Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6): Box Set Collection

by Erica Ridley

  This was exactly the sort of talk her mother had all but tried to beat out of her in desperation. No one liked a female who thought herself clever. How was she ever going to attract a man?

  “Your impertinence is your second-best quality,” Max muttered as he accepted the journal and perused her handiwork.

  She raised her brows in interest. “What is my best quality?”

  He gestured without looking up from the charts she painstakingly created for him. “How your arse looks in trousers.”

  Bryony’s pulse leaped. He did find her attractive. Had carnal thoughts when he looked at her, just as she did when she thought of him. An excited shiver went up her spine.

  Perhaps he hadn’t stopped being angry with her. But nor had he ceased being aware of her in all the same ways she was constantly aware of him. He hadn’t forgotten that almost kiss either.

  And he liked how she looked in trousers. Her heart soared.

  He flipped back and forth between two of the pages. “These charts are almost identical.”

  Pulse still racing, she pulled her chair around to his side. “It surprised me as well. But when one plots the income the day before the Cloven Hoof closes for twenty-four hours, compared to Wednesdays when we reopen—”

  Heads nearly touching, they spent the next hour inspecting and arguing every and conclusion. It was heaven. Debating with Max over the applications of raw mathematics in the context of human behavior were the most thrilling conversations Bryony had ever had. She cherished these moments more than any other.

  There was no artifice between them. This was her. The things she thought. How she was. He pushed her, challenged her, but never tried to change her. He might never say so, but she suspected these had also become his favorite moments of the day.

  Night, rather.

  She pulled out her pocketwatch and made a face at the late hour. Time had run away with them again. She needed to hurry home.

  She glanced over at Max just in time to see disappointment flicker across his face. Just as quickly, he wiped all emotion away until he was once more a blank mass of arrogance.

  But she had seen behind the façade. He liked her arse. Perhaps he liked the rest of her, too.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked softly.

  He lifted one of his wide shoulders in a laconic shrug. “If you won’t be too busy waltzing with future suitors.”

  Her heart jumped. Was that what he imagined her doing whenever she was not in his sight? He was not far off the mark, but had no reason to be jealous. None of those gentlemen were half as magnetic as he.

  “I would rather be dancing with you,” she whispered. She didn’t mean to. The words just tumbled out.

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  His face shuttered immediately, and he pushed to his feet. “That is unfortunate. I will never be at any of those gatherings, nor do I wish to be. Enjoy your soirées. I have better things to do with my time.”

  She nodded dumbly, despite the stinging in her throat. Without a word, she allowed him to walk her from the office to the exit. Their night was over. Before she slipped off in search of a hack to take her home, she turned to face him one last time.

  As always, his dark eyes were unreadable.

  “I meant it. I would rather be right here with you.” She let her fingers brush against his a second too long before darting around the corner without giving him a chance to say he did not feel the same.

  Chapter 12

  Max burst out of his empty apartment.

  The best thing about Tuesday used to be the respite from the Cloven Hoof, from responsibilities, twenty-four hours without accounts to pay, or reports to write.

  But Max didn’t want a respite. Not from one person in particular. The one who vexed him and invigorated him and drove him mad with frustration, and longing, and impossibility.

  He missed her.

  No worse foolishness had ever occurred in a heart he had long kept guarded behind layers of steel and stone. He couldn’t have her. Shouldn’t want her. Would be rid of her in less than a month’s time. A fact he should be celebrating, not mourning.

  And yet here he was, dodging mud puddles on the uneven street outside his home, to pay an errand boy to deliver a message to the fashionable part of town.

  A missive containing only five words:

  * * *

  Basil,

  My house.

  Your devil

  * * *

  He gave the lad an extra shilling to ensure he would run off with haste before Max could change his mind.

  Normally, Max never changed his mind. That’s what planning was for.

  One considered the facts. Catalogued the details. Parsed the opportunities. Once one had determined the best strategy to take, one took it. That’s how he had run his entire life. The reason why he was successful.

  But proper planning did not explain standing in the rain to pay an errand boy to send a very foolish message.

  Irritated with himself, he turned around and strode back up the walk into his home.

  He had analyzed with care. The facts were obvious. No good could come of this. She knew it; he knew it. And yet her words haunted him.

  I would rather be with you.

  He was not ready to admit he wished the same thing. She had tricked him, and he had not yet forgiven her. Despite his anger and disappointment, he had no choice but to acknowledge how much he missed her. It had been twelve hours. Who missed someone after twelve hours? It was ridiculous. The superlative fancy of romantic poets, not practical men who knew better.

  And yet he paced from door to sitting room and back again. What if she didn’t come?

  What if she did?

  He glanced about his small abode. There was nothing to tidy. He had never liked leaving anything not as expected. His world was ordered. Everything in its place.

  Everything except a heart that seemed to be trying to beat its way out of his chest.

  His invitation was not for a romantic assignation, he reminded himself. He was not as stupid as that, and neither was she. This was a...

