When You Wish Upon a Rogue

by Bennett, Anna

  “Are you certain?” As she picked up the cards he’d dealt and glanced down at them, her face gave no indication of her hand.

  “Positive.”

  “Very well.” She set down her cards, slowly stood, and walked behind the counter. She bent down, and when she straightened, she was hiding something behind her back. Deliberately, she returned to their spot on the carpet and eased her way to her cushion, the skirt of her dress billowing around her like a frosted cake. “Tonight we will wager…”

  She produced a crystal bowl from behind her back. A bowl filled with—

  “… buttons.” She spilled them onto the carpet and then scooped them in her palms, letting them run through her fingers like pirate’s gold.

  “Buttons,” he said flatly.

  “The pink embroidered ones are the most valuable, obviously.” She held one up for him to admire.

  “Obviously,” he repeated, impressed that she’d managed to surprise him.

  “But the ones made of bone are also sought-after,” she said matter-of-factly.

  He shrugged, playing along. “Personally, I prefer the polished brass.”

  “Rather unimaginative,” she teased as she began divvying up the pot. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I hope you’re prepared to lose your entire share.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he growled, but Sophie wasn’t intimidated by his bluster. She merely picked up her cards, arched a brow at him, and made her wager.

  An hour later, there were more buttons on her side than his, but he didn’t mind in the slightest. He was too distracted by the strange, buoyant feeling in his chest. A sensation he vaguely recognized as enjoyment. It was a feeling he associated with his days at Eton and summers with his brother and the first time he’d kissed a girl.

  A lifetime ago.

  But as long as he played cards with Sophie, he wasn’t thinking about his problems or his past or his inability to sleep. Instead he focused on his cards, and her blue eyes blinking at him above her hand, and the mesmerizing movement of buttons from one pile to another and back. His muscles relaxed. His breathing slowed. And some of the tension drained out of him.

  As the night wore on, her eyelids drooped, and when he caught her trying to hide a yawn behind her cards, he took pity on her and tossed his almost-certainly-winning hand facedown onto the carpet. “You’re exhausted,” he said. “Why don’t you go the back room and make yourself comfortable in the chair?”

  She set down her cards, stretched out on her side, and tucked her elbow under her head. “I’d rather stay here and just close my eyes for a bit,” she said, shooting him a sleepy, grateful smile.

  “Of course.” He grabbed one of the soft cushions and nudged it under her head.

  She sighed as she nestled her cheek against it, and he suddenly felt intensely and irrationally jealous. Of her pillow.

  “If I doze for more than a half hour, wake me,” she mumbled, her eyelashes fluttering valiantly but ultimately losing their struggle.

  “Sleep well, Sophie,” he said, more to himself than her. When he sensed he could move without disturbing her, he quietly rose, retrieved his jacket from the chair, and gently laid it over her, covering her from her shoulder to hip. He turned the lantern low before returning to the floor, where he reclined and laid his head on a cushion across from her.

  Somewhat shamelessly, he watched her. Wondered at the ease and perfection of her slumber. Someone who drifted off to sleep in the space of two sentences surely had a soul as pure as the driven snow, a conscience as clear as a cloudless sky—and Reese couldn’t begin to fathom what that must be like.

  He studied the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the slight parting of her lips. He observed the faint twitching of her eyelids and wondered if she dreamed of yellow roses or pink buttons or something else entirely.

  As he watched her, he tucked his hand beneath the pillow and bent his knees, mirroring her pose. He inhaled and exhaled in time with her breathing. He closed his eyes and pictured her—greedily sifting buttons through her hands, helping him move furniture around the shop, smiling in the moonlight in Lady Rufflebum’s garden.

  He lingered with her in that peaceful twilight, calm and content, until eventually—miraculously—he fell asleep.

  * * *

  Sophie stirred, squeezing her eyes shut to protest the beam of sunshine slicing through the narrow opening between the drawn curtains. Her muscles felt a bit stiff, but she was warm and comfortable beneath a soft wool blanket that smelled like leather, brandy, and … Reese.

