Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  He turned his cards face up.

  All of the girls immediately did the same.

  He fanned them in one hand to hide their face value from his dozens of nosy onlookers.

  All of the girls did the same.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  The six-year-old closest to him narrowed hers right back.

  Max grinned. Someone’s rule must have been, copy whoever’s turn it is. This could be fun after all. He closed the fan of cards in one sharp movement, creating a crisp rectangular stack, and then placed the entirety atop his head in perfect balance.

  With shrieks of merriment, the girls attempted to do the same.

  In seconds, the varyingly-sized piles of cards had slid down necks, over ears, into laps, and onto the carpet.

  Max was the only one whose pile was still on his head.

  “Mr. Gideon wins the round!” shrieked an eight- or nine-year-old toward the back.

  “Excellent work, Mr. Gideon,” Bryony said with a twinkle in her eyes. “Announce your new rule, and toss your cards at the opponent of your choice.”

  He retrieved his stack of cards from atop his head and considered his options.

  A rule that the winner got to kiss Bryony would backfire very quickly. He would have to save that one for later.

  He arched his arm behind his head, clearly prepared to launch his stack of playing-cards into the crowd. “From now on, whoever is the first to be doused in playing cards, must immediately squawk like a chicken.”

  The girls erupted into peals of laughter.

  “Choose me!” shouted one.

  “No, me!” screamed another.

  With a sudden movement, Max tossed his cards a few inches to his side so that they showered down over Bryony.

  “Bok-bok-bok,” she crowed, to the girls’ delight.

  Max found himself laughing as hard as the other students.

  In no time at all, he could scarcely believe when the clock turned three and playtime was over.

  As the students picked up hundreds of scattered cards and put the room to rights, he realized he could not recall the last time he had laughed so hard or for so long. He very much regretted only arriving in time for the second half of the game.

  “Remind me to add this one to the Cloven Hoof,” he murmured to Heath deadpan.

  “Only if we are there to play, too,” his opera singer sister said quickly. “Our brother may have started the game, but the three of us refined it into perfection.”

  “I’m not sure the Cloven Hoof could handle four Grenvilles at once,” Max admitted.

  Though he rather wished he could make it happen. Their enthusiasm and good humor were infectious.

  “If you’re not tired of us yet,” Heath said with a smile. “My wife and I are having a dinner party in a week’s time, and you are more than welcome to join us.”

  All of Max’s relaxed happiness vanished at the thought. “No.”

  “Not a ton party,” Bryony said quickly.

  “Small,” Heath insisted, his expression sincere. “Friends and family. Which means you qualify.”

  “If it makes a difference,” added the headmistress sister, “our parents cannot make it, so you’re spared that gauntlet as well.”

  Max cleared his throat self-consciously and amended his brusque response. “No, thank you.”

  He could not. A half hour visit to a rookery was one thing. Descending upon well-heeled ladies and gentlemen bussing cheeks in a Mayfair townhome was quite another. Having Max amongst them would embarrass everyone present.

  “Think about it,” Bryony murmured, briefly brushing the back of her fingers against his. “Give me your answer tomorrow night, at the masquerade.”

  He made no promises, for what could he say? He was not the dinner party sort.

  Bryony needed a gentleman who deserved her. Not some underworld heathen who would ruin her social status in a heartbeat if an association with him were to be made public.

  A stolen evening with her behind the safety of masks would have to be good enough for them both.

  Chapter 17

  The following night, as Max’s hackney inched forward among the impressive queue leading to the Duke of Lambley’s sprawling estate, he had plenty of time to second-guess the cursed arrogance that had brought him here tonight.

  Given that even his afternoon visit to a rookery wasn’t as free from awkward failures in politesse as one might assume, presenting himself at the doorstep of a duke seemed significantly greater hubris.

  Despite the elegant black velvet mask his sister had fashioned for him, he felt like a fraud. As if at any moment someone would catch him out and turn him away.

  Perhaps the doorman wouldn’t believe someone like Max belonged anywhere near the residence of the duke. Perhaps the duke himself had issued his invitation in jest, never expecting Max to take him up on the offer.

  He did not think these things were true, but they had happened to him before. Countless times, in countless ways.

  As a small child he had slowly learned to become suspicious of kind gestures. Every outstretched hand could easily turn into a slap of the face.

  But Bryony was inside. Or would be shortly.

  He would not disappoint her.

  Or at least, he would try not to.

  When it was his turn to present himself in the receiving chamber to be inspected by the doorman, Max assumed his customary cloak of hauteur. It was his armor, impenetrable to cruelty and pitying glances. A well-worn shield.

  “Gideon!” the doorman exclaimed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I thought Lambley kept your name on the list to tease me. I put five quid on your never leaving the Cloven Hoof.”

  Relief coursed through Max to recognize the friendly visage of Anthony Fairfax, a one-time regular at his club. He hadn’t anticipated any friendly faces but Bryony’s.

  “Is my name on the list of yeas or the list of nays?” Max joked.

  Er, mostly joked.

