Yet… He was never one to leave well enough alone. “I like you.” Those gruff sparse words jerked Winnie’s head up.
She stared wide-eyed like a night owl. “Pardon me?”
He continued on a hushed whisper, “I like you well enough, and I’m sorry…” that I cannot have you. “…if I have hurt you,” he substituted. For no brother in his right, reasonable mind would dare welcome the suit of a titleless rogue who’d earned himself the reputation that Trent had through the years.
Winnie ran her gaze over his face and then gave a slight, approving nod. “Very well. And you owe me a visit to the fair tomorrow. My family leaves soon for the Countess of Weston’s holiday party.”
His stomach clenched. Their departure for Lord and Lady Weston’s holiday party. He’d spent the past weeks counting down the time until Winnie rode off, and then he could find his sanity once more. Yet, this, according to James, was more than a mere Christmastide celebration—this was a determined mother’s attempt to marry off her still unwed daughter to Lady Weston’s son. He hardened his jaw as a black hatred snaked through him for that titled, future earl.
“Well?” she prodded, bringing him to the moment. “Never tell me you’ll renege on your pledge?”
“I…” Should steer clear, as he’d done for two years now. He should hide at his clubs in the bottom of a bottle and between the legs of a hot, hungry woman with sin in her eyes and on her lips. “I plan to visit White’s with your brother tomorrow,” he lied, his voice garbled. And effectively prevented himself from having to be in close confines with the lady.
An unfettered smile split her lips and climbed all the way to her eyes. “Splendid. Then we shall go for a walk beforehand.”
He wanted to lose himself in her kiss. Ah, God, she really was magnificent and vexing, all at the same time. “That was not an invitation, Winnie,” he gritted out.
His sister’s song came to an abrupt, discordant finish. Winnie politely clapped along with the other guests, and then slowly raised her face to his. Then she gave him a long, slow wink.
Apparently, the lady did not require an invitation.
“When did I ever require an invitation?”
How long had their thoughts been a harmonious rhythm? Winnie looked to her brother. “You two may meet at White’s after our outing.”
“Hmm?” The other man glanced down perplexedly.
“Your clubs,” she said slowly, as though speaking to a lackwit. “You and Trent will be going to White’s, and I’d ask you to escort me to Hyde Park before you go do whatever it is you do at your clubs.”
“White’s?” Munthorpe scratched at his brow. “Escort you to the park? You don’t require an escort…” Trent glowered him into momentary silence. The other man frowned. “Furthermore, I had plans to—” Red splashed his cheeks. By the telltale color and incoherent stammering, his friend had plans to spend the evening with his mistress after the recital, which did not involve any early morning rising to accompany anyone, anywhere. Munthorpe looked hopefully to him.
Winnie tugged at his sleeve. “You had plans to do what?”
“Err, I had business to attend in the morning.”
She shot an accusatory look in Trent’s direction.
The Countess of Portland leaned past her husband once more and fixed the same disapproving frown she had on them when they’d been children gallivanting through the hills of Kent. “Will you three not be quiet?”
Brother and sister promptly closed their lips, shamefaced. Trent offered the countess another smile and she tittered behind her hand.
Henrietta reclaimed her seat at the pianoforte and launched into her next song, which might or might not have been Joy to the World.
“So, am I to believe Trent lied about your visit to White’s tomorrow?” Winnie whispered.
He sent a prayer skyward. By God, the lady did not let a matter rest. How could she not know that every moment in her presence was a slow torture where he was tantalized by things that could never be? “I did not lie,” Trent bit out.
“He did not lie,” James added, rather unconvincingly.
His sister’s narrowed-eyed gaze said as much.
“He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.”
A curse, indeed.
James widened his eyes and looked between them.
Oh, bloody hell. He knows. Trent braced for the other man to yank off his gloves and slap them across Trent’s face for betraying their friendship this way.
Munthorpe winked at his sister. “Ballantine will escort you.” He gave Trent a sheepish look and mouthed an apology.
Trent and Winnie spoke in unison.
“What?” He scrambled forward in his seat.
Excitement glowed from within her eyes. “Splendid!”
At his shocked exclamation, Henrietta missed several beats to her song. From where they sat at the front, Trent’s mother and brother turned back and glared at him.
Shifting in his seat, like a recalcitrant child, he, in turn, glared at his best friend. Damned best friends.
And with Winnie refocused once more on the performance before her, he damned his best friend’s tempting, lithe sister, too.
Chapter Five
Winnie had one day. One day to draw forth the courage and confess to Trent Anderson Ballantine that he owned her heart and more convince him that he felt the same for her. How difficult should it be shoring up the courage to lay her heart open and exposed? But Christmas was nearly upon them. A time of new beginnings and hope and as such, if she never said anything of the love she felt for him, she’d never forgive herself.
With a drawn-out sigh, Winnie assessed herself in the bevel mirror. She stared forlornly at her nonexistent bosom and her pale purple satin. Turning this way and that, she critically assessed her figure.
And it was hard not to be critical.
