A Rogue’s Pleasure (8 page)

“There, now you are perfect.” His dark eyes rested on her face. “And, I should add, very beautiful.”

Chelsea didn't know what to say. She'd aroused her fair share of male admiration, but she'd never felt beautiful before. Until now. The frank appreciation in Lord Montrose's bold gaze made her feel like a fairy princess.

And damnably self-conscious. She took refuge in humor. “Never say you dress hair as well? Perhaps you should consider becoming a lady's maid.”

He threw back his head and guffawed. “The prospect certainly presents some interesting possibilities, but I think for now I'll keep to table service. Which reminds me.” He picked up the wine bottle and refilled her glass.

Sipping the wine, she felt a languid contentment roll over her like the gentle lapping of the sea against the shoreline. Her problems would be waiting for her in the morning, as overwhelming as ever. But for one night—or the next hour, at least—where was the harm in pretending they were solved? Or in taking pleasure in the company of a handsome, attentive…rogue?

Reckless, she put down the piece of roll she was buttering and asked, “If not to seduce me, then why have you gone to all this trouble?”

If Lord Montrose was taken aback by her frankness, he gave no indication of it. “From my experience, the intimacy of sharing a meal is usually one of the better ways to go about getting to know a person.”

“Why would you care to know me?”
Especially when you're about to marry an exquisite, blonde enchantress, the very personification of everything I'm not.

He put down his goblet and stared at her. “Because you are an enigma, Lady Robin, and I've always found enigmas to be utterly fascinating. The very idea of a beautiful, intelligent young woman taking up a life of crime piques my curiosity.” His expression sobered. “I've been told that I'm a good listener. If you'd care to unburden yourself, I'd try to hear you out with an open mind. Perhaps I could even help?”

Her heart caught in her throat. The dangerous urge to accept his offer, to lean on his male strength, almost overwhelmed her.

Almost but not quite. For all his polished manners and handsome looks, Lord Montrose was a stranger. A stranger who just the night before had threatened to turn her over to the
authorities.

“My reasons are my own.” Seeking to steer the conversation into safer waters, she added, “At any rate, I believe it is you who are the true enigma, milord. You're not at all what I would expect of…”

“Of a spoiled, debauched aristocrat?”

She nearly choked on the bite of salmon she'd just taken. “I might have worded it somewhat more diplomatically but, yes, basically that was the idea.”

He chewed thoughtfully. “What about me surprises you?”

Regretting having gone down this path, she seized on the first innocuous thought that came to mind. “Your complexion for one thing. You're very sunburnt.”

His smile stiffened. Fine lines bracketed the corners of his mouth. She'd judged him to be around thirty, but he suddenly seemed much older.

“Baking in Wellington's Peninsular oven has a way of banishing the Englishman's lily white. And then again, I have always enjoyed outdoor pursuits. It was a great trial when my leg forced me to refrain.”

So that explained the limp. Wondering whether he might be making a bid for her sympathy, she asked lightly, “Were you wounded in the war or shot by a jealous husband?”

“The former.” His mouth softened into a smile. “I make it my policy never to seduce married women—” he winked, “—at least, not ones with jealous husbands.”

What an ass I am
. Flushing, she said, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made a joke of it. How long did you serve?”

“The better part of two years. I purchased my commission in July of '09, just after Wellington beat the Frogs to a pulp at Talavera. Like my friends, I hadn't a clue as to what war was really about, but saving Europe from Boney's Butchers seemed gloriously noble.” Tone shaded with bitterness, he added, “My luck held until Albuera.”

“You were at Albuera!”

He nodded. “I was a captain in the Fourth Division under Cole.”

Chelsea well remembered reading about the battle in the
Times
and the
St. James Chronicle,
beneath headlines that read Wellington's Costliest Victory and Peace with a Price. The grizzly accounts of the survivors and the long columns listing the dead and wounded had chilled her. When Robert had announced his intention to purchase a commission, it was the name of Albuera that Chelsea had invoked in a vain attempt to dissuade him.

“I read about it in the papers. It sounded…” She stopped, afraid any words she chose might trivialize what he'd endured.