  The doorman chuckled. “The white list, of course. Lambley runs his parties like you do your gaming hell. His vote is the only one that matters, and you are one of his favorites. He’ll be in and out of the cardroom if you’d like to catch him.”

  “Of course,” Max said, as if he had any idea where the cardroom would be in relation to any other. He placed his mask over his face and tied the ribbon tight.

  Fairfax moved toward the door. “Ready? I’ll announce you.”

  Max frowned. Announce him? Wasn’t the point of a masquerade to be anonym—

  Fairfax flung open the door and pushed Max into a glittering world of crystal and chaos, bright colors and swirling costumed bodies.

  “Lord X!” Fairfax shouted and closed the door tightly behind Max.

  “Lord X!” screamed the crowd, lifting flutes of champagne in cheer.

  Max blinked in wonder.

  He had not only gained entrance to a duke’s residence, passed muster at the gate thanks to a whitelist, but in his first moments inside had already been toasted by two or three hundred of the duke’s closest friends. A crowd who hadn’t the least idea who Max was. Nor did they seem to care. Tonight, he was apparently known as Lord X. No other information mattered.

  A strange sensation tickled down his neck. He wasn’t certain how he felt about being accepted only because he was masked. Part of him wanted to turn around and leave all the hypocrites behind. Another part of him wanted to stay and take every advantage he could.

  Particularly if it meant more time with Bryony.

  A passing footman expertly placed a glass of champagne in Max’s empty hand like a magic fairy distributing candies to children.

  That was what this felt like, Max realized. A candy land, a fairy world. Everything was too fast and too bright and too colorful. Nothing was real. No one wished it to be. They were sharing a temporary fantasy from midnight to dawn.

  And there was only one woman Max fantasized about.

  He stepped away from the door and into th
e maelstrom of gaudy masks and whirling dancers. He did his best to peer at each one in search of Bryony. What if they’d made it this far, only for him not to recognize her amongst the crowd, or vice versa?

  “Lady X!” came the doorman’s shout from somewhere behind.

  Max whirled around just as the crowd cheered and raised the champagne in toast.

  This Lady X could hold no candle to Bryony. The perfect blonde ringlets bouncing behind her extravagant mask were a disappointment.

  Once more, he turned his back to the door and made his way through the throng. If she was in here, he would find her. He would sense her presence the way flowers sought the sun.

  The door swung back open. “Lady X!”

  The crowd’s drunken cheer was deafening.

  From his position across the room, Max climbed the first step of a spiral staircase for a better view of the latest newcomer.

  Her dress was more than equal to any of the fine ladies present. Translucent gauze over expensive French satin. Puffed sleeves and elbow-length silk gloves. A demi-train with pearl-embroidered lace trim.

  None of that interested him.

  His heart doubled its beat because it was her.

  Behind a flamboyant mass of shimmering peacock feathers, her dark brown hair hung down in a curtain, rather than pinned up in carefully curled loops. It was stick-straight and windblown, and the most erotic thing he had seen in his life.

  This was his Bryony. He would have recognized her anywhere.

  He stepped off the spiral stair and made his way toward her, carving his way through an ocean of dancers as he strode toward his Lady X.

  When he reached her, she parted her lips as though about to speak his name.

  He greeted her with his mouth instead, telling her with his kiss and his tongue everything he could not say in words.

  When at last he pulled away, she twined her arms about his neck. As if her strength came from his. As if they were one.

  He would never let her go.

  “You came,” she whispered, slight hesitation in her voice.

  His heart twisted. “Did you doubt me?”

  “I was afraid to hope,” she admitted. “Shall we dance?”

  He placed his untouched glass of champagne on the empty tray of a passing footman and led her onto the dance floor.

  Max might not have presented himself before a king or attended any royal balls, but dancing was not reserved for the rich alone. It was something one felt in one’s soul.

  With Bryony in his arms, it wasn’t that the melody didn’t matter, but that the music had become part of them. A current, sweeping an endless sea of embracing couples in a seductive rhythm of ebbs and tides.

  He held her closer than would otherwise be allowed. What else was the point of a masquerade?

  From the stairs, he had already seen couples locked in passionate embraces, as well as the private rooms where one could indulge in more intimate pleasures.

  That was not why he was here. He had no wish to be a despoiler. Bryony was perfect just as she was, and having her in his arms was pleasure enough. Or at least, it would have to be.

  His heart thumped. They were in a ballroom filled to capacity and yet privacy was theirs. He could kiss her anytime he wished, and did so again and again in delight. He would never tire of her lips, the sweetness of her taste, her spice.

  Being with her was like falling from heaven. Floating through clouds. Lucifer, driven to darkness but tempted by light.

  She was his salvation.

  Chapter 18

  A thrill tingled through Bryony’s body at the exhilarating sensation of being in Max’s arms.

  Somehow, she had recognized him from across the room. Not just because he had come charging toward her with the confidence and arrogance of a king. She’d recognized the curl of his hair, the cut of his jaw, the scent of his skin.

  The taste of his kiss.

