She danced with a large, dark-haired man. Reese didn’t know him, but he looked to be the sort who took everything for granted—his dashing looks, immense wealth, high-born status … and his current dance partner.
Reese rolled his shoulders and eased the tension out of his neck. Who cared if Miss Kendall danced with a rich, arrogant young buck? She could dance with the devil if she wished.
All Reese needed from her was the recipe for the brew she’d concocted. The one that had, by some miracle, given him a few hours of peace.
So he tried to be patient as she finished her waltz. Watched with interest as she joined two young women—sisters, if he had to guess—and embraced each of them warmly. He imagined it would be quite pleasant to be hugged by Miss Kendall, partly because she smelled nice, and partly because she cared about everything—people, plants, probably animals too.
She talked animatedly with her friends, and when she smiled, soft and true, the sight made his chest physically ache. He tried to rub the pain away, but it lingered like a phantom, taunting him. Telling him he’d never be enough.
Jesus. He tore himself away from the window, pressed his back to the brick wall, and closed his eyes. Clearly, he was in dire need of sleep. Any qualms he’d had about tonight’s plan evaporated like a morning mist. He needed to speak with Miss Kendall.
He raked a hand through his hair and straightened his jacket before stepping onto the terrace and making his way toward the double doors leading to the ballroom. He remained outside but managed to flag down a gangly footman who circulated among the guests serving drinks.
The young man approached and bowed politely. “May I be of service, my lord?”
Reese thrust a hand into his pocket and withdrew the note he’d written before leaving the house. Handing it to the footman, he said, “Deliver this to Miss Kendall, please.”
“Miss Kendall?” the lad said, shrugging.
“She’s standing across from the orchestra.” Reese nodded in her direction. “Wearing the brilliant green gown.”
The footman followed Reese’s gaze, and when he spotted her, his eyes widened in obvious appreciation.
“Your discretion is appreciated,” Reese added, dropping a coin into the young man’s palm. “But the sooner you can give her the note, the better.”
With that, Reese withdrew into the shadows … and went to wait for Miss Kendall in the garden.
* * *
“Champagne, ladies?” A whip-thin footman flourished a tray, offering fizzing glasses to Fiona, Lily, and Sophie. Fiona declined, but Lily and Sophie eagerly helped themselves to crystal flutes. They had just raised their glasses in a silent toast when the footman surreptitiously handed Sophie a small, folded paper. “For you,” he said under his breath before weaving his way through the crowd.
Something in the footman’s demeanor caused Sophie to keep the paper concealed in her fist. If Fiona or Lily noticed the odd exchange, neither said anything. But then, perhaps they were distracted by the arrival of their handsome husbands, who hoped to steal them away for a dance. When the sisters hesitated, Sophie waved them onto the dance floor. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll take the opportunity to check on Mama.”
While she waited for her friends to melt into the throng on the dance floor, the paper burned a hole in her palm. She, Sophie Kendall, was not the sort of young woman who routinely received mysterious missives. She’d never inspired a gentleman to write her romantic poetry. She’d never even passed a note to a classmate in the schoolroom.
She supposed the note could be from a member of the Debutante Underground, but that would amount to an infraction of rule number two, and she’d never had a member reach out to her outside of their established meeting time.
The most likely scenario Sophie could imagine was that the footman had delivered the note to her in error. Perhaps it had been intended for Lady Halton, who, like her, was wearing a green silk gown, but who, unlike her, currently had half a dozen men vying for her attention.
Sophie swallowed and turned the paper over in her hand. If it was meant for her, she fervently hoped it was not from Lord Singleton—who had already claimed a dance with her and had been keeping a watchful eye on her ever since.
As she casually walked toward a trio of potted topiaries at the back of the ballroom, she wondered if the person who’d delivered the note was watching her now. Whether he’d be gauging her reaction as she read his words.
She found a quiet spot near a spiral boxwood, carefully unfolded the paper, and read the bold, scrawling script.