  She moaned softly, rubbed her eyes, and peeked down at her torso to find that her blanket wasn’t a blanket at all, but Reese’s jacket. Heavens. She hadn’t meant to sleep through the night. The whole point in her staying at the shop with him was to help him fall—

  “Good morning.” His voice, smooth and amused, caressed her skin like a field of buttercups, and he held out a steaming cup, offering it to her. “Tea,” he said.

  She pushed herself to sitting, reached for the cup, and took a fortifying sip. “Thank you.” Blinking herself into full consciousness, she said, “I thought you didn’t drink tea.”

  “I don’t. But I know you do,” he said with a shrug, looking much improved from the night before. His cheeks weren’t quite so hollow, and his eyes weren’t quite as lost.

  “Did you … that is, were you able to sleep at all?” she asked.

  “I did,” he said, half incredulous, half relieved.

  “That’s good,” Sophie said sincerely. “Although I think we’ve proven that you’re quite capable of falling asleep without any assistance from me. I wasn’t even awake last night. You did it all on your own, Reese.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t have slept without you.” He shot her a wary look. “You’re not trying to renege on our deal, are you?”

  She swallowed. “No. But I can’t deny that I’m questioning the wisdom of it.”

  “Why?” he asked hoarsely. “You spent the night with me, and the world didn’t come crashing down. The most scandalous thing that happened was a series of wagers involving buttons.”

  Sophie stared down at his jacket, still covering her lap. True, nothing untoward had happened—yet. But a strange heat had simmered between them. At times, she’d felt herself involuntarily leaning toward Reese, like a tulip stretching toward the sun. She couldn’t admit such a thing to him, but she was fairly certain he felt it too, which was a very dangerous thing.

  Because whatever attraction they might feel toward each other simply could not be acted upon.

  She was all but betrothed to Lord Singleton and could not disappoint her family, who were depending on her, counting on her, to keep them out of the poorhouse.

  “Are you worried someone will find out?” Reese probed. “Because I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. To make sure not a single soul knows.”

  “Yes, it’s partly that,” Sophie admitted. But she was more afraid she might not be able to resist Reese. That she might begin to long for a future she couldn’t possibly have.

  “And you’ve established rules,” he said, almost desperately. “I’ve sworn to abide by them. I wouldn’t risk losing you—that is, your help—by violating the terms you set.”

  And that’s when she realized what she must do, as a safeguard. As a last line of defense against her own, irrepressible desires: She had to tell Reese about Lord Singleton—and add one more rule, perhaps the most important of them all.

  She set down her tea, handed Reese his jacket, and looked at him earnestly. “One of the reasons I must be especially careful is that I plan to become engaged in a few weeks.”

  “Engaged,” he repeated dully.

  “Yes,” she continued, matter-of-fact. “To Lord Singleton. We’ve decided to wait till the end of the season to announce it.”

  “Singleton,” he mused. “The tall, respectable-looking bloke you danced with at Lady Rufflebum’s ball?”

  “Yes.”

 
“I see.” He stared at the crystal bowl of buttons sitting on the floor between them, and the vigor she’d seen in his face only moments before vanished. “Sophie, if you want to extricate yourself from this deal—from me—I understand. I won’t pretend to be happy about it, but I do understand.”

  “No,” she assured him. “I agreed to help you, and I want to, if I can.”

  “You already have, just by being here.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’ll promise to stay with you every Friday night until my engagement is announced, if you’ll agree to one more rule. One that may seem rather … odd.”

  He gave her an encouraging nod. “Anything you want.”

  “Rule number three,” she said softly. “We mustn’t touch each other.”

  He shook his head as though confused. “I’d never touch you,” he said gruffly. “Unless … unless you wanted me to.”

  “I know,” she said evenly. “But the rule is absolute. No touching. Even if you want to. Even if I want to. And especially if we both want to.”

  He scrubbed his palms over his face. “I’ve got it,” he said soberly. “No touching.”