  Being swept into his arms without so much as a how-do-you-do had crowned a fantasy she hadn’t realized she’d been keeping. It was as if she had been waiting for that moment her whole life. To be desired so completely that not even a moment could be wasted on words.

  Hot, shattering kisses were the only conversation they required. Raw, desperate, honest. A claiming and a submission melded into one.

  And now, the night had been set to music.

  The effect was magical. Waltzing with Max in this ballroom made her feel as though they had been transported to another world. It was unlike any other dance she’d ever performed.

  Perhaps because with him, she wasn’t performing. She wanted to be here. Wanted to be with him. It felt like all the other dances she’d ever suffered through had been practice for this moment.

  She had no need to count the beats in order to match her feet with his. They were of one rhythm. Their bodies cleaved together into a single form as though they shared a single heartbeat. She could not hide her quickness of breath at sharing this masquerade with him.

  Her pulse had been skittering with excitement and trepidation since she’d woken up that morning. Consumed with fear that he would not show. Or certainty that he would.

  That his first act had been to kiss her in greeting should not have come as a surprise. He was a grantor of wishes. No greater desire filled her heart than for her lips to be tasting his.

  For now, she would settle for dancing.

  Max’s strong arms swirled her through the crowd. “How long has Lambley been doing this?”

  “Forever, I think.” She let the sound of the orchestra fill her heart. “The masquerades were already an open secret before my come-out.”

  He stroked her hand with his thumb. “Is it what you expected?”

  “More,” she answered honestly.

  The duke’s residence was as enormous as rumored, and filled to capacity. Thrice as many elegant lords and ladies swirled beneath the crystal chandeliers than would fit in Almack’s assembly rooms.

  Lambley, of course, was instantly identifiable. He never wore a mask. Bryony could not help but wonder if he saw through her peacock feathers to the breathless, giddy woman beneath.

  Other guests she recognized because their masks were token at best, or their voice and manner gave them away. A constant hum of chatter buzzed amongst the crowd. Even though neither she nor Max appeared to have any inclination to waste this moment with conversation, a never-ending stream of friendly faces wished them well or raised their glasses in their direction.

  At first, she was charmed. The deafening cheer when she’d entered the room had been marvelous. No one knew who she was, yet all were delighted to see her. It seemed fitting that the mood in the ballroom should be festive and celebratory. Heaven knew she herself felt like cheering any time Max pulled her into his arms or lowered his lips to hers.

  It took a moment to realize that the random toasts from the crowd did not elicit the same response in Max.

  Because she knew him with and without his mask, she sifted through the observable facts to determine why.

  In this setting, poets, rakes, and earls treated Max like one of their own. Doe-eyed countesses and expensive demimondaines alike cast flirtatious glances at him from behind their masks. He was not an outcast, but someone to be welcomed with open arms.

  And it infuriated him.

  Here amidst the gilt and splendor of a ducal estate, he was finally as good as any other… but only because he had hidden his true self.

  The masks no longer seemed so charming.

  Bryony’s heart twisted for the proud, stoic man who continued to lead her about the dance floor. Threading their way through an entire ballroom full of people who would not acknowledge him if they had met anywhere else.

  She squeezed his hand in hers as they swirled amongst them.

  Snobs and dandies were the ones who should attempt to live up to Max’s level, not the other way around.

  She tried to imagine what it would be like to waltz with him without masks in a salon as crowded as th
is.

  In what world would it be possible? Would part of him have to crumble inside in order to even try?

  Her stomach twisted. He was not the one who ought to change.

  Nothing he could do would make him into an idle lordling, and there was no reason to pretend.

  If she wished to imagine a life with him, public and unmasked, she would be the one who needed to change. To keep him, she would have to stop trying to drag him into her world and start thinking of a way to better fit into his.

  But what did he want? What if the answer wasn’t her? She knew her faults and her weaknesses. Knew they vastly outnumbered her charms.

  “Are you enjoying the dance?” he asked gruffly.

  “I hope it doesn’t end.” She peered up at him. “Unless you’re tiring of it?”

  He pulled her closer. “A man never tires of holding a beautiful woman in his arms.”

  A delicious frisson tickled her skin at his words. She wished she could spend every night dancing in his arms. Not as a beautiful woman, but as his.

  Although she had no illusions any man considered her the ideal woman, she hoped she was at least a contender for a small place in his heart.

  That was why he was here, was it not? Quickly, her mind raced through all the possible options.

  Perhaps he had put on a mask and entered a duke’s domain in order for them to share the joy of music together. To dance, heart to heart.

  Or perhaps her ruthless, calculating king of the Cloven Hoof was exploiting an obvious weakness in his enemy in order to ensure the odds of receiving the deed to his property tilted in his favor.

  If that were true… it would destroy her.

  Blast it all. She gazed up at him in irritation and wonder. She was in love.

  And she desperately wanted him to feel the same.

  She held on tight as he spun her through the crowd.

  Bryony had funneled every spare penny into commissioning the most extravagant evening gown of her life. Tonight of all nights, she didn’t just want to be feminine and attractive. She wanted to attract Max. To bewitch him as he had bewitched her.