He could still hear the whisper of Miss Kendall’s skirt as she moved around the room. Her scent—the same as a field after an April shower—tickled his nose. Her soft humming, unexpectedly sultry, seeped beneath his skin and calmed his soul.
As sleep grabbed his boots and inexorably pulled him under, he had two distinct thoughts.
The first was that Miss Kendall would soon be gone—a very good thing, given the ugliness that was sure to ensue.
The second was that he would never see her again. And that was a damned shame.
Chapter 3
“How was the meeting last night?” Fiona asked, glancing up from her sketchpad, where she’d outlined a couple standing beneath a garden trellis. Even in its unfinished state, Sophie could see that the drawing was destined to be one of her favorites. The way the gentleman held the woman’s hand was so tender—almost reverent. Flowering vines trailed all around them as they leaned toward each other, their lips only a breath apart.
Sophie gave a wistful sigh and walked to the window of the lovely studio where she, Fiona, and Lily met every Saturday morning to conduct business related to The Debutante’s Revenge. The studio, located in Fiona’s house, reflected the passions of all three women. Fiona’s breathtaking paintings graced the walls; Lily’s exquisite desk—a gift from her besotted duke—flanked shelves filled with novels, poems, and other inspiration; and Sophie’s lush plants sprouted and blossomed in every nook and cranny, adding beauty and softness to the elegance.
“The meeting went very well,” Sophie reported happily. “The members adored your sketch and Lily’s latest column. Both sparked a great deal of lively conversation.”
Lily blew a dark curl away from her face, set her pen on the desk blotter, and leaned back in her chair, her green eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Tell us more,” she urged. “What do your members wish to know? What topics capture their fancy?”
Sophie paced the length of the studio slowly, carefully considering her answer. She’d founded the Debutante Underground so that devotees of the column would have a place to discuss the column and other topics of interest to them—especially the ones that were deemed unsuitable for genteel drawing rooms. As such, the meetings were an excellent source of ideas for future columns, but Sophie was very careful not to violate her own guidelines—particularly those ensuring anonymity and forbidding the sharing of personal details. Fortunately, Fiona and Lily respected her adherence to the rules and never pressed her to share more than she felt she could. They could have attended themselves, of course, but perhaps they sensed that Sophie needed the meetings to be her domain—her unique contribution to their project.
“The women agreed wholeheartedly that a generous spirit is an important quality in a lover,” Sophie began. “But some of them wondered how to nurture that quality in their current partners. Others wished to learn how to be more generous lovers themselves.”
“Interesting,” Lily said. She picked up her pen, dipped the nib in her inkpot, and began scribbling notes. “Perhaps I should write about the importance of explicitly communicating one’s desires.”
“An excellent idea,” Fiona chimed in. “Honest communication is key to every aspect of a relationship.”
“Agreed,” Lily said firmly. “In next week’s column, I’ll advise women to tell their partners what they desire—both in the bed and outside of it.”
There was a time, not so long ago, when such forthright talk would have made Sophie blush to the roots of her hair. But she now realized that carnal pleasure was as natural as a seed sprouting in the sun. It was nothing to be ashamed of, but rather, something to appreciate—even celebrate. The Debutante’s Revenge had opened the door to an enticing, passionate new world.
So far, for Sophie, that world existed only in sketches and words. She’d yet to experience the thrill of a lingering kiss or a sensual touch. But she intended to—maybe before she was married to Lord Singleton.
While Lily continued writing, Fiona said, “I noticed you returned from your meeting much later than usual.”
In the months since the Debutante Underground began, Sophie had taken to spending Friday evenings at Fiona and Gray’s house and staying overnight. The routine spared Sophie from having to explain where she was going every week and also provided time for the three friends to work on the column the next morning. Fortunately, Sophie, Lily, and Fiona had grown up together, and Mama was inordinately fond of the entire Hartley family—so she didn’t object to the arrangement in the slightest.
“Forgive me if I worried you last night,” Sophie said. “After the meeting I stopped by a vacant building near the dress shop to see if it would make a suitable alternative location.”
Fiona arched a strawberry-blond brow. “And would it?”
“It would…” Sophie mentally debated telling her friends about Mr. Peabody. She’d thought of him often since leaving him snoring softly in his chair.
The harsh lines of his face had softened as he slept, and his tightly coiled muscles had relaxed. If he’d been dangerously handsome stalking about the tailor’s shop, he’d been doubly so as he dreamed, with his long legs sprawled in front of him and his full lips parted. She’d turned down the lantern and carefully placed a blanket across his lap before gathering her things and tiptoeing out of the shop’s back door. If anyone in the world could understand her odd attraction to a relative stranger, Sophie was sure that Fiona and Lily would.
But part of her feared that talking about her evening with Mr. Peabody would strip away the magic, make it feel strange or trite. So she decided to keep him solely to herself. “Unfortunately,” she continued, “the building isn’t available for let.” She shrugged as though it were nothing but a mild disappointment. “I’ll find something else.”
“The offer to hold the meeting here still stands,” Fiona said kindly, “but I know you’d prefer a spot that’s more centrally located.”