Dear Miss Kendall,
I underestimated the power of your tea—and, moreover, you.
Please, meet me in the garden if and when you are able.
Sophie’s fingers tingled. Mr. Peabody had written her a note. Wanted to see her again. Tonight.
She scanned the paper once more before folding it and furtively slipping it into the top of her bodice, tucking it between her breasts in a manner that would have horrified her former headmistress, Miss Haywinkle.
Sophie paused to gather her wits. What on earth was Mr. Peabody doing at Lady Rufflebum’s ball? And why hadn’t she spotted him among the guests?
More to the point, why did the prospect of seeing the growly, sleep-deprived tailor again make her belly turn cartwheels?
Across the room from Sophie, Mama appeared to listen raptly as Mrs. Hartley gossiped and waved her fan demonstratively. Lord Singleton looked as though he were embroiled in some sort of political debate with several older gentlemen. Fiona and Lily still whirled on the dance floor.
Deciding no one would miss her if she took a short stroll in the garden, Sophie smoothed the front of her skirt and glided toward the French doors at the side of the room.
The moment she stepped over the threshold onto the terrace, she felt as though she’d ventured into another realm. The sound of the orchestra’s violins faded into the chirps of crickets and croaks of toads. The scents of beeswax candles and pungent perfume faded into the lush smells of dew-kissed grass and blossoming peonies.
At the rear of the terrace, Sophie followed a winding stone path under an ivy-covered arbor and past a charming stone birdbath nestled in a cluster of hydrangea bushes. Lanterns placed at intervals along the path lit the way and added a soft glow to Lady Rufflebum’s meticulously tended garden.
But Sophie instinctively knew that Mr. Peabody would not be waiting for her near the whimsical statuettes of fairies and sprites. He’d no doubt prefer to be away from the house and the lanterns and the other guests. At a bend in the path, she paused and squinted into the moonlit landscape beyond the garden.
“Miss Kendall.” His voice, low and rich as chocolate, heated her blood.
She looked up to find him lounging beneath a large birch tree, his back pressed against the trunk. Dressed in a black jacket, trousers, and boots, he blended into the shadows; only the crisp white of his cravat stood out in the darkness.
He pushed himself off the tree and inclined his head politely. “Thank you for coming.”
She took a few steps off the path, into the soft grass. Toward him. “Mr. Peabody,” she said softly. “What are you doing here?”
He looked down at the ground. “My name isn’t Peabody.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m not the tailor, but I happen to own the building.” He met her gaze, his expression apologetic. “My name is Reese, and I’m the Earl of Warshire.”
Sophie blinked. Not in a hundred summers would she have guessed that Mr. Peabody was an earl. He was too wild and unrefined. Too rough around the edges. “The Earl of Warshire,” she repeated, combing through her mental files for any pertinent information. “Wait. I thought the earl had…” She stopped because she couldn’t bring herself to say what she recalled about the former earl, who must have been Reese’s older brother—that he’d died a few months ago after a tragic hunting accident. “Your brother?” she asked.
He nodded as though he didn’t trust himsel
f to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “You must feel the loss keenly.”
“I do.” His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat. “I should have told you I wasn’t Mr. Peabody that night,” he said. “I’m not sure why I didn’t.”
“Maybe because you thought I was trying to rob you blind?” she replied.
That garnered a half smile. “Maybe.” He swallowed and looked at her earnestly. “In any event, I fell asleep before I could thank you for the tea. You were right about me not sleeping much. And that’s the other reason I asked you to meet me tonight.”
She shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Miss Kendall,” he said, his voice sober. “I require your help. And I think we could strike a deal that would benefit us both.”
Sophie moved a bit closer. Marveled at the way the moonlight cast his face in relief—the faint hollows of his cheeks, the straight line of his nose, and strong edge of his jaw. “What sort of help do you need?” she asked, her curiosity far outweighing any apprehension.
