The Rogue and the Rival (35 page)

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Authors: Maya Rodale

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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Tonight, she wanted distraction.
Phillip lightly placed his hand on her lower back. She turned and looked up at him. His slight, tempting grin said it all:
Say yes; you know you want to
.
Lord help her, she did.
Angela hadn’t gotten a good look at Phillip today, for her temper had clouded her vision. That, and she had been too busy beating him with a bouquet of roses. She drank in the sight of him now, as he held her in his arms for a slow waltz at the end of the evening. The candles were burning down, so the room was darker. The guests that were still present were quickly slipping into the more advanced stages of intoxication. But the orchestra played on.
She couldn’t help but think of that afternoon in the abbey, after his shave, when she told him he looked
almost
civilized. And even now, in finely tailored garments and a perfectly folded and starched cravat, the emphasis was still on
almost
. Even as he led her in a waltz, with its routine steps set to elegant music, he still seemed almost civilized. The trappings of propriety were there, but there was still something so primal in the way he looked at her, and in the way his hand on her waist made her feel. As if at any second he would pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her off to bed.
She rested her hand on his shoulder, as she was supposed to do. But he felt stronger than she had remembered. Had he changed, or were her memories fading? Perhaps she was the wild and wanton one, because she wanted to feel his chest under her hand, to feel his hot skin under her palm, to feel the ridges and planes of the muscles there. She knew them so well, from her own experience, and from her own drawing that had captured them. The pencil-and-paper version had kept her captivated for almost a year. Now she wanted the real thing.
Instead, she slid her hand a little higher to rest at the nape of his neck. As if she could just apply a little pressure and his head would bend down to hers, low enough and close enough so that they might kiss. She trusted him to kiss her back, but she didn’t trust him to kiss at the command of a vicar at the end of a marriage ceremony to signal that they were man and wife. The realization was disheartening, to say the least.
All it took was a little pressure from his hand on the small of her back, and she used that as an excuse to move a little closer to him.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, his voice husky now. She couldn’t help a little laugh at that.
“
You
are calling me trouble?”
“I’m trying to be good, and yet you tempt me to be very wicked.”
And then he lowered his head so that he might murmur into her ear. Phillip proceeded to tell her all the very wicked things he wanted to do. It involved the removal of her clothing, which he described in exquisitely vivid detail. Slipping the silk from her shoulders so that he might kiss and caress her naked skin. Buttons undone one by one. Her gown sliding to the floor. The unlacing of her corset, the chemise going the way of her gown. Her breasts free, and all the things he would do to her naked skin with his hands and his mouth. She bit her lip to stifle a moan.
Angela closed her eyes. She wasn’t aware that she had moved closer to him, until she could feel the length of him pressed up against all of her. He was hard against her.
But not once did they miss a step, not even as her skirts tangled around their legs. And as if he had the same thought, he mentioned that it would be their legs tangled together, as they moved as one in the bedroom instead of the ballroom.
She wanted it, Lord knew she did. She wanted him.
But he didn’t mention the morning after they made love.
She could easily see the vivid sensual images he described. Just as easily, she could feel the heartache of waking up alone the next morning. She could envision the imprint of their bodies on the bed, and the empty place where he had been, all in the cold light of morning. And that was like a bucket of cold water on her feverish skin, or rather, her thoughts, because her skin still felt hot. She was sure she was blushing from her head to her toes.
He had fallen silent, too, having described them making love until they succumbed to exhaustion. The orchestra played on, Phillip still held her close to him, and she still tingled with pleasure in all the places their bodies touched, which was to say, everywhere.
She wanted to ask him to keep talking. She wanted to ask him, “And when we wake up in the morning, then what?” But she just couldn’t catch her breath. Fragments of thoughts and questions arose, but her mind was so muddled, melted, and distracted by those erotic images that she couldn’t manage to find the words.
The orchestra concluded its song, and Phillip suggested stepping out onto the terrace. She nodded in agreement, feeling as if she had never needed cool air as she did now.
 
Lucas Frost was hot and bothered, too, but for a very, very different reason. It was rage that coursed through him as he watched another man act as if he owned Angela. But he couldn’t possibly, because she belonged to Lucas.
The rage pulsed and throbbed through him as he watched his Angela waltz with another man. He had seen her eyes darken, and he had seen them close. He had noticed a flush creep into her cheeks and spread down to the edge of her bodice. He had watched as their bodies moved inch after evil after inch closer to each other, and farther from him. It was indecent. It was wrong.
She was his.
But he stood rooted to the spot because he didn’t dare do what he wished to do, which was to march across the room, without a care to those in his path, and pull her from the scoundrel’s arms. Huntley was bigger than Lucas. And he couldn’t marry Angela, and make right all that he had done wrong, if he was dead, beaten to a pulp in a ballroom. He would have to find another way to remove the obstacle from his path.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm down, to clear his head. Fate had brought her to him again. He couldn’t let the opportunity get away.
The waltz was over now, and he saw Phillip lead Angela in the direction of the terrace. He followed them.
He arrived a few steps behind Angela’s aunt and chaperone, Lady Palmerston.
“Well, well,” Lucas heard her say. “Lord Huntley alone on the terrace with an unmarried young woman. I am shocked.” Her voice belied obvious sarcasm. Because Phillip was notorious for getting caught on terraces and in gardens with young women, wasn’t he? A plan began to form in Lucas’s brain. It made his heart pound with excitement.
“Angela, are you ready to depart yet? I feel a headache coming on.”
Lucas withdrew farther into the shadows, so that he might not be seen. He left shortly after Angela and her aunt, for there was no other reason for him to stay. Instead of having his carriage take him home, he ordered the driver to take him to the residence of Christine Grey.
 
