The Rogue’s Prize (20 page)

sense of the word — in every sense.

He’d school her on accepting his

unorthodox methods or break her,

whichever came first, but have her he

would.

His mouth salivated and he cleared

his throat as he tapped on the large

copper

knocker.

Answering

his

summons, the household butler, Cooper,

opened the door and offered to show him

into the parlor while Danbury was

alerted to his presence. Led into a blue

room plastered with florals and lace, he

strode to the fireplace and produced a

cigar. Striking a match, he inhaled the

sweet aroma of his vice of choice and

produced a circle of smoke, watching it

rise playfully toward the portrait of a

dark-haired woman hanging above the

mantle. The portrait was the spitting

image of his intended. Burton reconciled

the woman to be Lady Danbury.

Contented, he gazed about the

room, casting lots on all the objects

within, eager for all of it to soon be his

own. He was a short, portly man. To

compensate for his size, he’d made it his

life’s work to become larger than life in

temperament and purse. He’d succeeded.

His plan to debauch Constance Danbury,

ruin her father, and take everything

Throckmorton

owned

had

been

materializing nicely.

A slight popping of glass caught his

attention. Suddenly, the double glass

doors opened, heralding his host

approached. Throckmorton appeared

tall, lean, his complete opposite in every

way, wielding uncanny snobbery, a

character trait Burton admired. Gone,

however, was the rigid set of jaw and

sense of entitlement one could hardly

miss in a man of his station. Burton

smirked, satisfied he was the cause.

“Burton,” Throckmorton said. “To

what do I owe this pleasure?”

Twirling his cigar between his

fingers, Burton stepped away from the

hearth. “This is not a social call,

Throckmorton. I’m here to find out

what’s happened to my intended.”

Throckmorton’s

hawkish

eyes

revealed nothing. Bravo. “What gives

you the idea there is anything wrong?”

“I have it on good authority the lady

has run off,” he said.

“Run off? I assure you nothing

could be farther from the truth.”

“Produce her for me to ease my

concerns if you would then. I needn’t

remind you that it would be unwise to

fall from my good graces. I have a

limited attention span.”

Throckmorton walked over to the

liquor cabinet, poured himself a healthy

libation, then turned and offered him a

drink.

Grabbing the glass, Burton did not

hesitate to swallow a healthy swig. The

duke’s liquor never ceased to amaze

him. “I intend to announce our

engagement at the ball you’re giving in

one month’s time. Once our engagement

is publicly known, then, and only then,

will

you

profit

from

our

little

agreement.”

“How do I know you won’t go back

on your word?” he asked, sniffing his

tumbler. “Constance is my only child

and I will not sell her like useless

chattel.”

“My dear, sir. You already have,”

Burton quipped.

With that, Burton took his drink in

hand and strutted to the fireplace to puff

on his cigar. He’d set out to bilk

Throckmorton out of his funds, leaving

him only with an empty title, further

pressuring him to permit the marriage of

his daughter for a stipend of thirty

thousand pounds. Though it was

customary for the bride’s family to

produce a dowry, Burton was only

giving Throckmorton back the man’s

own inheritance.

His

own

maniacal

laughter

surprised him. He covered his mouth and

forced a cough. There was little

conquest in secrecy, but no triumph if his

ruse was discovered before the deed

was done. In the end, the deal he’d made

would cost him nothing, but would yield

him the one thing he did not have — a

wife.

“I’ve made you a very reasonable

deal. I want your daughter and you, sir,

have a daughter to wed. It’s fortunate

indeed that I have the means to get you

out of this scrape you and your brother

created.” Puffing his cigar, he sat upon

the divan and spread his short arms

across the back, making himself at home.

“Don’t lose heart, sir. We are both very

close to getting what we want.”

Throckmorton looked down his

long aristocratic nose at him with

disdain. He ambled closer, his added

height dwarfing Burton easily.

“You’ll get what you want, Burton.

But mark my words, if I find out you had

anything to do with my circumstances,

I’ll ensure you are rejected by the ton

post haste.”

• • •

Percy blinked, yawned groggily, and

then opened his eyes, squinting against

the early morning light. More rested than

he’d ever been, he was instantly aware

he was not alone. Since it wasn’t his

habit to sleep with a wench, he was

slightly taken aback — until his faculties

returned.

Lady Constance.

He flexed his hand and found it full

of golden spun hair. Tilting his chin, he

gazed down at the woman sleeping

peacefully in his arms, a woman he’d

used well and long into the night, or

rather these many nights. She’d given

herself willingly, trusting him to

pleasure her until sleep overtook them

both.

Don’t let this happen to anyone

else.
Celeste’s dying words cut him to

the quick.

Unable to face her family after

being ill-used, his sister had turned to

the streets of London to survive. Was

that to be Constance’s lot? What would

become of her now that he’d taken her

virginity? Would she be able to marry?

