was hot to the touch, thrilling and forbidden. She ran her hands over the hard planes of his stomach, the rippling muscle of his strong arms, his wide shoulders, his back. The encompassing darkness around them made her feel all the more present, his body and his kisses all the more real.

  She twisted in his embrace, exposing the silk-covered buttons along her spine.

  Rather than make quick work of the short row of buttons, he deliberately took his time, loosening each small button with aching tenderness. He pressed a reverent kiss to each new inch of flesh he uncovered, as if he was unwrapping the most precious package he’d ever been given.

  She shivered in pleasure at each touch. He did not make her feel merely desired, but beloved. As if he had been waiting for her his entire life.

  When at last the final button slipped free, her silk gown fluttered to her hips. Rather than immediately retake her reclining position against the pillows, she slid from the bed to kneel at Lord X’s feet. With him, she did not feel naked, but alive. She wanted him to feel the same.

  With the same care he had shown her emerald gown, she unlaced his boots and tugged them free. She set them aside, set her slippers aside, let her gown flutter to her feet.

  Only her shift remained, its ivory linen so thin it would be nearly transparent if it were visible in the darkness. Instead of using their eyes, they discovered each other’s bodies with their hands, explored with their mouths, tasted with their tongues.

  He lowered her shift over her shoulders and hips and laid her back against the soft pillows.

  Now she wore nothing but her feather mask and a pair of thigh-high silk stockings that somehow felt even more decadent against the heat of his flesh than bare skin would have done.

  Pulse racing, she reached up for the buttons at the fall of his breeches. Before her fingers could do more than graze the hard muscle of his abdomen, he knelt between her silk stockings and lowered his mouth to her core.