  “Not even contact that could be considered innocent or incidental.” She needed a clear, firm line. The Debutante’s Revenge had explained how easy it was to succumb to desire. And it would be far easier to resist if she abstained altogether.

  Reese gazed at her, his eyes unexpectedly hot. “You have my word.”

  “Excellent,” she managed, as she stood and stretched the stiffness from her limbs. “We have a deal.”

  “I would offer to shake on it,” he said, arching a brow, “but…”

  “Your word is good enough for me, Reese. I’m trusting you.” That much was true.

  The person she didn’t trust was herself. She was counting on rule number three to keep her feet on level ground and prevent her from tumbling headfirst over a perilous cliff.

  And she hoped it would be enough.

  Chapter 8

  The members of the Debutante Underground approved wholeheartedly of the tailor’s shop as a meeting place, nodding and exclaiming over the large, open room as they filed in and took their seats the following Friday. Compared to the cozy but cramped back room of Madam Laurent’s dress shop, the tailor’s felt like a palace. The women took advantage of the empty space at one end of the room, using it to stretch their legs and mingle.

  Sophie was delighted that the group’s numbers had consistently grown, and this week was no exception. That morning’s edition of The Debutante’s Revenge had created a stir, and all the women seemed eager to talk about it.

  At eight o’clock, Sophie launched into her usual greeting and review of the rules before ceremoniously handing her copy of the London Hearsay to Ivy, one of the dress shop’s seamstresses, to read the latest column:

  Dear Debutantes,

  Young ladies are often taught to be passive and undemanding; to avoid creating a fuss. In a romantic relationship, however, it’s important to make your desires known. Tell your partner what pleases you, or, if it is difficult to speak the words, show him. Do not be afraid to ask for the things you want; encourage your partner to do the same.

  A true gentleman will appreciate and respect a woman who communicates her desires—and who does not expect him to be a reader of minds.

  The accompanying sketch depicted a couple in a field of wildflowers. She sat among the blossoms, plucking the petals off a daisy, while his head rested on her lap. They looked perfectly content and at ease with each other—and also very much in love.

  As Ivy read the column, Sophie tried to picture Lord Singleton’s head in her lap. Tried to imagine speaking to him about personal things—the sorts of things that weren’t discussed in polite company. The sorts of things that mattered.

  And she couldn’t.

  To be fair, she didn’t know him very well. But he’d never seemed very curious about her. Never sought to understand her. Not in the way Reese did.

  As the discussion around the column began in earnest, Sophie retreated to the side of the room near the counter and recalled the night she’d spent with Reese on the floor of that very room.

  She knew she shouldn’t be so eager to meet with him again, but she’d thought of little else since waking that morning. Last Saturday, before they’d said goodbye, she’d agreed to meet him outside the tailor’s shop at eleven o’clock that night so he could take her to Warshire Manor. He’d promised to dismiss the staff for the entire night so she wouldn’t have to worry about being seen—and becoming the subject of gossip.

  Sophie’s family and friends would have no inkling as to her whereabouts. Mama assumed she was staying with Fiona and Gray as usual, but Sophie had informed her friends that she wouldn’t be sleeping over for the next few weeks, due to a project she was undertaking.

  Fiona had arched a brow at that, but thankfully hadn’t pressed Sophie to elaborate on what the project entailed. All she’d said was that any project Sophie undertook was destined to be a smashing success.

  But all Sophie wanted was a bit of adventure. A taste of freedom. And if she could achieve that without bringing shame upon her family, she’d consider herself fortunate.

  As the meeting drew to a close, Sophie stood by the door and bid each woman good night. One of the last to leave was a young, weary-looking woman with huge brown eyes in a too-pale face. Her dark hair was drawn into a no-nonsense knot at her nape, and her thin shoulders were wrapped in a faded yellow shawl.

  “I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Sophie,” she said, warmly extending a hand.

  “I’m Violet,” the young woman replied. As she grasped Sophie’s fingers, she swayed on her feet till Sophie swiftly steadied her by the elbow.

