Oscar couldn’t let that stand.
He stood up and followed Roddenbury, turning him back toward him and yanking him closer. Roddenbury jerked back, cocked his fist and punched Oscar straight in the face.
He reeled at the unexpected attack, at the pain that shot through his cheekbone and around the eye that would surely be blackened in moments. From the corner of that throbbing eye, he saw others coming toward them. He wasn’t a member of this club, but Roddenbury was. Given that fact and their disparate places in Society, he was surely about to be kicked out.
He jerked Roddenbury closer. “I know what you are, Roddenbury. I know what you do. You will be stopped.”
Roddenbury staggered back and held up a hand to stay the men who were coming to intervene. He stared at Oscar for a moment, his gaze moving up and down his frame. Then he shook his head. “You don’t appear to be a foolish man, this little interaction aside. And I certainly hope you haven’t done something you might regret, sir. Because if I find out you have interfered with me…if I find out you are working in league with anyone else to harm me or my business, I will destroy you. I will destroy everything you have, everything you are, I will destroy everything you love. And she…if there is a she…will still suffer. So that loss will be for nothing.”
Oscar’s stomach turned. Roddenbury was talking about Imogen. He guessed, though he might not be certain, about Oscar’s involvement. And so he had come here to feel this man out, to try to uncover if he could be stopped…and instead he had done nothing but bring him ever closer to Imogen.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Roddenbury,” he grunted. “I just meant you were a card cheat.”
“I hope that’s true,” Roddenbury said. “Take this riffraff away.”
Oscar felt the men grabbing for him and yanked from their grip, smoothing his jacket as he pivoted on his heel and strode from the club on his own volition. But as he threw himself on his horse and rode toward home, his stomach churned.
He’d always controlled his emotions for this very reason. And now because he couldn’t stop thinking of Imogen, of helping her and taking the fear from her eyes, he’d probably only made things worse. He might even lose her because of what he’d done.
The thought of which turned his stomach and drove him even harder to get to her.
Imogen was curled up on the settee in Oscar’s library with a book she had been trying to read for over an hour. Only she couldn’t concentrate. Every time she started to lose herself in the tale, she would think of Oscar. She would think of Aurora. She would think of that poor dead woman whose murder had changed her life forever. She’d been searching the papers for days, trying to find some indication her body had been found. Mourning her even if no one else did.
She threw the book aside and got to her feet just as the door to the library opened and Oscar stepped in. She took a step toward him, about to welcome him home with a kiss, when she noticed the circle of a bruise around his left eye.
She rushed forward. “Your face!”
He flinched and lifted a hand to it. “I knew it looked bad when Donovan’s eyes went that wide.”
“What happened?” she asked as she caught his hand and drew him to the settee. He allowed her to force him into a seated position and didn’t argue when she tilted his head to the side to see the injury better in the lamplight.
“I could tell you I walked into a post,” he suggested.
She scowled at him. “For weeks you grumble around here like an ogre guarding his bridge and now you have jokes?”
He pursed his lips. “I’m not an ogre and I don’t even own a bridge.”
She pulled away and shot him what she hoped was a withering look. “Oscar!”
He bent his head and the way his gaze moved away from hers made her stomach plummet.
“Oscar?” she repeated, this time on nothing more than a breath.
“I went to see the Earl of Roddenbury,” he said, and got to his feet to pace away.
Her mouth dropped open, and for a moment she was struck mute with shock. He didn’t fill the silence, and so the only sound was the crackling of the wood on the fire until she managed to find some words. Any words.
“Please tell me this is a nightmare,” she said as she got to her feet and followed him across the room. She caught his elbow and forced him to turn back toward her. “Please tell me what you just said to me is a lie or a bad joke.”
“It’s neither,” he said.
“Why would you do that?” she asked. “Especially after lecturing me about reaching out to Aurora! Why would you immediately leave our bed and march off to find a man who wants me dead?”
“Because I hoped to get some information out of him,” he growled, and yanked away from her. “I hoped that we might come to some kind of understanding that could help you.”
“But he punched you,” she said.
“He cheated at cards,” he explained, but there was something in his eyes that let her know it was more.
“Oscar,” she snapped.
He glared at her. “You can’t manage me, you know.”
“You need to be managed, apparently.” She shook her head. “Why did he punch you?”
“Good Lord, you are unstoppable.” He shook his head, but he didn’t sound angry at that fact. “In my attempt to wheedle the truth out of him, I have…likely only raised his suspicions about me. I let emotion take over and I revealed too much of my hand, my strategy. I…lost control.”
She wrinkled her brow at that idea. This man didn’t lose control. He didn’t get swept away by emotion. He was careful not to do either of those things.
“What do you think he’ll do?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he’ll decide to do more than punch me in the face. Either way we’ll have to make some contingency plans. He might start watching me after today, which means I’ll make arrangements for you to be moved somewhere safer. Perhaps out to the country, after we see your friend in a few days. I’ll have Will take over the club until this dies down.”