Sophie smiled gratefully. “Yes, dozens of people strolling up to your front door would attract undue attention, I’m afraid.”
“Would you like us to help you secure a location?” Lily offered. “If money is an obstacle, we’d be more than happy to cover the rent. It’s the least we can do.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said sincerely. “You’re both so generous. But I’m going to attempt to do this on my own—if only to prove to myself that I can.”
“Of course you can,” Fiona said encouragingly. “We have complete confidence in you. But in the meantime, if you should find yourself in a bind, please know you can count on us.”
“I know,” Sophie said, thankful. “I’ve always been able to depend on you. Indeed, I’m not certain I would have survived our years at Miss Haywinkle’s without you.”
“You have that backward,” Lily said with a chuckle. “I was the one who was forever being called into the headmistress’s office. You were the one taking first honors in every subject.”
“We had such grand dreams back then,” Sophie said, almost overcome with longing to return to the days when anything seemed possible. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she glanced at the clock on the mantel and shot her friends a regretful look. “I promised Mama I’d return home by early afternoon. I should go.”
Fiona gave a playful pout. “Our time together always passes too quickly.”
“Always,” Sophie agreed. “But perhaps I’ll see you both at Lady Rufflebum’s ball Wednesday evening?”
“Gray and I will be there,” Fiona said brightly.
“Nash and I are going too.” Lily looked up from her journal and waved her pen like a flag. “Soph, you should wear the emerald silk to the ball!” She and Fiona had given Sophie the gorgeous gown as a birthday gift several weeks ago. Sophie had planned to save it for a special occasion, but the season would be over before she knew it, and opportunities were running out. Soon she’d be officially betrothed to a man she didn’t love, and shortly after that, she’d become his wife. She suppressed a shiver and reminded herself that a lov
eless marriage was a small price to pay for her family’s security.
“Perhaps I will wear the green gown,” Sophie mused. “Let us hope that the shocking display of décolletage doesn’t cause Lady Rufflebum to faint straightaway.” She gave her friends a wink before collecting her portmanteau and saying goodbye. Fiona and Lily proceeded to hug and fuss over her like she was embarking on an expedition to Egypt instead of walking a few blocks across town.
A half hour later, Sophie breezed through the front door of her family’s townhouse, hung her bonnet on its peg, and peered into the hallway looking glass, smoothing several tendrils of hair behind her ears. “Hullo,” she called out. “I’m home, Mama.”
Her mother emerged from the drawing room doors at the top of the stairs and waved at Sophie excitedly. “You have an unexpected visitor, darling.”
Sophie’s belly somersaulted at the announcement. Mama’s pink cheeks and shining eyes left no doubt that the visitor in question was a gentleman, and Sophie couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Peabody had come to call. It was the height of foolishness to suspect it—and even more foolish to hope for it—but her body thrummed at the mere possibility that he might be sitting in her drawing room.
“Who is it?” Sophie asked in a stage whisper.
Mama merely smiled and met her halfway down the stairs, grabbing her arm so she could hurry her up to the landing. “You look lovely,” Mama assured her. “The brisk walk home has given you a fetching glow. Let me take your portmanteau so you may join your guest in the drawing room without delay. I’ve already rung for tea.”
Sophie planted her feet outside the drawing room door and faced her mother. “You’re not going to tell me who’s in there?”
“Go see for yourself,” Mama said, giving Sophie a surprisingly strong shove toward the door.
Sophie stepped into the drawing room and spotted her gentleman caller lounging on their slightly shabby settee, his back to her. His broad shoulders, clad in an expertly tailored jacket, were visible above the settee’s curved back, and his muscular arms spanned its length as if staking out his territory.
Drat. Lord Singleton had finally succeeded in cornering her.
She looked longingly over her shoulder at the door but knew she couldn’t avoid the marquess this time. “Good afternoon, Lord Singleton,” she said, trying valiantly to mask her lack of enthusiasm. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He quickly scrambled to his feet, took her hand, and bowed over it. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine, Miss Kendall.”
Sophie resisted the impulse to snatch her hand away. The marquess was well-mannered, impressively fit, dark haired, and clean-shaven. Attractive by most standards … just not hers.
When she could politely withdraw her hand, she waved at the settee, encouraging him to sit. She poured a cup of tea, handed it to Lord Singleton, and pretended to be oblivious to his chagrined expression when she sat in the chair opposite him rather than joining him on the settee.
“I spoke to your father again last night,” he said smoothly. “He’s eager for you and I to … move forward. As am I.”
Sophie’s tea gurgled in her belly. This conversation was the primary reason she hadn’t wanted to be alone with the marquess. “I see no need to rush into anything, my lord.”
“No one could accuse us of rushing.” He blew out a long breath, clearly frustrated. “Your father led me to believe that you were amenable to the arrangement. If you’ve changed your mind…”
Sophie shook her head. “I haven’t.” She wouldn’t shirk her duty to her family, no matter how much she might like to. “However, I thought perhaps we could wait a few more months before making anything official.”
“Two months,” he said firmly.
Her traitorous teacup trembled on its saucer. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m willing to wait two months—and then we will announce our betrothal.”