  “Come, sit for a moment,” Sophie insisted, guiding her to the nearest chair. “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look well.”

  “I’m fine,” Violet assured her. “Just a bit dizzy after sitting for so long, is all. You needn’t worry about me.”

  “Nonsense.” Sophie plopped a scone on a plate and thrust it at Violet. “Something tells me you haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

  The young woman’s cheeks pinkened, and she glanced at the floor.

  “I wish I had something more substantial to offer than a scone,” Sophie said, clucking her tongue. “But that and a cup of tea will have to do, for now.”

  She brought Violet some tea and sat beside her as she nibbled on the pastry. Sophie longed to know more about the woman, who looked to be about eighteen—too young to have dark circles beneath her eyes and tired lines around her mouth. But Sophie didn’t want to pry. After all, most members were understandably skittish about sharing details of their personal lives. She did notice that the woman didn’t wear a wedding band, and her chapped hands revealed she was accustomed to hard work.

  “I’m glad you were able to join us tonight,” Sophie said sincerely. “The size of the group can seem a little overwhelming at first, but I hope you felt at home.”

  Violet nodded vigorously. “Oh yes. Everyone was so welcoming and friendly, even though I’m just a … well, I was a maid.”

  “One of the things I adore about the Debutante Underground is that it brings everyone together.” Sophie strolled around the tailor’s shop as she spoke, stacking plates and cups on a tray. “Within these walls, it makes no difference whether you’re a grand dame, a lady’s maid, a shopkeeper, or a laundress. We all gather on Friday evenings for a singular purpose—to share our knowledge and experiences … and support each other.”

  “That’s lovely.” Violet sounded wistful and hopeful at the same time.

  Sophie smiled as she gingerly watered Reese’s potted plant, which, she had to admit, was looking marginally better. “It helps knowing that we’re not alone.”

  Violet’s cup clattered against her saucer, as though her hands trembled. “I’m afraid I must go,” she said, standing abruptly.

  “Of course,” Sophie said, sympathetic. She retrieve
d her reticule from behind the counter, withdrew the few coins she’d brought, and pressed them into Violet’s palm. “It’s not much, but I’d like you to have it.”

  “I couldn’t,” Violet said, clearly appalled.

  “Please, think of it as a small gift.” The coins amounted to Sophie’s share of last week’s earnings from the newspaper column—the earnings that Fiona and Lily had insisted on splitting three ways from the start. “One day, if you wish, you can pass the kindness along to someone else.”

  “That’s very generous. I don’t know what to say, except … thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” Sophie said with a dismissive wave.

  Violet gave Sophie a wobbly smile, clutched her shawl tight around her shoulders, and turned toward the door.

  “Take care walking home,” Sophie called after her. “And I hope you’ll be able to join us again next week.”

  “I hope so too,” Violet said softly, before vanishing into the darkness of the alley.

  Sophie’s encounter with the frail young woman left her feeling uneasy as she finished washing the dishes and setting the shop to rights. But she had little time to dwell on the conversation because it was almost eleven o’clock—and Reese would arrive any minute.

  When he rapped on the window of the back door, she grabbed her portmanteau, extinguished the lantern on the counter, and met him in the alley, her heart pounding as if she’d run a mile.

  “Sophie,” he said, sounding faintly relieved. “You’re well, I hope?”

  “Yes.” She exhaled slowly, willing her pulse to slow. “And you?”

  He shrugged. “Better now.” He gestured toward her bag. “Would you like me to carry that? I have a hackney cab waiting for us one block over.”

  “Thank you.” She handed him the portmanteau, taking care to avoid contact with his hand. Then she draped her shawl over her head like a hood, concealing herself just in case they encountered anyone during their short walk.

  A few minutes later, they were in the cab, rumbling through the streets, on their way to Warshire Manor. Reese sat beside her, keeping a safe distance on the seat between them. Occasionally, he glanced over at her, almost as though assuring himself she was still there. But mostly, he stared out the window.