Gaze focused somewhere over her shoulder, he said, “We lost almost six thousand men that day, some of them little more than boys.”

They ate in silence, but his pain was palpable. It rippled between them, setting off waves of tension.

“Forgive me,” she said at length, regretting her tactlessness. “I shouldn't have pried.”

His gaze met hers. “No need to apologize. I'm flattered to be the object of your interest.” He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “At the time, I assumed I would lose the leg, or at least the better part of it. The field surgeons were a harried lot. There was only one doctor to a battalion, and in the bigger battles there might be two hundred or even three hundred wounded, but that day the casualties were legion. The usual practice was to amputate rather than spend precious time digging out a bullet.”

A tableau of Lord Montrose, bloody and writhing on a makeshift gurney, flashed before Chelsea. She'd always had a soft heart when it came to a fellow creature in distress, but the raw fervor of the feelings welling inside her transcended compassion. Lord Montrose might be a virtual stranger but, dear Lord, she
ached
for him.

She reached out to touch him. “It must have been awful for you.”

He glanced at her hand, resting atop his. “I was one of the lucky ones. General Beresford sent his personal surgeon to attend me. As a result, I kept the leg.”

Self-conscious, she withdrew under the pretense of reaching for her wine. “Is there pain still?”

He lifted his glass and stared into its ruby depths. “Oh, I suspect that my knee will always tell me when it's about to rain, but otherwise I have no complaints.” Voice flat, he added, “Most of the lads who fought under me were not so fortunate.”

He drank deeply, and then set his glass aside. “Now tell me, what else about me do you find not quite up to snuff for a peer of the realm?” She was about to demur when he reminded her, “You did indicate that my complexion was one of others.”

She smiled, shaking her head in surrender. The man had a mind like a steel trap. Just when she'd lowered her guard, told herself he was no longer a threat, he'd ensnared her with her own words. She'd been a fool to forget that Lord Montrose was not the sort of man for whom she could afford to feel compassion—or anything else.

“Pray forgive me. I spoke rashly. I'm afraid I've not had much experience of society outside of Upper Uck…”

“Upper Uckfield,” he finished for her, smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary.

She inhaled sharply. Her heart dropped. “Y-you…”

“Yes, I know it. Lovely little parish in central Sussex. Not far from Heathfield Park, if I'm not mistaken.” Pouring more wine into her glass, he continued blithely, “Having a bit of trouble with the roads of late. Pity, really.”

What a dupe I am
. “You tricked me!”

He flashed her a beatific smile. “On the contrary, Lady Robin. You volunteered the information.” His grin widened. “I am, of course, honored to be the recipient of your confidences.”

Not trusting herself with a knife in her present mood, she speared a potato on the end of her fork and bit into it savagely.

“If 'tis any consolation, the information you divulged doesn't amount to much of a revelation. Upper Uckfield is, after all, the nearest hamlet to the road I was traveling when you intercepted my coach. That it is also your home is hardly surprising.”

Chelsea relaxed a fraction, although she inwardly cursed herself for her carelessness. The wine, not to mention the intoxication of flirting with a dashing viscount, had gone to her head. Out in the hallway, a clock struck one. It was time she left.

She set her utensils on the edge of her plate. “Supper was delicious. Thank you.” Even now, after she'd made a bloody fool of herself—and risked Robert's life—her heart felt leaden with regret.

He pushed his plate aside. “My cook makes a marvelous blanc mange. I hope you saved room?”

“I'm afraid not.” Laying her napkin aside, she pushed her chair away from the table. “I know it must seem churlish of me to leave in the middle of a meal, but I really must.”

Tossing aside his napkin, he shot to his feet. “Don't go.” His big hands cupped her shoulders, the heat from his palms searing. Her resolve, like her knees, buckled. “I don't want you to go.” He wrapped one sinewy arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “I can't let you go.”

Fear—not of him but of the tingling heat building inside her—kicked her heartbeat from a canter to a full gallop. “But I've kept my promise. I've returned the necklace. What more can you want of me?”

His brown eyes probed hers. “Don't you know, Robin?