He hesitated, rubbing his chin before he replied. “I need you to spend the night with me.”
Chapter 5
Miss Kendall’s impossibly long eyelashes fluttered. “Forgive me,” she said with a nervous chuckle. “It sounded as though you said you needed me to spend the night with you.”
“I did, and I do.” It was a bold request, but Reese saw no reason to prevaricate. Figured she’d appreciate his candor. “But before you misconstrue my meaning”—clearly, it was too late for that—“please allow me to explain. I’m not suggesting anything untoward. I simply need you to help me sleep. Like you did the other night.”
“Oh,” she said, her relief obvious—and unintentionally insulting. “There’s no need for me to stay the night with you, Lord Warshire. I’ll simply give you some more valerian root.”
He shook his head firmly. “I’ve already tried it. I used the bag you left behind, and it didn’t work.”
She tilted her head. “But it’s the same mix.”
“I know. And it didn’t make me fall asleep.” On Saturday evening, he’d re-created the exact conditions on the night she’d been at the shop. Steeped the tea in precisely the same way. Reclined in the same old chair. Even tidied the room as she had, prior to drinking four cups of the damned potion. But he hadn’t slept a wink.
The tea hadn’t been effective on the three subsequent nights he’d tried it either. Apparently, the missing ingredient was Miss Kendall.
“Interesting,” she mused. She tapped a finger to her lips, thoughtful. “Why don’t I write out the exact steps and proportions I use and deliver the instructions to you in a letter?”
“You don’t understand,” he said as gently as he could, given the panic swirling in his gut. If she didn’t say yes, he’d be reduced to begging. He was terrifyingly close to it already. “It wasn’t the valerian root that helped me sleep for the first time in weeks. It was you.”
A mixture of understanding, pity, and denial dawned on her face. “It’s not me, Lord Warshire.”
“Call me Reese,” he said. “Please. Every time you use the title I’m reminded of Edmund, my brother.” And how he should still be there. Only, he wasn’t.
“Very well … Reese,” she said tentatively. For some reason, the sound of his name on her lips made his heart gallop. “I’m truly sorry that you’ve been suffering from insomnia,” she said, and the compassion in her voice gave him hope. “But if you think I had anything to do with your good night’s rest, you are mistaken. I have neither healing abilities nor magical powers,” she added with a shrug. “I simply brew a good pot of tea—and anyone can learn how to do that.”
Shit. He’d been afraid she wouldn’t believe him. But then, she didn’t really need to believe she could help him. She simply needed to agree.
“All I ask is that you stay with me. A couple of nights a week.”
She gasped. “Impossible.”
“I’d let you use the building,” he said, playing one of his last two cards. “Rent-free. As often as you wish.”
She froze, her beautiful face impassive. But he could tell from her eyes that she was sorely tempted. “You’d bribe me to spend the night with you?”
“It’s not a bribe,” he assured her. “More like a trade. You’d be doing me a service, and I’d be compensating you for your time. I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it—to reveal the depths of his desperation. “I wouldn’t ask if I thought I had another option,” he amended.
She paced in front of him, the emerald silk swishing around her feet like waves churning along the shore. He could almost see her weighing her desire to use the tailor’s shop against her resolve to avoid trouble.
“No,” she said at last. “As much as I’d like to help, I can’t. Do you imagine for one second that my parents would permit me to spend the night alone with a bachelor? And if anyone learned of our little arrangement—innocent or not—my name would be trampled in the mud like primroses after a foxhunt.”
“You were wandering the streets alone on the night we met,” he countered. “If you managed to escape your house once, surely you could do it again.”
“That’s different,” she said. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
He arched a brow at that. She may not have been breaking any laws, but she clearly had a few secrets of her own. “I’m not asking you to do anything wrong either.”
She held out her palms helplessly. “I’m sorry, Reese. I know you’re convinced that I can help, but I can’t. And I can’t risk my whole future and my family’s good name just to prove that to you.” She shook her head regretfully. “I must go.”