There was hardly anything about her that would rouse a gentleman to passion. Or desire. Or feeling. She pressed her palms on the edge of her vanity table and peered at her freckled complexion. Her skin was too pale, her cheeks too spotted, and her hair too red. But perhaps if she stood just so… Biting her lip, she quickly straightened and then thrust her chest forward in a bid to create generous curves out of nonexistent ones.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Yes,” she called, hastily straightening into a more dignified pose. She swung her attention to the entrance of the room.
Her maid, Tabitha, stepped inside. “Lord Trent Ballantine has come to escort you to Hyde Park, my lady.”
Winnie’s heart missed a beat, and she drew in a breath searching for calm. “Must be calm.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She blinked wildly. “Did I say that aloud?”
Tabitha smiled gently and then cast a glance over her shoulder at the open door. “You did, my lady.”
Then, partly fearing James would decide he preferred to accompany them this morning, she sprinted past her maid and rushed down the hall. The carpeted halls muffled the tread of her boot steps and those of the young girl who hurried to keep up. Winnie came to a halt at the edge of the corridor. Heart hammering wildly, Winnie smoothed her palms over her skirts.
Must be calm… A near impossible feat when even now Trent waited at the base of the stairs. A giddy sensation swarmed her senses. Was he as eager to see her? Surely he felt something more than a sense of obligation where she was concerned. She stepped around the corner.
Trent picked his gaze up from his timepiece and for the sliver of a heartbeat she allowed herself to believe a flare of awareness lit his emerald eyes. “About blasted time,” he muttered. He stuffed his watch inside his elegant black cloak, effectively quashing any such hope.
Disappointment turned her lips downward and she gave a flounce of her curls, not allowing him to know how very much his indifference chafed. Pasting on a smile
, she sailed down the stairs. A footman came forward with her red cloak. “It is a lovely day for a walk, wouldn’t you say?” she asked, as she fiddled with her grommets. Her fingers trembled, and Trent’s astute gaze went to the quaking digits.
When he looked at her, his expression was curiously blank. “It is cold and gray.”
“Bah,” she said swatting his arm. “You were never much of a romantic.” Though the papers purported him to be something of a rogue who’d broken countless hearts. Her smile slipped. Blasted rogue.
Trent’s only response was a pointed yawn as he held out his arm. “Lady Winnie.”
Lady Winnie, which was only a dash better than Wee Winnie. She sighed. Why could he not simply see her as Winifred; girl turned woman, and determined to make him love her?
The butler hurried to open the door and they stepped outside into a, as he aptly indicated, very cold and very gray day. Winter wind pulled at the hems of their cloaks and slapped the fabric noisily together.
“Lovely day, indeed,” he drawled.
Winnie pinched him. “Oh, do hush. You’re worse than James.”
“Comparing me to your brother then, Wee Winnie?” He gave her a dark look and for a moment her heart started.
Why… She widened her eyes. He didn’t care to be likened to James, that much was evidenced by the muscle that jumped at the corner of his mouth. Why? Why unless he did care in some way about her that moved beyond sisterly devotion? She grunted as he all but tossed her into the carriage.
Winnie bounced on the seat of the open curricle. Or perhaps not. She glared at him. “You needn’t be so surly,” she muttered as he claimed the spot beside her.
Trent accepted the reins from a waiting servant, and then snapped the team into forward movement. She gripped the edge of the seat as the carriage lurched forward. “Did you not wheedle me into a trip to Hyde Park?”
“But you used to enjoy visiting Hyde Park,” she felt inclined to point out. Just as he’d enjoyed her company.
“I also used to play spilikins and Battledore.”
Humph. Well, he had her there. As they rolled along through the quiet streets of London, she tried to focus on her plans in meeting him this day and not on the powerful length of his thigh against hers. Trent moved his leg and she mourned the loss of that contact. Regret pulled at her as she turned her gaze out at the handful of other lords and ladies who’d braved the winter chill. The gray and white skies suited her mood.
He spoke, and the concern in his low, deep tone drew her back. “What is it, Winnie?”
Not scamp. Not, Wee Winnie. But Winnie. A blasted swell of emotion formed in her throat, and she forced words out past it. “I have to wed, Trent.”
He froze, and momentarily pulled his gaze away from the cobbled streets ahead to look at her. Then, Trent swiftly shifted his attention back to the road. “Oh? And is there a reason you must be in a rush to wed?”
A strangled laugh escaped her. “It is hardly a rush. I am entering my third Season and my mother would see me wed.”
He narrowed his eyes but did not look at her when he spoke. “And what would you see for you?”
You, I see you and no other. “I see myself finding happiness,” she said softly. “I see myself finding love.” He stiffened at her side. “I see myself wedding a man who will be devoted to me and love me and will not expect me to fit with Society’s mold of a perfect miss.”
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Would he simply ignore her no longer secret yearnings? “And do you believe such a paragon exists?”
“I know he does,” she said without hesitation. For he sat beside her even now.
Trent urged his team onward, through the entrance of Kensington Garden, and down the quiet riding trails of Hyde Park. In four more months, the walking paths would be filled with couples out for a spring stroll, while carriages would clog the riding paths. Yet for now, it was but they two and a handful of others, and she welcomed the intimacy of this moment. “You must have met him, then.” There was a hard, lethal edge underscoring Trent’s words.