“N-no.” The liquid warmth of his gaze made it hard to find her tongue.

He traced her bottom lip with his thumb. “I only want one thing, but I want it very badly.”

Her throat was as dry as sawdust, the space between her thighs treacherously moist. She ran her tongue over her parched lower lip. “W-what is that?”

“You.”

Anthony claimed Chelsea with a searing kiss. Her world stopped, spun, and then stopped again with each velvet sweep of his tongue. Time—seconds, minutes, hours—held no meaning. For Chelsea, reality became Anthony's hot mouth, his teasing tongue, and his nipping teeth. And his hands…

He broke away and cleared the table with the edge of his arm. Breathless, weak, bemused, she held on to the back of her chair and watched a fortune in china and crystal fly over the sides. A wineglass overturned, spreading scarlet across the white tablecloth. The next thing she knew, Anthony's hands were about her waist, lifting her.

He set her gently down on the table's edge. “I want you, Robin.” His rich mahogany gaze melded with hers. “And, unless I am woefully mistaken, you want me too. Am I wrong?”

Logic and desire warred inside Chelsea. Logic urged her to deny the fierce yearning, to leave while her trembling limbs were still capable of conveying her safely away. Desire reminded her that she had been waiting a lifetime for a man like this. What could be the harm in one more kiss?

Desire won. Closing her eyes, she coiled her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth against his. Wanting to drink in the essence of him, she parted her lips, her tongue seeking.

A low rumble—part groan, part chuckle—rose from Anthony's throat. “Ah, Robin, you are indeed an enigma.”

His deft fingers made short work of her cravat. Tossing aside the length of linen, he began to unbutton her shirt. Chelsea's eyes flew open. She had intended on yielding to his kisses, but the look in Anthony's eyes promised more.

Much more.

I must stop.

Dragging her mouth away, she flattened a palm against his chest and gave a weak push.

“Lord Montrose, I really don't think we should—”

“Don't think.” He lifted her hand from his chest and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Only feel.”

She started to answer, but his lips claimed hers, scrambling her few remaining wits. His tongue initiated a mating dance of advance and retreat that both tormented and tantalized…and left her swelling breasts screaming to be touched.

This has to end.

Against his lips, she pleaded, “Anthony…
please
.”

“That is exactly what I am trying to do, my sweet.”

Nibbling on her lower lip, he slid the shirt off her shoulders. A damp draft wafted through the open window over her burning skin.

“God, you are beyond beautiful.”

Chelsea followed his hungry gaze downward to her chemisette and blushed. She had outgrown the feminine article some time ago. The cream-colored silk stretched tautly across her bosom, concealing nothing.

He fitted his mouth over the point of one aching breast. Wetting the fabric to transparency, his tongue traced the outline of the dusky pink areola. Shiver after exquisite shiver rippled through her. She rocked back, clutching his shoulders, drawing him closer. As though reading her thoughts, he took the taut bud between his teeth and gently bit down. The warm,
tingling sensation was immediate. It shot to the secret place between her legs, triggering a strange throbbing. Wanting more, she threw back her head, arching herself against him. He complied, his tongue snaking salaciously over her other nipple, bathing it, too, in sweet heat.

“God, I can't remember ever wanting a woman as I want you.” His voice was a ragged whisper against her breast.

Caught in the maelstrom, Chelsea scarcely noticed when he gripped her knees, parted them, and stepped boldly between. The proof of his passion, hard and hot through his breeches, pressed against her inner thigh.

Anthony undid the buttons at her trouser front. The panel fell obligingly open, and a slow smile spread across his face.

“Definitely a true redhead.”

He slipped a hand inside, his thumb massaging the mound of springy, russet hair.

The tingling heat building between Chelsea's thighs was rapidly becoming a bonfire, the throbbing keeping pace with each frenzied palpitation of her heart. Dizzy, she tightened her hold on his shoulders and anchored her legs to his hips.

His hand wandered lower. Parting her inner lips, he slid one finger inside. Chelsea's breath ended in a gasp.

Now. I have to end this…now.