Despair hovered, threatening to smother him like a shroud. He couldn’t—and wouldn’t—force Miss Kendall to spend a night with him.
But he couldn’t let her leave without playing his very last card, which wasn’t a card at all. “Wait,” he said. He reached behind the base of the birch tree and picked up the single rose he’d cut from his garden that morning. The yellow blossom, large as a saucer, had reminded him of her—bold and open, but soft, too. And the petals, brilliant gold with hints of orange at the edges, were as fresh as the sunrise. As warm as her smile.
He said none of those things, of course, as he gave her the flower, opting instead for, “This is for you.”
Her eyes grew wide and her lips parted. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, holding it up in the moonlight. “I’ve never seen a rose quite like this. Did you find it in Lady Rufflebum’s garden?”
He shook his head. “It’s from Warshire Manor.”
“You have a garden?” she asked, as if he’d piqued her curiosity.
“I’m not certain you could call it a garden. More like a wasteland. A colorless collection of dead bushes and shriveled flowers.”
“But this rose,” she said, twirling the stem between her fingertips.
“It was the only blossom on the bush. Probably the one living thing in the whole damned place.”
“Truly?” she asked, intrigued.
He took a step closer, determined to memorize the gentle slope of her nose and the bowed shape of her lips. He didn’t blame her for refusing to help him. But if he wasn’t ever going to see her again, he might as well leave her with the truth. “In a sea of decay and death, that rose was a stubborn spot of sunshine—and it reminded me of you.”
He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and swallowed a mouthful of despair and loneliness. Tried not to think about the endless days and torturous nights that stretched out before him. He inclined his head and said, “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” before turning on his heel and striding away.
He’d almost reached Lady Rufflebum’s back gate when he heard Miss Kendall call out behind him. “Reese. Wait.”
He froze, wondering if he’d wished her voice into his ears. But when he slowly spun around, she was standing there, her chest rising and f
alling with each breath.
“I still don’t believe that I can help you sleep,” she said, “but I’m willing to try.”
A tiny seed of hope took root inside him. “Thank you,” he said, his voice ragged to his own ears.
Her deep sigh said she was already regretting her decision. “Meet me at the shop on Friday. The same time as last week,” she said smoothly. “We’ll discuss the terms of our … arrangement then.”
“Very well. I look forward to seeing you. On Friday.” He was already counting the hours. “Good night, Miss Kendall.”
She looked down at the yellow rose she held and smiled in spite of herself. “Good night.” He remained standing there, watching as she gracefully turned and walked toward the house. When she glanced back at him, it felt like the sun had peeked through the clouds. “Oh, and Reese?” she said, as if she’d almost forgotten something. Something important.
His heart hammered. “Yes?”
“You may call me Sophie.” She shot him a dazzling smile before she disappeared into the night like a nymph leaving the mortal world for her mystical realm.
Chapter 6
On Friday evening, at the conclusion of the Debutante Underground meeting, Sophie presented to Madam Laurent a pot of bright periwinkle asters nestled in a thick bunch of deep green leaves. Smiling at the dress-shop owner, she said, “On behalf of all our members, I’d like to thank you for allowing us to meet here for the last several weeks. You’ve been so generous.”
The ladies sitting around the long table in the back room of the dress shop nodded and clapped appreciatively.
“But we’ve imposed on you for far too long,” Sophie continued, “and I’m pleased to announce that starting next week, we’ll be meeting in a vacant building just down the block. It’s the old tailor’s shop, and I’ve arranged for us to use it on Friday evenings. So, enjoy your week, and I look forward to welcoming you to our new location next time.”
Everyone murmured excitedly as they filed out. Sophie quickly set the room to rights and called good night to Madam Laurent and Ivy before slipping out the door and heading down the alley toward the tailor’s—and her rendezvous with Reese.
When You Wish Upon a Rogue Page 4