Was he just as guilty of ruining

Constance’s chances at happiness as the

man who’d kidnapped Celeste, used her,

and then cast her aside?

He hated himself for being as much

of a danger to Constance as she was to

his soul. The trail he’d followed for the

past year, the things he’d done in the

name

of

revenge

proved

him

undeserving. Once they reached London,

his options would be limited. He would

hand Constance over to Simon. Thomas

Sexton would disappear as he always

did, and Percival Avery would once

more take center stage. He could not

afford attachments. Not with justice

weighing in the balance.

Constance moved against him. His

damned cock immediately aroused with

need. Percy eased out of bed, going

against his instincts to grind the woman

into the mattress until he once again

instinctively filled her with his seed.

Light

reflected

off

the

windowpanes, producing bright golden

rays

which

illuminated

the

dark

mahogany walls. What he’d done, giving

in to his lust, weighted his shoulders like

an anvil. He glanced back at the alluring

tangle of sheets and silky limbs on his

bunk. Constance lay in dishevel, her hair

draped over her shoulder and arm, her

tempting breasts jutting against the sheet.

The juncture between her thighs, hot,

moist, had become the home he could

never rightfully own. Though he desired

to abide there more than anything else in

the world.

Percy turned away in disgust.
He

wanted her again!
And hated himself for

what he had to do. Constance was going

to loathe him. But the heartbreak had to

come. It had to. He was not worthy of

her. She deserved far better than an

imposter. It was too late for him to pull

her into his miserable life, no matter

how much he wanted to. Loving him

could get her killed. Loving him had

been detrimental to everyone he’d ever

loved.

Shrugging into his clothes, he was

just about to walk out the door when her

angelic voice hailed him from the bed.

“Thomas? Where are you going?”

Taking a deep breath, knowing

London was but a day away, Percy

closed the door and turned back around.

“I’ve got duties to attend.”

“Can’t they wait? We’ve hardly

had time to talk.” She was right. Talking

had not been part of their activities. Her

eyes fluttered sleepily, enticingly, and

she drew the sheet up to her neck.

“We’re almost to port and I have

much to do in order to ensure we dock

safely.”

“London?” she whimpered, a dark

ominous cloud sweeping over her eyes.

“How I dread it.”

“Winds being what they are,” he

explained, “we’re making good sail.”

She lifted her sweet eyes again and

he knew unconscionable damnation.

“When we arrive, will you escort me

home? Father would be honored to meet

the man who saved my life.”

She asked too much and put too

much trust in the duke. “No, little rose.

Your father would not approve.”

“I could talk to him. He’d

understand — eventually.”

“I want to live to see another day,”

he exclaimed. When she did not smile,

Percy’s heart hinged. “You know there

can be no future between us.”

Her glistening eyes gutted him

cleaner than any cutlass. “Will you not

… come to see me then?” she asked, her

voice hesitating slightly, as if the idea of

what he was doing finally dawned upon

her.

He resolved to get this over with

and quickly when tears slid down her

cheeks. “We come from different

worlds, you and me. Though you suit me

well, I would not make a good husband.

I thought you understood.”

“Yes, but we’ve … we’ve slept

together. I’ve given you — ” Her lips

trembled.

“Aye, and what a riotous time

we’ve had.” He looked fondly at the bed

and shook his head, tsking. “Life is what

it is, little rose. You’ve a fine body and

you’ve pleased me well. Keep that to

heart.”

“Keep that to heart?” she cried.

“How can you be so callous?”

“You’re

beautiful

and

young.

Someone is bound to jump at the chance

to wed you. They needn’t know we’ve

pleasured ourselves until the wedding

night, though I’m quite assured you’ll

give your husband the ride of his life.”

“You’re despicable!”

He winked. “I imagine the man will

be thanking me for it someday.”

Constance

lunged

for

him.

Understanding her torment, Percy stood

his ground, allowing her to vent her

anger. Naked and fuming, she pummeled

him with her fists, tears rolling down her

cheeks. He’d thought he could withstand

her

outburst

but

it

was

almost

impossible. He grabbed both her fists

and held them behind her, imprisoning

her against his chest.

“I rather like this unruly side of

you,” he said, trying to be reasonable.

He kissed her pouting lips, knowing

this would be the last time he tasted her,

held her. Something within pushed him

to his limit. He wanted her, wanted to

implant her in his memory, and he dared

not think of the consequences. The heat

of her burned into his chest as she

writhed in his arms. Nothing mattered

but coming home, finding his way back

to the crux of her womanhood. Lifting

Constance, he carried her to the bed.

“I can’t keep my hands off you, no

matter how hard I try,” he admitted.

“Then don’t try, Thomas,” she

pleaded. “Don’t try.”

CHAPTER NINE

T h e
Striker
pulled into port amid

laudable

hails

and

applause.

Dockworkers and passersby stopped to