He must have sensed her retreat, for when he entered her again, his finger imitated the teasing of his kisses. Slow, undulating movements promised to reduce her to a puddle on the table, with no more will or substance than the spilled wine.

And suddenly she no longer cared.

Each deft stroke skittered a delicate shudder down her spine and stoked the fire in her belly. Her nails bit into his broad shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks on the damp linen. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a warning bell sounded, telling her that this act was only a prelude to a more intimate possession, but she was too far gone to heed it.

He withdrew. His finger spun sticky, spiderweb patterns on the inside of her thigh. “You want me as much as I want you. The honey on my fingers tells me so, but I want to hear you say it.”

Pride, like her shirt, lay crumpled about her. Even so, an obstinate voice urged her to deny his lordship this one satisfaction.

His demand was a husky whisper against her throat. “Say it.”

She was a novice in love play but she knew that, if she denied him this, he would stop and send her away. Exactly what she should want and yet…

He lifted his face to hers, his dark eyes daring her to dissemble. She no longer wanted to. No, what she wanted was to draw Anthony inside her and hold him there forever. She wanted to give herself to him, whatever the cost. She wanted…God, she wanted…
him
.

She reached for his wrist. Beyond shame, she pressed his palm against her open trousers. “Y-yes. I want you.”

His laugh was no less triumphant for its softness. “Then, milady, we are of a mind.”

He parted her once more, the whorls on his thumb grazing her sensitized flesh. She moaned and rolled her hips, seeking some deeper satisfaction. He sought out the small, hidden bud of desire and flicked over it once, twice…

The tight knot of tension building inside Chelsea uncoiled. She cried out. Wave after wave of molten pleasure crashed over her until she thought she would shatter into a million
pieces like the china scattered at their feet.

Finally the last tremor quivered through her, leaving euphoria in its wake. In the grip of a delicious languor, she dropped lead-weighted legs from Anthony's waist and sagged against him. She was beyond modesty or pretended indifference; there would be time aplenty for self-recrimination once her brain resumed functioning. For now, she was content to savor the moment. Eyes closed, she laid her cheek against the corded muscles of his neck, reveling in the sandpaper roughness of his budding beard and the wicked sensation of her breasts flattened against his hard chest.

Anthony was the first to break their embrace.

“I'll not last long this time 'round, my sweet, but I promise there'll be plenty more times ere morning.” His hand went to the front of his trousers.

Startled, Chelsea opened her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. Although life on a farm had given her a general idea of what happened between men and women, nothing had prepared her for the sight of Lord Montrose's swollen shaft surging out.

He took her hand and laid it intimately along the length of him. “Take me inside you, Lady Robin. I will be an inmate of Bedlam unless I can bury myself in your sweet heat.”

Chelsea's fingers curved gently around him. The taut flesh was silken smooth and resonant with warmth. Curious, she slid her hand up and down.

Anthony groaned and thrust against her hand. A small bead of moisture dampened her palm. Fearing he was bleeding, she slackened her hold. “Are you hurt?”

He gave her a weak smile. “No, but I am in the grip of a very sweet torment. At this rate, I definitely will not last much longer.”

Uncertain of his meaning, Chelsea wondered if he might be feeling as helpless as she had a moment ago. Experimentally, she flicked her thumb over the engorged tip.

Eyes rounded, Anthony reared back. “Oh, God,
Chelsea!
”

 

Anthony looked down in horror. Chelsea jerked her hand away as though she'd laid it atop a bed of hot coals. A good thing, really, for he'd almost spilled his seed. Even so…

This can't be happening. Not to me.

“Why you filthy, lying cur!” Bracing both palms on his chest, she pushed, this time with determination. “How long have you known?”

Senses reeling, Anthony backed away just in time to avoid the vicious upward jab of her knee.

She stared down at her chemisette, transparent where he'd suckled. “Oh, God!”

Her shirt dangled from her waist. She yanked it up, sprang off the table, and headed for a shadowed corner.

Thoughts racing, he demanded, “Known what?”

Watching her struggle to right her clothing, he willed his head to clear. He hadn't experienced such an overwhelming sense of disorientation since the age of eighteen when he'd smoked his first—and last—opium pipe at the urging of his school chums.