“I suppose I understand that,” she whispered.
He nodded. “We’ll do what must be done.”
“What I don’t understand is why would you risk yourself in this way? Why would you run after a man we already know is violent and vile? One who could ruin you or worse?”
His eyes lit and he caught her elbow, hauling her a little closer, molding her against his chest as he towered over her in a way that should have been intimidating. But it wasn’t. Because this was Oscar, and she knew who he was. What he was. She knew his edges, as well as his curves and she knew she never had to fear him.
“Why do you think I did it, Imogen?”
She gasped at the implication. The tension that had been hanging between them, forever unnamed but for desire, seemed to increase even more. There was hardly space to keep them apart. His lips so close she could feel the heat of them linger on her own.
“Oscar,” she whispered, and felt him tense as his arms came around her.
“No,” he murmured back, and then his mouth found hers.
Oscar wasn’t proud of the tactic he had employed against Imogen, but what choice did he have? His overly emotional response had caused trouble not just with Roddenbury, but now he’d been on the verge of the kind of confession to Imogen that would be incredibly dangerous. If they brought their hearts into this matter, there would be no end to the damage.
So he kissed her. But when her arms wound around his neck and she gasped out a moan against his lips, strategy was forgotten. Everything was forgotten but her, just as it always was. The woman could do that, more than any other before her. She could tie him up in knots with her smile or laughter, or just by looking at him from across the room. And yes, that had everything to do with how much he wanted her. And it had everything to do with so much more than desire.
But he pushed that away. He had to push it far away. Concentrate on the elemen
t he could control. The element he could accept and separate as something different. Something less dangerous.
Even though it was just as potent. When Imogen’s fingers bunched against his back, when she lifted toward him with a mewl that vibrated on his lips, his body’s response was more than potent. What he felt was powerful, changing. A need unlike any other because in the past need had been about pleasure. This need was specific to this woman in this moment, and nothing else in the world mattered.
So he backed her across the room, toward the settee they had abandoned a few moments before. He tangled his fingers into her hair, holding her steady as he lowered her onto the cushions. When his weight covered her and she lifted against him, he nearly came unmanned right then and there.
But this was about regaining control, not surrendering it further, so he resisted the urge to just take, and instead continued kissing her as he hitched her skirts up. When his fingers brushed the fabric of her stockings, his nails lightly abrading her skin through the silk, she jolted beneath him and let out a gasping cry that hit him directly in the cock.
God, how he wanted her. In his blood, in his skin, in his mind and every inch of his body. Only having her would stave off the need, and only for a short while. That desire would return, as hard and as heavy as the first time, within hours, sometimes minutes.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her throat, and then he began to kiss lower. He let his mouth glide over her breasts, still hidden beneath her pretty gown. Over her stomach as he slid to his knees on the settee before her. Down to her thighs as he dragged her to the edge of the couch and pushed her dress up onto her stomach.
Her tugged the slit on her drawers wide and sucked in a whiff of her sex. Clean and sweet, musky with her need. He wanted to taste that flavor on his tongue. He wanted to feel her ripple with release as he ate her.
She stared down at him from her perch on the settee. Their eyes met, and he saw the wicked spark in her eyes. She pushed her legs open wider and reached down to spread herself for him.
He was fully clothed and had hardly touched her, but he could have spent in that moment. Instead he leaned in and pressed his fingers against hers, forcing her even wider before he leaned in and licked her.
She jolted against him with a gasp, and he doubled the pressure of his tongue as he repeated the action. How fast could he make her come? That was the question. He counted the seconds in his mind as he sucked her clitoris, swirling his tongue around the nub just the way he knew she liked it. Her breath shortened and she began lifting into his mouth, seeking what he offered, grinding to garner more pleasure.
She jerked against him at last, the waves of her release rippling on his tongue as he continued to stimulate her and force her to cling to the edge of the settee. At last she fell back, panting with relief. Only then did he unfasten the placard on his trousers, freeing himself.
She looked down, licking her lips as he stroked himself once, twice. She opened wider, a wicked groan exiting her mouth as he aligned his hard body to her slick one. He entered her in a long thrust. She was tight around him, perfect and heated and made for him.
He braced himself against the settee cushions, lowering his face close to hers but not kissing her, even when she lifted toward him. He expected her to whimper or demand, but instead she chuckled. A low, rough sound that made him grind his hips in a circle against her.
“Hard,” she demanded, meeting his gaze. Her voice was softer now, more tender despite the question. “Hard, please.”
He lost all sense at that demand, said so sweetly. He lost control for the third time that day. But this kind of surrender was perfect. He tangled his fingers into her hair, tilting her head back so she’d watch him the entire time he took her. He placed his opposite hand against her throat, squeezing ever so slightly and loving how her body tightened around him as she moaned.
