When You Wish Upon a Rogue

by Bennett, Anna

  Each time she thought about seeing him again, her nerves stretched tight and her skin prickled. Partly because she had no idea what he expected of her. It wasn’t that she feared him. If he’d wanted to harm her or take advantage of her, he could have done so the first night they’d met or shortly after, on the night of the ball. But he’d been a gentleman. A grumpy gentleman, to be sure, but always respectful of boundaries—and of her.

  The truth was that much of her nervousness was born out of anticipation. She wanted to see him again, even though she knew she shouldn’t feel that way.

  That was why she’d been determined to resist his pleas, his bribes, and his silver tongue. She’d been unyielding as an oak, in fact, right up to the moment when he’d given her the rose. Then her resolve had blown away like dandelion seeds in the wind. In that moment, she’d caught the briefest glimpse of the man underneath all the despair and pain. He’d been honest and kind—almost poetic.

  But she’d seen something else in him too—an appreciation for nature’s power and beauty. Anyone who could see the world that way was not beyond saving.

  She walked briskly to the green door, rapped twice, and placed a hand over her chest. Dash it all, if her heart didn’t slow its beating, she was going to need valerian root herself.

  Reese yanked open the door almost immediately—as if he’d been pacing the room, waiting for her. “You knocked,” he said with a wry, disarming grin. “How refreshing.” He waved her in, to the center of the room, toward the pair of leather chairs.

  She faced him and prepared to launch into the speech she’d rehearsed earlier. The one where she explained in no uncertain terms that she would be dictating the rules of their deal and that she was prepared to walk out the door if he balked at a single one of her demands.

  But the moment she saw him in the light of the lantern, the words died on her lips. His hair stood on end, and several days’ worth of stubble covered his jaw. His eyelids were droopy, his cheeks sunken. “Reese,” she said, setting her reticule on the piecrust table between the chairs. “You look awful.”

  “I should have made myself presentable.” He touched his chin and winced. “My valet tried, but I can be stubborn.”

  “You don’t say.” Sophie crossed her arms. “Have you eaten yet today?”

  He stopped to think about this, as if it were a tricky question. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then that’s the first order of business,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “There’s a tavern down the block. Go and eat dinner. We’ll talk when you return.”

  “You’re not coming with me?” he asked, and Sophie would have sworn she detected a hint of alarm in that deep, rich voice.

  She shook her head firmly. “I can’t be seen with you.”

  He met her gaze, his eyes wary and wounded. “I’m not hungry,” he countered.

  “It’s not open for debate,” she said. “You must eat before we discuss the particulars of our agreement.”

  He hesitated. “You’ll wait here?”

  She nodded solemnly. “I promise.”

  Grudgingly, he grabbed the jacket that was draped over the back of a chair and stuffed his arms into it. “I won’t be long, but lock the door behind me, just to be safe.”

  She gave him a placating smile and waved him out the door.

  When she was alone, she wandered around the room, eager to have a better look at the shop. Most of the merchandise had been removed from the shelves and counters, but a few pitiful items remained: a single glove, a mismatched pair of socks, a couple of cravats, and a cane.

  Behind the counter, she found an assortment of cuff links, buttons, and feathers. But she was more pleased to find an apron and a bottle of dusting oil. Thinking she might as well start cleaning the room prior to next week’s meeting, she slipped the long apron—which she guessed had belonged to Mr. Peabody—over her head and grabbed one of the cravats to use as a rag. She dusted the counter and shelves and even ran her cloth over the leather chairs.

  She was so absorbed in the task that Reese startled her when he walked in, carrying a small sack in the crook of his arm. “What’s that smell?” he asked, sniffing the air suspiciously. “And why does it look like a brigade of overzealous maids came through here?”

  Sophie brushed off her palms, untied the apron, and lifted it over her head. “It’s lemon oil,” she said with a shrug. “The room was overdue for a cleaning.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a frown. “I hope you know that’s not why I asked you here.”

  “I know,” she said—although she still wasn’t entirely sure of the real reason. “How was your dinner?”

  “I brought it back,” he said, holding the sack aloft. “There’s a sandwich in here for you as well, some cheese, and a couple of apples.” He sat in one of the chairs and gestured at the other. When she didn’t move, he said, “You’re not going to make me eat alone, are you?”

  Tentative, she took the sandwich he offered and sat across from him. It seemed strange to be eating dinner alone with a man—and even stranger that they had no napkins, utensils, or table. A little like a picnic, but without the pesky insects.

  Feeling Reese’s eyes on her, she nibbled at the sandwich. “Delicious,” she said.

  He unwrapped his and bit into it with obvious gusto. “Food was an excellent idea,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

  They devoured most everything Reese had brought from the tavern, with the exception of the apples, which they set on the table between them.

  The room had no clock on display, but Sophie suspected that the hour was close to midnight. Usually by this time on a Friday evening, she would have made her way from the meeting to Fiona and Gray’s house, where she often stayed up late visiting with her friends before making herself at home in their lovely guest bedchamber. But earlier that day, she’d sent Fiona a note informing her that she wouldn’t be able to spend the night and would arrive early Saturday morning, instead.