  Well, what was it, then?

  A business meeting, he decided. She had succeeded very prettily in taking advantage of him, and he would do the same to her. As simple as that.

  He would not touch her. That much he knew for sure. She was the daughter of a lord, destined for the sort of gentleman who possessed a handful of courtesy titles behind his name.

  But her clever mind worked in ways other brains could not. He would show her every number, every cipher, and every journal of accounts he possessed. She would have a plethora of ideas, and no shortage of saucy commentary.

  There. What could be safer? He would not ruin her future prospects by divesting her of her purity.

  If that was even something she thought about half as often as he did.

  “Business meeting,” he muttered beneath his breath, pleading his wayward thoughts to stay on track. “Numbers. Stick to the plan.”

  He stalked to his narrow looking-glass and glowered at his reflection.

  His sister was right. The Cloven Hoof was too full of darkness and shadow for one’s choice of fabric to matter. Inky black tailcoats and smoke-gray waistcoats were perfectly acceptable in such an environment.

  This was special.

  Bryony had already seen one of his new waistcoats the day he met her for ices. The blue one to evoke violent storms and the unpredictability of hidden currents beneath the surface of the ocean. That day, he’d felt strong. He knew what he wanted. Life was marching right to plan.

  He shrugged out of his tailcoat, shucked his familiar gray waistcoat, and reached for the green one at the rear of his armoire.

  Today he was no raging storm, but a dragon nesting in his cave. Waking from a long sleep. More than capable of breathing fire. An ugly beast with sharp claws and iridescent scales covering his exposed and vulnerable underbelly.

  He buttoned the waistcoat and faced the looking glass.

 
; There it was. His armor. His shield. A thin layer of expertly sewn silk disguising the vulnerable heart hiding beneath.

  It would not be enough, but it would have to do. This was all that he had.

  As he shrugged his tailcoat back over his shoulders, a tentative knock rapped at the door.

  He froze.

  She was here.

  Max was no longer certain he was ready.

  He crossed his rooms and yanked open the front door as if annoyed with her for heeding his invitation. Or annoyed with himself for having sent it.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” he growled.

  Her bashful smile gripped his heart. “Then you shouldn’t have invited me.”

  She hadn’t come as Basil, but as Bryony.

  Her spencer was a soft ivory the color of fresh cream. Her gown, a soft lavender. Some might think it reminiscent of a delicate, fragile flower, but Max knew better. This shade was no wilting lilac, but the sharp violet of the flavored ice they’d shared when he found out her true identity.

  Her bonnet was damp from the drizzle outside, and her lustrous brown hair fell straight and strong, undisturbed by the false pretenses of curling tongs.

  She had come as herself. Not a lad in trousers, nor as an aristocratic lady. She was here as Bryony. The woman who haunted his office, his dreams, and now his home.

  He pulled her inside and shut the door, but could not tear his gaze away.

  “I’ve never seen you more beautiful,” he said and hated himself for it.

  Already the platonic business meeting was off to a rocky start.

  “You’ve always been the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” she said shyly. “Your waistcoat is gorgeous. Such deep greens evoke a mystical forest. A magical wood where only the most fearless adventurers would dare to tread.”

  She was perfect. He was lost. The only exploring he wished to do was the taste of her moans while he—

  No. This wouldn’t do at all. He spun away from her and gestured at his abode, much of which was visible from the front door.

  “This is my home,” he announced. “Smaller than your dressing chamber, I’m sure.”

  “Mm.” Her eyes twinkled. “You’ll have to sneak in some time and see.”

  He clenched his jaw at the inadvertent reminder the only way he would ever be allowed into her private chamber was if he snuck in like a thief. “Sit.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t I get the tour?”

  “No tour.” The only room still hidden from view was his bedchamber, and he would not be leading her there. Having her in his sitting room was temptation enough.

  He led her to the two armchairs facing a small sofa.

  She did not take a seat. “Why did you invite me here?”

  A thousand possible answers he could never say aloud crossed Max’s mind. He settled on the reason that was supposed to be true. Maybe it even was.

  “You said we needed a neutral location to speak freely,” he reminded her. “There isn’t one. I don’t belong in your world, and you must come disguised to mine. Perhaps I do compromise. My home is my territory, but at least it is a place where we can both be ourselves.”

  To his horror, her eyes turned glassy and she blinked several times before responding.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I believe that is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  Damn it all.

  Max had believed himself the vulnerable dragon exposing his home and his heart to the invader, when in fact the mere act of lowering the drawbridge had shattered his opponent’s shields and laid her bare.

  He’d had it backwards. She was the dragon, and he the slayer. He had feared her power and forgotten her vulnerability.

  “I didn’t mean to be nice,” he said gruffly. “In part, I called you here to prove how different we are. To show you that my reality is this street, this neighborhood, these rooms. Now do you see? I have no palace, no white steed or pots of gold. All I have is my sister, a gambling den—”

  “—and me,” Bryony finished with a wobbly smile.