She skimmed her gaze over the partially frozen Serpentine. “I have,” she said softly.
He brought the carriage to such an abrupt halt that she fell against his side. “Trent?” She looked up at him questioningly.
Emotion darkening his eyes, he captured her chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger. He dipped his head close to hers, and with the risk of but one curious passerby away from notice and gossip, his lips nearly brushed hers. “Who?” he whispered.
Her lashes fluttered as she sought to gather her flyaway senses. “Who?”
“Who has captured your heart, Winifred?”
At last, she was Winifred. After years of wanting to be seen as more than the bothersome girl dogging his steps, she was at last, Winifred. That simple, yet potent truth sent warmth spiraling through her. “D-does it matter?” she asked, the winter’s cold adding a trembling to her voice.
He brushed his gaze over her face; his stare lingered upon those freckles she’d spent her whole life hating. Only, there was a tenderness and heat to his scrutiny that chased away the morning freeze. And with the way he looked at her freckles now…and the way he looked at Winnie now, why, it didn’t make those marks upon her nose feel so very hideous, after all. “Knowing the gentleman who’s won your heart?” he finally said. “It matters very much to me, Winifred.”
Her heart did a funny little leap before reason tugged that organ back to its proper place in her chest. In a show of nonchalance, she glanced out at the snow-covered grounds, and made herself ask that which she desperately needed to know; “Is it only because of…your friendship with my brother?” Or is it more? And Winnie immediately curled into herself; certain he could hear that question as sure as if she’d spoken it aloud.
Then, Trent released her.
*
Suddenly, the close proximity of Winnie’s frame beside his was too much. Studiously avoiding her gaze, he swung a leg over the edge of the carriage and then climbed down. For one cowardly moment, he considered leaving her atop the perch, and storming off so he might avoid talks of her future, and thoughts of her eventual husband, and the vile images of her wrapped in some other man’s arms while he rocked between her cream white thighs.
“Will you not help me?” That beleaguered quality to the lady’s words hinted at a woman who had no idea how thin his grasp was on any sensible control.
He held a hand up and wordlessly guided her down, grateful for the maid’s presence, perched at the back of the carriage alongside his footman. The young servant was the only thing that kept him from taking Winnie in his arms and burning the seal of his kiss on her mouth so she couldn’t even contemplate the suitors her family would line up for her.
Desperate to avoid the tempting minx, Trent motioned over a boy hovering a short way’s away.
The lad sprinted across the snow-dusted street.
“Will you be so good as to stay with my curricle? There will be more,” he promised, handing over several coins to the wide-eyed boy.
“Of course, yer lordship,” the child touched the brim of his hat and shifted the reins in his gloveless hands.
He tightened his jaw. Or rather, his brother’s curricle. It all belonged to another; everything he had was a product of his lot as second son. He ground his teeth together; despising himself. Despising the twist of fate that saw some brothers with titles and land and respectability. It was a state he’d never given a damn about…until this woman. Now, he wished he could offer her that which she deserved; a proper title. An honorable gentleman.
Though, you’ve no one to blame for the reputation you’ve gone and earned yourself.
A growl worked up his chest.
“You are in a foul temper,” Winnie said, her tone arch.
“I did not say anything,” he snapped. And Trent immediately hated himself all the more, this time for being churlish to the last person who deserved his ire.
She gave him a p
ointed look.
Trent growled. God, she’d drive a saint to sinning. “I’m not in a foul temper.” Except, the surly edge to his tone served as a contradiction. And to prove as much, he held out an arm.
Winnie placed her fingertips along his sleeve. He made to take a step forward, but she remained unmoving. With her patent, mischievous smile, she glanced back at her maid and gave a jaunty wave. “You may enjoy your morning, Tabitha.” The girl wisely hesitated, looking between them. “It is just Lord Trent.”
It is just Lord Trent.
He balled his hands. No truer words than those had ever been spoken. A second-born son, who’d lived a rogue’s life for the past seven years, had no right to her.
The woman murmured her thanks and then returned to the carriage.
Filled with a furious tension, Trent stalked off; striding quickly off the riding path; churning up the previously untouched snow. He didn’t break stride. Just continued walking. And walking. He needed some distance between them. He needed space with which to think about the fact that Winnie had chosen the man to give her heart to and how much of a bastard he was for wanting to be the blasted recipient.
Something hit him hard in the middle of his back.
Grunting, Trent spun back.
Still three paces behind, Winnie stood there with another perfectly formed snowball in her gloved fingers. And with the fiery heat of the glare she now had trained on him, it was a wonder the landscape around hadn’t been thawed.
“I swear, I do not know how you are the same romantic gentleman the ton speaks of in the papers—”
“Do not read the papers,” he gritted out. His neck grew hot thinking of just what she’d read where his name was concerned in those gossip columns. You have no one to blame for those stories except yourself.
Winnie hurled her next missive, catching him this time in his arm.
Indignant, he dusted the snow from the sleeve of his cloak.
“Never tell me, Trent, that you are worried I’ll believe all the scandalous reports of the ladies you are carrying on with?”
Her Christmas Rogue Page 6