I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs) (16 page)

“It isn’t Beezle,” he said. “He wouldn’t come with a cart.”

“Then who is it?”

“Let’s find out.” He stood, wobbled, gained his footing.

“Brook! You can’t open the door without clothing.”

He looked down. He still wore his ruined breeches, but he was bare chested. He grabbed a thin blanket, wrapped it around his shoulders, then went to his valise and reached for his pistol. He took a moment to prime it, add powder and ball, then tucked it under the blanket so it would not be visible.

And then he opened the door.

An older woman sat with the horse’s reins in her lap. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, wrapped only in a blanket. Her gaze drifted over what could be seen of his bare shoulders and the top of his chest, then down to his bare calves and feet. He felt Lila’s warmth behind him and could imagine how that must look.

He could use appearances to his advantage.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Lord Dane.”

Brook shook his head. “I’m not Dane. I’m his brother.”

“Sir Brook.” The woman nodded her head, dipping her dun-colored bonnet. The rain had ceased, but there was still a chill in the air, and she’d wrapped a tattered shawl about her shoulders. “I’m certain you don’t remember me. I’m Mrs. Spencer. Mr. Spencer”—she glanced heavenward—“God rest his soul, and I live just down the road.”

The Longmires were the closest farm to the cottage, which meant
just down the road
measured at least two or three miles.

“You must forgive me for not inviting you inside, Mrs. Spencer. We just arrived, and I’m afraid we are still settling in.”

“Did you come to hunt?” Her gaze flicked to Lila, still standing behind him. She didn’t believe for a moment he came to hunt. No one had hunted here since his late father, and that had been many, many years ago. The hunting lodge had been demolished and this gamekeeper’s cottage all that remained from that time.

“No. Lady Derring and I are here on our honeymoon.”

Mrs. Spencer’s eyes widened. “Oh, how wonderful!”

Her explanation drowned out Lila’s protest. “I am Lady Lillian-Anne.”

Brook grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her beside him. “Not a word,” he muttered.

She elbowed him in the side—his injured side—which hurt like the devil, but he managed to keep his smile in place.

“Let me be the first from the town to wish you happy. In fact”—she lifted a basket that had been sitting at her feet—“I brought you some of my famous sponge cake as well as bread and soup.”

“Thank you. This is quite unexpected.”

“Mr. Spencer—God rest his soul—and I were, er,
are
fond of the Derring family. The best landlords, that’s what Mr. Spencer—God rest his soul—always said.”

“And how long has Mr. Spencer been gone?” Brook asked.

“Oh, about ten years now. We were lucky to have three strong sons who farm the land for us. Your mother, the countess, sent a lovely note of condolence. Would you like to read it?” She reached for her reticule. Obviously, she carried the note with her at all times.

“Perhaps later. Lady Derring and I should dress. If you will give me a moment to pull on my boots, I’ll fetch the basket.” Brook hastened Lila inside and closed the door slightly. He could see Mrs. Spencer peering inside from her perch on the cart’s box.

He spotted his boots and crossed to them. “Stay inside,” he ordered Lila.

“I’m happy to, but I am not Lady Derring.”

He swung around. “The hell you’re not.”

She flung her arm out emphatically. “I’m the daughter of a duke, and my title—”

Brook grasped her wrist and yanked her close. He did not want either of their voices to carry. “I don’t bloody care who the devil your father is, but you can wager your life the local farmers will. And if you give them something to talk about, the news might carry to London on the next market day. Right now, the last thing we need is Beezle knowing where we’re hiding.” His gaze cut to the crack in the door and Mrs. Spencer’s craning her neck to peek inside. “Understand
, Lady Derring
?”

“Yes,” Lila hissed.

“Good. One more item for Mrs. Spencer’s benefit.” He cupped the back of her neck and brought his lips to hers. Lila flinched and stiffened, but he held her firmly, wrapping his other arm about her waist and murmuring against her lips, “Play your part, Lady Derring.”

She glared at him but put her arms around his neck, at least giving the impression of returning his embrace. He brushed his lips over hers, which certainly would have been enough to convince Mrs. Spencer, if she had doubts, but it wasn’t quite enough for Brook.