Sophie’s mouth went dry. “We can discuss the timing and the other particulars toward the end of season,” she hedged. The mere thought of adhering to a timeline, setting a definitive date, made panic bubble at the back of her throat.
“Two months,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard her, “should be sufficient. It’s longer than I’d hoped, but we’ll use the time to become better acquainted and marry as soon as the banns are read. With any luck, you’ll be with child by Christmas.”
Sophie choked on a swallow of tea. Barely managed to keep from spraying it across the table onto the marquess’s pristine waistcoat. She smothered her mouth with her napkin, hacking and coughing until tears spilled down her cheeks.
Lord Singleton leaned forward, clearly distressed and unsure what to do. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She blotted her eyes with the corner of her napkin and shook her head. “I’m fine. Your comment simply took me by surprise.” The truth was that she couldn’t imagine any of it—not the betrothal, the wedding, and most definitely not the wedding night. An involuntary shudder enveloped her body.
Though she’d met Lord Singleton almost a year ago, he was still a relative stranger—who was already anticipating procreating with her. She fanned herself with her napkin.
“Your mother tells me you’re planning to attend Lady Rufflebum’s ball,” he said, oozing a specific strain of charm—one she seemed to be immune to. “I do hope you’ll allow me to claim you for the first set.”
Sophie pasted on a smile and graciously agreed. It felt like she was taking the first momentous step toward saving her family from financial and social ruin.
But she couldn’t help wishing that saving her family didn’t mean sacrificing her own future. Like yellowing leaves on the brink of a brutal winter, her dreams were about to shrivel and die.
Chapter 4
Lurking behind the hedges outside Lady Rufflebum’s ballroom and trying to avoid amorous couples on the terrace had to be a new low—even for Reese.
His valet, Gordon, had tried to cajole Reese into attending the ball as a guest. But that would have required him to wear an evening jacket and to walk through the front door and to be generally … civil.
Which was really asking a bit too much.
Reese was desperate to speak with Miss Kendall, however, and that was the reason he was currently peering over a bush beneath a window, peeking into the ballroom like a common criminal. At Reese’s behest, Gordon had made some discreet inquiries among the staff at her family’s residence and determined that Miss Kendall would likely attend the Rufflebum ball. There were no guarantees, of course, but it wasn’t as though Reese’s calendar were full.
The one thing he had plenty of—an endless supply, really—was waking hours. And therein lay the problem.
The last time he’d slept more than a couple of hours was five nights ago—on the evening he met Miss Kendall. He’d woken early the next morning feeling more rested than he had in ages. Almost human.
If she’d been able to help him sleep once, surely she could do it again.
He craned his neck above the sill and looked through the mullioned windows into the ballroom—a world so foreign and mysterious to him that it might as well have been two continents away. He was the second born, and while he’d attended a ball or two as a young buck, he’d eagerly traded in his formal wear for an officer’s uniform. He’d given up the opera, theater, and men’s clubs for rifles, fighting, and battlefields—and hadn’t regretted it for a single moment.
But then, three months ago, the unthinkable had happened. Edmund, the older brother he’d worshipped, had died.
Reese had no choice but to return home. But part of him still bled in the trenches, still heard the moans of the fallen all around him. He could never go back to being the person he’d been before.
And he could certainly never replace Edmund, but, like it or not, Reese was the Earl of Warshire now. The title conveyed power, privilege, and a whole host of problems. The most pressing—and surprising, to Reese—was a distinct l
ack of cash. Fortunately, he’d always been good with numbers and felt sure he could do a better job managing the books than Edmund’s old steward had. Reese wouldn’t mind sacking a few crooked employees and tightening some belts. He’d turn the estate around and take care of it until the day it passed to the next in line—his cousin, if he outlived Reese, or his cousin’s heir, if he didn’t. Reese didn’t much care who the title went to. Probably because it was never supposed to have been his.
He scowled at the scene inside Lady Rufflebum’s glittering ballroom, where chandeliers glowed and the orchestra played. Elegant couples moved across the dance floor with the same precision as soldiers marching toward the front lines. On the perimeter of the room, matrons and older gentlemen gathered in clusters, forming encampments where they could safely observe the action without actually venturing into the fray.
Reese spied several young women with blond hair inside the house, but even from a distance he could tell that none of them was Miss Kendall. Though he’d only met her once, and they’d only conversed for an hour or so, everything about her had been indelibly imprinted on his mind. Her wildflower scent, her effortless grace, her lyrical voice. He saw her when he closed his eyes … and he suspected the valerian root was to blame.
He remained in his hiding spot, keeping company with the frogs and occasionally looking into the ballroom, hoping for a glimpse of Miss Kendall. The hours wore on, and just when he was about to abandon his post, he saw her.
Wrapped in an airy swath of emerald-green silk, she twirled across the parquet dance floor. Her hair was gathered in a knot at her crown, but a few honey-colored curls floated around her face and down her neck. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman there. She didn’t wear the most expensive jewels. She wasn’t even the most accomplished dancer.
But she was the only one that he saw.
He blamed the damned tea for that, too.
When You Wish Upon a Rogue Page 3