And then he did as she asked. He fucked her hard, losing himself in the never-ending edge toward release, losing himself in how her eyes glazed over and her cries echoed in the library. He lost himself in the grip of her pussy and the slickness as she came a second time, clawing at him and screaming his name.
His own pleasure arced, like lightning in his veins, and he only barely withdrew from her and came against his hand, making a keening cry that joined with hers before he collapsed against her and kissed her once more.
If he expected her to perhaps broach the topic of Roddenbury or the future or his emotional reasons for seeking out danger, she didn’t. She just wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. As if she knew as well as he did that nothing good could come from exploring a future that couldn’t be. A surrender that couldn’t be.
A love that couldn’t be.
And even though he should have been pleased by that silent capitulation, even though it should have made him feel better that she wouldn’t find a way to break both their hearts, there was something hollow about the victory. Somehow he’d lost, even if he’d won.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was plan for the meeting with her friend in a few days, and how and where he would put Imogen next in the hopes of saving her life.
Chapter 19
The three days until her meeting with Aurora both flew and dragged. Dragged because her lockdown in Oscar’s home had become far more desperate. Even the gardens had become off-limits, and she could see he got nervous when she even put a toe on the terrace. Flew because she felt her time with Oscar swirling away like sands through an hourglass.
He kept talking about sending her away from London after she met with Aurora. He said it was temporary, but they both knew better. She’d already begun to come to terms with the fact that her life as she knew it was very much over. Whatever happened next, it would be a different chapter. Perhaps it would come with a new name and ultimately a new home. A new life. As what, she couldn’t imagine. She’d be useless as a servant thanks to her privileged upbringing. She had no idea how she would ever land a position as a lady’s maid without references or a history.
Perhaps if she went to the continent, she could continue with her original plans to become a courtesan. Only when she thought of another man touching her ever again…not Oscar, who knew her body like it was an instrument and he a virtuoso…
Well, she wasn’t thrilled by the idea. How could she pretend when all she’d do for the rest of her life was compare every man with the one who made it clear he didn’t want her, at least not forever.
But now here they were in his carriage, on the way to his club, where he’d agreed to let her meet with Aurora. Imogen sighed and hoped she was keeping her maudlin thoughts from her face. Oscar was staring out the window, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t entirely aware of her. He always seemed to be.
“We’re here,” he said, his voice rough.
He leaned away from the window, and that gave her a place to look. She leaned in as the carriage pulled up to a beautiful building with intricately carved pillars and a sweeping marble staircase that led to a red door. She looked across at Oscar.
“It’s wonderful,” she said. “You must be so proud of it.”
He blinked as if he were confused by that statement for a moment. “I didn’t build it. I just bought it. With my father’s payoff.”
She shook her head at the bitterness that laced his tone. “You made it a success without any help from him,” she insisted. “Even I’d heard of your club before I met you and not just because Huxley was a member. It’s the place to be, even more than White’s. Your salons are more whispered about, your intellectuals more…”
“Intellectual?” he filled in with that flutter of a smile that made her heart leap and long for the very rare full expression.
“You have the most intellectual of them all, I’ve been assured,” she teased. Then her own smile fell. “Truly, Oscar. You should be proud of what you’ve built for yourself.”
He shifted as if her praise made him a little uncomfortable. The door to the carriag
e opened, and he motioned for her to exit first. “Wait until you see the inside of the place before you judge. Perhaps it’s shabby.”
She took the help down from the footman as she laughed. He followed and they walked up the stairs together. A butler was waiting at the door. He was stuffier than Oscar’s private butler, Donovan, who was everything proper but still friendly and capable of a smile from time to time. This man had no hair out of place and his tone was filled with gravitas as he intoned, “Mr. Fitzhugh, welcome back, sir. And welcome, madam.”
Oscar inclined his head. “Goodworth. Have all the arrangements been made?”
“Yes, the club was closed an hour ago and the last of the patrons left a quarter hour ago. There was much complaining, but your decree that we would provide a free entertainment next week was met with great enthusiasm.”
“Excellent. Mrs. Huxley’s guest should be here shortly. Please send her to us in the great parlor. We’ll await them there.”
“Very good. There is tea already there for you.”
The butler gave a smart bow as Oscar took Imogen’s arm and guided her down a long hall past multiple meeting rooms and parlors and into a large chamber with giant windows that overlooked the street below.
She gasped as she looked around her. She had never been in a men’s club. It was forbidden. But she had always pictured them as stuffy places, thick with smoke and wrinkled newspapers and monotonous voices droning on about politics and the prices of barley.
But this hall was light and airy, tables spread through it and comfortable leather chairs and a settee by the fire and more chairs overlooking the windows. A sideboard was set against the wall opposite those same windows, with a wide selection of bottles lined up in perfect order.
“Oh, Oscar,” she breathed. “It’s wonderful.”
She pivoted to face him, hands clasped together, and found his cheeks were actually bright with color. He was blushing, and she found it almost as charming as those rare hints of a smile he sometimes allowed.
The Redemption of a Rogue Page 17