Even though she wore a wrapper and nightgown, the material was thin and didn’t conceal her lack of undergarments. She’d taken her stays off to sleep, and he felt the hard points of her nipples through the fabric. The sensation teased the bare skin of his chest, causing him to pull her closer.

He had no illusions that he’d aroused her. She was most likely cold, but whatever the reason, he couldn’t help but want to feel her body pressed against his. The thin barrier of cotton was the best he could hope for.

Her lips parted slightly from the surprise contact, and he took advantage of the motion to kiss her lower lip and then to run his tongue lightly along her upper. Soft, plump lips that begged to be suckled, nibbled, kissed until swollen.

Lila’s fingers dug into his shoulders, making him remember their audience. He gave her a playful flick of his tongue and slowly withdrew.

His mistake was glancing at her face. He’d thought she’d tightened her hands to compel him to release her, but her pink cheeks and dark eyes told him he’d misjudged.

She wanted him.

He would have lifted her and carried her straight to the bed had their audience not been watching. Instead, he stepped away, pulled on his boots, and dug in his valise for a clean shirt. When he was thus attired, he left Lila in the cottage and collected the basket.

Mrs. Spencer did not meet his eye, keeping her gaze on the sky. He thanked her and returned inside, leaving the basket on the table. Lila did not look at him, pretending to be busy stoking the fire. It was a hopeless cause. They needed more wood. The knife wound still hurt, but he felt better for the sleep and the healing that had come with that time. He’d check it later, but the bandages didn’t show fresh blood, and he had no fever.

After he ate, he’d fetch wood and take a look around the cottage and kitchens. He told Lila this and she thanked him. Strange how often she thanked him, as though she actually appreciated his assistance and didn’t expect it.

But he knew her kind, knew she’d grown up to expect others to jump to do her bidding. The minute he thought she’d changed was the minute he became the poor, besotted boy he’d been the night he’d proposed to her.

As there was only one chair, he used it and ate first, dividing all the food in half so she would have her own share. She could eat while he took care of seeing to firewood, fresh water, and the like. She managed not to glance in his direction once while he ate, a feat of some note considering the smallness of the room they shared. Was she angry at his insistence she call herself Lady Derring?

To hell with that. She
was
Lady Derring until he had the marriage annulled. She could hold on to her title all she wanted, but he’d call her Lady Derring every chance he had. It wouldn’t hurt to bring her down a peg or three.

Or perhaps she was embarrassed by the kiss they’d shared. Undoubtedly, she hadn’t meant to respond to him as she had. Perhaps she didn’t hate him as much as she pretended.

He couldn’t quite rid himself of that notion, and for the next several hours, it played in his mind as he hauled water, lay firewood out to dry in the sun, built a new fire, attempted to make the kitchen serviceable, and surveyed the property. It had been some time since he’d been there, and he wanted to know the lay of the land if he needed to leave quickly.

And all the while, he wondered what Lila would do if he kissed her again. For about an hour he told himself he didn’t want to kiss her again, but even he couldn’t convince himself of that lie. He did want to kiss her. He wanted her in his bed. He might not like her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy her.

That thought played in his head as he returned to the cottage and pushed open the back door. The fire still smoked, and Lila had left it partly open to give the smoke an outlet. He stood in the opening of the door, wondering where she’d gone, when he finally spotted a tattered quilt hung before the bed.

She’d meant it as a screen for privacy. He understood that immediately because she’d done a poor job of hanging it. If he’d been standing directly in front of it, he would have seen nothing. But from the side, she was clearly visible. She sat on the bed, one foot poised on the edge, pulling a silk stocking up and over her calf. His first thought was that silk stockings were entirely impractical for their situation. His second was that he’d like to feel the silk of that stocking against her skin and test which was softer.

She stretched her leg out, the skin white and nicely rounded, giving him a view of the inside of one thigh. He drew in a breath, wanting to go to her and slide the hem of her chemise higher so he might reveal all of that thigh and what lay at the apex.

Instead, he stepped back outside and pressed his back against the wall.