  Sending the note had felt a bit like crossing into dangerous, uncharted territory. Miss Haywinkle had been fond of saying that the rules of proper behavior were in place to protect young ladies. Sophie had been skeptical, but as she sat across from the scruffy, brooding Earl of Warshire in the quiet, dimly lit room, she began to think that the headmistress may have had a point.

  And that was precisely why Sophie intended to set up rules governing their interactions. She needed to establish clear boundaries. Lines that would not—could not—be crossed.

  “As I mentioned in Lady Rufflebum’s garden,” she began, “I think it’s important that we spell out the terms of this arrangement.”

  “I agree,” Reese said earnestly. “But allow me to pour us some drinks first.” Before she could object, he swept away the remnants of their dinner, disappeared into the back room, and returned with two glasses of brandy. He handed one to her, then clinked his glass against hers before raising it and taking a long swallow.

  Sophie set hers down on the table without taking a sip. If there was ever a time she needed to keep her wits about her, tonight was it. “I am under no obligation to you,” she began. “But to ensure there is no misunderstanding going forward, I wish to make a few things clear.”

  “Fair enough,” he said smoothly as he settled back into his chair. “I know that my request is highly irregular, but I’m not proposing anything improper. It’s not my intent to seduce you, Sophie.”

  Heat crept up her neck. Whether it was from talk of seducing or the velvet sound of her name on his tongue, she couldn’t say. Either way, she was grateful that the lantern was on the counter and she and Reese were mostly in shadows.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that you have wicked intentions where I’m concerned,” she said. “I realize that such a thing would be highly unlikely.”

  “Why is that?” he asked, incredulous.

  Heavens. Now her cheeks were on fire. “Because I don’t usually inspire those sorts of…” Dear God, this was hu
miliating, but she’d promised herself she’d be forthright in her discussions with Reese. That she wouldn’t dance around difficult subjects. “I only meant that men generally don’t … desire me in that way.”

  He blinked as though she’d managed to stun him. And then he chuckled—a deep, intoxicating laugh that she felt low in her belly. “Forgive me,” he said, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. “But as long as we’re being truthful, I have a confession to make.”

  Sophie braced herself and resisted the urge to reach for her glass of brandy. “Go on.”

  “I was sincere when I said that it isn’t my intent to seduce you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t desire you, Sophie. In fact, it’s difficult for me to imagine a woman more desirable.” His gaze, undeniably hot, lingered on her face for several heartbeats.

  Like a dormant bulb feeling the sun after a long, brutal winter, her body unfurled, blossoming with warmth. “The conversation seems to have veered off course,” she said, doing her best impression of Miss Haywinkle. “The point is that I want to be clear about our agreement. You will permit me to use this room every Friday night between the hours of seven and eleven o’clock. Afterward, I shall endeavor to create an atmosphere that’s conducive to sleep—but I make no guarantees.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, wary. “What, exactly, is going to happen here between the hours of seven and eleven?”

  Sophie purposely ignored the question. “That brings me to rule number one.”

  “We have rules?”

  “You will make no inquiries about my use of the building and will stay far away during the aforementioned hours.”

  “Fine,” he grumbled, arching a brow. “But this is a respectable tailor’s shop. I hope you don’t plan to turn it into an opium den.”

  “If I do, it’s no concern of yours,” she said briskly.

  Reese took a swallow of brandy and shot her a knee-melting half smile. “I’m intrigued, Miss Kendall.”

  “Rule number two,” she continued. “Absolutely no one may know about this arrangement,” she said soberly.

  Reese rubbed the stubble on his chin. “My staff?”

  Sophie’s neck prickled ominously. “Why would they need to know?”

  “Because they’re bound to see you at Warshire Manor,” he said, as if it should have been painfully obvious.

  “But I assumed we’d be meeting here in the shop,” she said, even as she realized he had other ideas.

  He shrugged. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly, “there’s no bed here.”

  She stood and paced in front of her chair. “You slept in the chair last Friday evening. Why can’t you do it again?”

  “Because I need you to stay with me, and you wouldn’t be comfortable here.”

  She blinked. “Reese, I am not going to share a bed with you.”

  He arched a brow, amused. “I wasn’t suggesting that.”

  “Good.” She spun on her heel to hide her mortification. The earl had already said he wasn’t trying to seduce her, and yet she’d rather recklessly injected the possibility into the conversation again. She’d assumed he had ulterior motives for wanting her to spend the night—but it seemed her worry was for naught. “However, I’m afraid that spending the night at Warshire Manor is out of the question.”

  “But you were prepared to spend the night here. How is staying at my house any different? It’s only a short coach ride away—and far more comfortable. I’ve already had a guest bedchamber prepared for you.”

  Needing some distance, Sophie walked to the far wall and plucked a half-crushed derby off the shelf. She spun the hat in her hands, stalling for time. What Reese said was logical. How could she explain that going to his house felt far too personal? There she would run the risk of learning more about who he truly was. And then she might begin to care about him—as more than a grumpy, sleep-deprived earl.