She gave him her back. “My name.” Fumbling with buttons, she glared at him over one shoulder. “Have you known all along?”

The fog lifted. “Damnation.”

He raked a hand through his hair, cursing himself for a blundering idiot.
What the devil's
come over me?
He tucked his throbbing member inside his trousers. Earlier he'd bared his soul to her and now…this. Even in the throes of passion, he always maintained mastery over his reason—and his
erection
. Until tonight.

“I found out only this afternoon,” he admitted. He'd intended on confronting her with his discovery eventually, but not yet. Not like this.

Shirt buttoned and eyes flashing, Chelsea faced him. “I suppose you set one of your servants to spy on me?”

Anthony shook his head, willing the desire to ebb from his still-hard body. “You are not the only one capable of stealth. A trip to Murdock's and a bit of research into the annals of Upper Uckfield revealed that there was indeed a One-Eyed Jack who worked the road to London…more than thirty years ago.”

Fear filled her eyes. The last time he'd looked into wide, frightened eyes, he'd…Perspiration broke out on his forehead.
Forget the war, Anthony
. He clawed his way back to the present. With patience and cunning, his plans for the evening might yet be salvaged.

“I venture to say that great hulking specimen accompanying you the day you waylaid my carriage was the original?” At her miserable nod, he continued, “The local gazette reported that One-Eyed Jack was apprehended but had the good fortune to escape hanging. Instead, he was released into the custody of the parish magistrate, a reform-minded squire named Bellamy. Your father, I collect?”

She inclined her head. “With a bit of patience and training, Jack made a truly splendid if somewhat unconventional butler.” Her gaze narrowed. “That still doesn't explain how you discovered me.”

He shrugged. “From there on, it was easy enough to put two and two together. I came upon your father's obituary. A certain ginger-haired daughter named Chelsea was mentioned as a survivor, along with a son, Robert. The brief description hardly did you justice.”

His gaze skimmed her. Even wearing men's clothes and brisling like an angry cat, she was exquisite. And vibrant. Just looking at her, he felt the cold place inside his chest begin to thaw.

“Flame-haired vixen suits you far better.”

A rosebud blush climbed her delicate cheekbones. “But I was dressed as a man. It could just as easily been my
b-brother
playing the part.”

A pained look crossed her face, and he wondered what, if anything, her stammer signified. Tomorrow morning, when she awoke in his bed, he would remember to ask her, but at present, there was a pressing matter to resolve.

His need still upon him, he replied, “You have the redhead's fair complexion, and the charming blushes that go with it.”

His eyes fell to her open trousers. Chelsea's cheeks flamed. She ducked her head and began struggling with the fastenings. The knowledge that she was just as shaken as he enabled him to regain a measure of mastery over his own roiling senses.

“Here, allow me.”

He crossed the room and stepped in front of her. Encouraged when she didn't shrink away, he went down on his good knee. He fastened the first trouser button, his knuckles deliberately brushing the damp curls.

His intimate touch mobilized her.

“How dare you!” Hands flying to his shoulders, she shoved him.
Hard
.

Desire weighing uncomfortably between his legs, he considered pretending to lose his balance and, falling backward, taking her down on top of him. Looking up into her ferocious face, he decided the ploy held too great a risk. In her present mood, she might very well kick him in the face. Or lower.

Gaining his feet, he asked, “As I have a vested interest in knowing, pray tell me, do you always attack your lovers after mating, like some sort of avenging black widow or praying mantis?”

She backed into the wall. “We were not…mating,” she sputtered. “Besides, if I'd really wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have missed when I kneed you.”

“I shall bear that in mind for the future.” He was so hot that he was sure the blood must be melting his veins.

“There shall be no future for us, Lord Montrose, so you needn't put yourself to the effort.” Hands trembling, she struggled to retie the crumpled ribbon dangling from the tip of one silken curl. “You are never to come near me again, do you understand?”

For the span of a heartbeat, anger surged through Anthony. Mastering it, he answered in a calm voice, “Perfectly, although I could point out that it is you who are in my home.”