“Good evening, Frost. You haven’t been around in a while,” Christine murmured as she poured them each a drink. Lucas couldn’t help but notice that she wore not a stitch beneath her red silk robe. The fabric did not have any adornment of lace or beadwork or embroidery. Christine didn’t need it, and she knew it. But he was not intrigued or distracted from his reason for calling. He had seen—and sampled—all she had to offer a man. Lucas’s late wife wasn’t the only one who had been unfaithful.
Christine was a courtesan. Her entry into that ancient profession was all in thanks to Phillip Kensington’s lack of honor. They had met in Italy, Christine told Lucas one night, and she had set her sights on him. He was young, handsome, rich, and drunk more often than not. Her devious plan to get caught with him had succeeded. The second part, their marriage, had failed. She had not counted on him fleeing the country.
“No matter,” she was fond of saying. “My father wanted me to have a duke. Instead, I have had a dozen.”
After handing him a drink, Christine curled up on the settee and indicated that he should join her. She placed her hand on his thigh and started to feel her way up.
“I didn’t come here for that,” he said, but he didn’t make an effort to remove her hand.
“Then why did you call?” she demanded, digging her nails into his flesh. “It’s three in the bloody morning.”
“I came to talk.” She rolled her eyes and leaned back. He took a sip of brandy.
“Talking. At this hour of the morning,” she uttered with disbelief. “You know that is not why men usually call upon me.”
“I have a proposal for you. Revenge.” She licked her rouged lips and eyed him with sly interest.
“I’m listening,” she encouraged him, eyeing him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip.
Lucas explained his plan.
“Easy enough. But why?”
“Because he’s after the woman I mean to marry. I’m losing her, which can’t happen. If she can just see what a scoundrel he is, then she won’t marry him.” Christine did not seem impressed with his emotional confession. He didn’t care, so long as she helped him.
“I fail to see the revenge portion of your plan,” Christine said pointedly. She wouldn’t do anything unless she stood to gain from it.
“Don’t you want revenge upon Huntley for ruining you?” Lucas asked, pushing aside a fearful thought that crept into his head: What if Angela wanted revenge upon him? He had hurt her as Huntley had hurt Christine. The idea added an extra degree of urgency to his plan. He needed to marry her with all haste.
“What makes you think I have any feelings of any kind for Lord Huntley?” Christine queried.
“Well, it is because of him that you ended up in this situation,” Lucas said delicately. And he took a sip of brandy, because it only occurred to him now that he did not know how Angela had filled the intervening years, only that she had not been with him. He couldn’t bring himself to ask. He just wanted things to be like they were
before
, and that meant avoiding the topic of their past and all the years until the present. If she had been occupied in the same manner as Christine, that might explain how she could have met Huntley. But she couldn’t have done. Not his Angela.
“My situation?” Christine mused. “Rich and free to do whatever I please? Poor me.” Her voice oozed sarcasm.
“Point taken. And what if I could increase your wealth?”
She leaned in closely to him, her breasts, cloaked in red silk, brushing against his arm, her manicured hand once again pressing firmly upon his thigh. And she whispered into his ear, “Then I am interested.”
Lucas returned home at dawn. It took him and the utterly devious Christine merely an hour to concoct a flawless plan. It took them another hour to celebrate. But when he finally collapsed into bed, the burden he always carried felt lighter. Soon, with his marriage to Angela, he would be free of it entirely.

 

Chapter 19
ONE WEEK LATER ...
 
Phillip
stood with Parkhurst in the card room at Lady Derby’s ball, watching, but not participating, in the games. At one table, Preston Drake was demonstrating exactly why he was known as the best gambler in England. After this evening, he would certainly be the richest. Phillip longed to join one of the other tables with an intensity that terrified him. He reminded himself that he was broke and his last incident with creditors was still too vivid. He was still dealing with the consequences. The urge passed.
He contented himself with just enjoying the sound of a shuffling deck and the low murmurs of wagers being made. It wasn’t long before his thoughts drifted to one particular card game and one particular woman. Phillip looked at the clock and thought she must have arrived by now. He was just about to go in search of her when Devon found him.
“I believe this is for you,” Devon said before handing Phillip a note.
“People are still confusing us, I take it,” Phillip answered dryly, accepting the note. Each of them had always hated being confused for the other.
“Either that, or Angela has questionable intentions.” Devon’s voice belied his doubts about that. Phillip doubted that she did, as well, at least for his twin. But still . . .
“You read my personal correspondence?” Phillip asked, annoyed.

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