  Setting the hat back on the shelf, she faced him and said, “You shouldn’t have presumed I would be willing to go home with you. I’d prefer to stay here, in territory that’s more neutral.”

  “I’m not an adversary, Sophie. I want you to be comfortable. If you wish to spend the night here, then that’s what we’ll do. I just thought that you’d like to have your own room and that…” His voice trailed off as he stared into his glass and shook his head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  She took a few steps closer to him, curious. “What?” she asked. “What’s not important?”

  He pressed his lips together as if determined to remain silent, but she walked right up to his chair. Challenged him to look into her eyes.

  He held her gaze for several seconds, casually set down his glass, and stood so that they were toe-to-toe. He was so close that she could see the gold flecks in his irises and the dark fringe of his lashes. “I was going to say that as long you were at Warshire Manor, I thought you might enjoy spending time in my garden.”

  “The garden where you found the yellow rose?” she asked, keenly intrigued. She could still see the flower’s perfection in her mind’s eye. Could still feel its velvet petals against her cheek.

  “The same one,” he confirmed. “But, as I mentioned, there’s not much else to look at. The head gardener took ill last year and hasn’t tended to it in several months. He’s slowly recovering and is intent on returning to his duties as soon as he can. He’s faithfully served my family for years, so I’m willing to wait, but in the meantime, the grounds look rather … bleak.”

  Sophie swallowed. If there was one thing she found nigh irresistible, it was a gardening project—and the greater the challenge, the better. But she had to weigh that against the risks. “I will consider going to Warshire Manor next week,” she said. “Tonight we will stay here.”

  “Fair enough.” Reese’s eyes crinkled at the corners and a half smile formed on his lips. “Is it time for bed yet?”

  Chapter 7

  Sophie cast an assessing gaze at Reese’s face. “You’re not in the right frame of mind for sleep,” she said.

  That much was true. All his senses were on high alert around Sophie. His body thrummed with awareness of her—the sure, graceful way she moved, the unexpectedly sultry tone of her voice, and the defiant spark in her blue eyes.

  Though he longed for sleep, he disliked the thought of wasting hours he could be spending in her company. “What would you like to do?” he asked. “We could play cards or go for a walk.”

  She looked around the room, thoughtful. “Let’s move some furniture.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the leather chairs. “What’s wrong with the furniture?”

  “Nothing. But I’ll need more seating in here for next Friday, arranged in a circle.”

  Reese shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the counter. He didn’t really give a damn what they did—just having her close gave him comfort. Distracted him from his big problems.

  “There’s a long bench in the back room. I can bring it out here,” he offered.

  “Perfect,” she said. “There are a few stools behind the counter, too. Even ottomans will serve my purposes.”

  Reese desperately wanted to know what she planned to do there but couldn’t risk asking without violating the rules she’d laid out only minutes before. So he rolled up his shirtsleeves and brought every seat he could find to the center of the shop’s front room, moving each one according to her directions. The only chair she didn’t want him to move was the one in the back room where he’d slept last week.

  When they were finished, the hodgepodge of chairs, benches, stools, and even overturned crates formed a large, neat oval that could seat at least a couple dozen people.

  “It’s a fine start,” Sophie mused, slowly turning in the center of the circle like a dancer on a dais. “Thank you for your help.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, surprised that he meant it.

  “I brought more tea,” she said, gesturing toward her reticule. “Would you like me to prepar
e some?”

  He thought about it for two seconds and decided he’d rather expire from lack of sleep than have her treat him like a feeble curmudgeon. “Thank you, but I think I’ll stick with brandy for now.”

  She looked suddenly self-conscious. Almost nervous. “It’s late, and I happen to know you’re in need of rest. Perhaps we should go to the back room and see if we can make you comfortable.”

  Good God. He didn’t want a nursemaid. In fairness to Sophie, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. “Are you tired?” he asked. “You’re welcome to curl up in the chair back there. I can stay out here, so you’ll have some privacy.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sleepy. Maybe if we play cards for a while our eyelids will grow heavy.”

  Reese took a deck of cards out of the side table’s small drawer and loosely shuffled them in his palms. “Shall I bring a larger table out here?”

  Sophie grabbed a few cushions off the chairs and threw them onto the carpet in the center of the circle. “No need. We can play on the floor.”

  “Vingt-et-un?” he asked, sinking onto a cushion across from her.

  “As long as you don’t mind losing.” There it was again. That sensual, slightly suggestive lilt to her voice. The one that made him feel like he’d just taken his first shot of whiskey.

  He propped himself on one elbow and dealt the cards. “Care to make a wager, Miss Kendall?”

  She met his gaze and pursed her lips, thoughtful. “I believe I would, my lord.”

  It seemed to him that the room grew warmer. More intimate. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Money is too commonplace,” she said, tapping her plump lower lip with an index finger. “Surely we can do better than that.”

  His blood heated a few more degrees. “I concur.”

  “I have nothing of value to wager,” she drawled. “So we will need to be a bit more creative.”

  No problem there. He’d already imagined half a dozen wagers ranging from mildly improper to wildly wicked. “Name the stakes,” he said. “Anything goes.”