He had to grab hold of his desire. He didn’t spy on women. He didn’t kiss unwilling women. He couldn’t control his thoughts or his erotic dreams, but he could control his actions.

Why should you?

The thought came unbidden, but with such clarity, Brook couldn’t ignore it. Why shouldn’t he have her? She was his wife. She legally belonged to him. This was no sham marriage. They’d said the vows. He’d signed the license, and her father had agreed to the contract terms.

They might plan an annulment, but that would only mean the marriage hadn’t happened in the eyes of the law. Everyone else would know it had occurred. He wouldn’t ruin her if he took her to his bed. No one would assume he hadn’t.

And who was to say she’d be unwilling to kiss him if he attempted it again? He knew what desire looked like, and she might not have wanted to admit it, but she wanted him.

They were stuck there for the time being. Why shouldn’t they make the best of the situation?

You want to teach her a lesson.

That was his conscience, and he couldn’t argue with it. Yes, he wanted her as a man wants a woman, but he also wanted to punish her for the way she’d humiliated him in the past. What better way than to make her want him and then leave her desires unfulfilled, as she’d done all those years ago?

Could he do it? Hell yes. She was a virgin. What did she know of the pleasures between men and women? What if he could make her love him, and then, once he had her affections, toss them aside as she’d done to him?

Cruel and callous, this sort of behavior. But hadn’t she done the same to him? And he wouldn’t force anything on her. He wouldn’t make her any promises, wouldn’t give her any lies. Her emotions, her body, her affections were her own to give.

Brook considered he’d spent far too much time amidst the morally corrupt if this was the sort of scheme he contemplated.

A better man would act the gentleman and vow not to use his worldly experience to seduce an innocent. A gentleman would not touch a lady he had no intention of honoring—permanently—with his name.

As Brook pushed away from the wall and stepped back into the cottage, he had to admit, he was no gentleman.

Ten

Lila hadn’t been able to dress properly. She had no lady’s maid to help with her stays, and her dresses didn’t fit quite right without them. She couldn’t even don one of her gowns without assistance. All of them had fastenings in the back or needed pins, and she couldn’t quite place the materials in the appropriate places.

Her peach gown had been the only one she could put on by herself, and now it was past repair. She’d slept in her stays at the flat in London, but she couldn’t stand them for another night, especially when she’d had to sleep on a quilt in front of the fire. She was uncomfortable enough on the floor. She didn’t need the undergarments making her more so.

She’d spent half the night hating Brook Derring for taking the bed and half worrying he’d grow feverish and die, leaving her all alone. She supposed she might have shared the bed with him, for the sake of warmth if not comfort, but she hadn’t been able to swallow her pride and climb in beside him.

She might also have asked him to help her dress. Once again, her pride prevented it. Not to mention her modesty. She didn’t want him ogling her. Although, if the truth be told, she actually thought she might rather enjoy a bit of ogling from him. She hadn’t expected to enjoy his kisses or the sight of him half-dressed quite as much as she had. Who was to say she wouldn’t have enjoyed more of his attentions?

Of course, she would never know because after he kissed her this morning—all a show for Mrs. Spencer—he hadn’t so much as looked her way. It might have been the pelisse she wore over her ill-fitting gown. It might have been that she had not remembered hairpins and could do nothing other than plait her hair so it did not hang in her face.

It might have been that he hated her.

She could hardly blame him. She’d treated him abominably, but would he hold that against her for the rest of her life? She’d been eighteen and foolish.

Now she was five and twenty, and probably just as foolish, if in a different way. She couldn’t quite stop herself from watching him under lowered lashes and wondering just when she might have another chance to see him without his shirt.

Not that it would matter if she did see him thus. He’d made it quite clear he didn’t like her and could barely stand to be in the same room with her. He’d spent most of the day outside, clearly happy to keep his own company rather than share hers.

Finally, the sun had dipped low, and she laid out the remains of Mrs. Spencer’s basket for the evening meal. Only one of them could eat at the table, and he had taken a seat before the fire. She brought him a bowl of broth and a slice of bread, but when she turned to take her own seat at the table, he surprised her.