  “I don’t have you,” he said harshly. “You’ll be gone in a month, you said so yourself. You will be married to Lord Moneybreeches, living off in some—”

  “I’m right here.” She touched a fingertip to his chest. “Lord Moneybreeches doesn’t have me yet. I’m right here with you.”

  It still wasn’t close enough.

  He pulled her to him and crushed his mouth to hers.

  They couldn’t go on like this. There could be no promises between them. But she was right here in his home. In his life. In his arms.

  Nothing had ever felt sweeter.

  Her lips were as soft as he’d imagined. The tart tongue beneath a defense mechanism to keep out those who were not worthy. She opened herself to him.

  He flung her bonnet aside and released the pins from her hair. Her mane was long and lustrous, a river of shining softness. He was glad she had not curled it. He never wanted her to do anything that made her feel she wasn’t being true to herself.

  If she preferred top hats to bonnets, so be it.

  He didn’t care what she wore. He cared who she was. All he wanted was to keep kissing her. For the rest of the day, for the rest of the week, for the rest of the month.

  Who cared about calculating numbers and keeping journals? The only figures he cared about were the two of theirs pressed close together. The only plan worth following was the one that kept her mouth beneath his.

  That it couldn’t last was immaterial. Nothing lasted. He learned that long ago. More importantly he had also learned to take advantage of opportunities when they arose. Moments as delicious as these were fleeting, and meant to be cherished as long as possible.

  She was meant to be cherished. By someone other than him, he remembered belatedly.

  The bubble of forbidden joy popped.

  He would not be keeping her. The best he could hope was to give her a memory she would not soon forget.

  Chapter 13

  Bryony’s pulse raced in excitement and surrender. In just one kiss, Max’s “ice king” demeanor and melting kisses had ruined her for all other men.

  His body was hard, his muscles stiff, as if fighting an uncontrollable urge to plunder far more than her mouth. His lips were firm, possessive. Demanding, freely taking what the rest of him would not.

  He did not seek her submission, but her very soul. Coaxed her innermost desires to the surface with every brush of his lips, every stroke of his thumb against the side of her cheek. He treated her not as if she were an unwanted interloper, but as if she were a treasure more precious than silver. Softer than rose petals. More addictive than opium.

  Heaven knew she felt the same.

  Her heart pounded faster than ever. She’d been lost from the first, was losing further ground by the moment. She clutched him like a life raft rescuing her from a sea of doubt and denial. In his arms lay both safety and seduction.

  In the back of her mind, the whirlpool of reality threatened to pluck her out of his embrace and pull her down into the depths of despair where moments like these were forbidden and wrong.

  If she were honest, she had believed giving into her desires would prove their incompatibility. That he was not for her. That together they were nothing.

  Instead, everything about him was horribly, perfectly, right.

  She ran her hands over his chest and secretly thrilled that he permitted her to do so. As if his body was no longer his to defend, but hers to explore. To enjoy.

  His ardent kisses made it all but impossible to think. She did not mind. This was not a time for thinking.

  The palms of her hands told her the width of his shoulders, the coiled strength in his arms, the softness of his black hair where it curled over the edge of his starched cravat.

  He was like her, she realized. He had not cut his hair to a more fashionable length, nor had he shaved his jaw to appear more respectable. He was none of those things.

/>   He was wild and untamed and devastatingly handsome. The starch in his cravat was not for society, but for her.

  The pristine tailcoat, the polished boots, the iridescent waistcoat of jade and emerald, dreams and battles. He had chosen this outfit with the same care that she had chosen her own. Not to impress the world, but the one person who mattered within it.

  She gasped as his tongue licked into her mouth, tasting her, knowing her ever more intimately. When she did the same, he growled and pulled her even closer. Her bosom touched his chest. It felt overfull and delightfully sensitive.

  Being up on her toes to kiss him imbalanced her, giving her no choice but to lean fully into his embrace.

  Not that she’d ever had a choice. As soon as she’d received his note, she knew she would kiss him. If he hadn’t pulled her into his embrace, she would have had no choice but to do so herself.

  She couldn’t stand the separation any longer. Not just the wretched hours they spent away from one another, but any time so much as an arm’s width separated them.

  She wanted every moment of every day to be just like this. Bodies pressed too tightly together to tell where one ended and the other began. Lips melded, tongues clashing. His hands plunged in her hair and hers in his.

  This was living. This was life. All the rest was practice, an insipid copy of what they’d found here together.

  They were stronger as one. More complete. More combustible. Her entire body tingled as if any moment the heat they were generating might truly erupt into flames.

  She longed to rip off her spencer, her gown, her shift. It was too hot in here for clothing. How might his shoulders feel without this tailcoat? His chest, without the waistcoat? What if their bodies had nothing between them but air, and then not even that?

  With trembling fingers, she reached for his cravat. A small knot or two, a few pesky buttons, and she might learn more than she’d dreamed of Max and his kisses. The fire between them would—