A Rogue’s Pleasure

by Hope Tarr

“Fair enough.” Eager to be gone, he walked to the door. On afterthought, he asked, “How fares our young charge?”

  “Still ornery as all get-out, but me and Luke is workin’ to beat the devil out o’ ’im.”

  “Just see that he stays alive…until the thirtieth.”

  “O’ course.” Grinning, Stenton pushed away from the table. “And after?”

  He shrugged. “Do with him what you like, but make certain you bring the girl to me. Unharmed and…untouched.”

  Stenton followed him to the door. “Ye still owes us two hundred pounds, and me and Luke’s got expenses. What say ye come up wi’ a hundred pounds o’ it now?”

  He felt his jaw tighten. Really, did the man think he was an idiot? “You’ll get the rest of your money when I get the girl.”

  “But—”

  “In the meantime, mind you follow my instructions to the letter.” He adjusted the scarf over his face and reached for the door handle. “Unharmed and untouched, Stenton. Unharmed and untouched…”

  Jack ducked into the abandoned wardrobe at the end of the hall. He’d just pulled the door closed when the man in black emerged. Squinting through a knothole in the wood, he saw Stenton leaning in the open doorway. The other man’s back was to the wardrobe. The two men exchanged more words.

  Jack pricked his ears, but it was no use. Even standing outside Stenton’s door with his good ear pressed to the wood, he hadn’t been able to make out much of the conversation going on inside. Still, the few odd phrases he’d pieced together—the thirtieth, beat the devil out o’ ’im—threatened to turn his bowels to water. The bloke in black was involved somehow with Master Robert’s kidnapping. Mayhap he was even the villain who’d commissioned it? The voice sounded familiar but, muffled, he hadn’t been able to place it.

  Before he could ponder that possibility, Stenton’s door slammed. The visitor started down the hall, his footfalls keeping pace with Jack’s thudding heart. He reached Jack’s hiding place and stopped.

  “Quite a fine piece,” he murmured, and laid a heavy hand upon the wardrobe door.

  Oh, God, I’m done for.

  Sweat broke out on Jack’s forehead. The timepiece ticking in his pocket suddenly seemed on par with the pealing of the Bow Bells.

  The man moved on. The creaking stairs confirmed his departure.

  Weak with relief, Jack slumped against the back of the cabinet. Now that the immediate danger was past, the sick feeling in his gut intensified. In his sixty-odd years, his gut had never lied to him. Now it was telling him that Stenton wasn’t about to wait until the thirtieth to make his move. He must go to Lord Montrose at once. He was certain his lordship would see that their safest course was to call in Mugglestone and begin preparations to rescue Master Robert—mayhap that very night.

  Jack waited a minute more, and then opened the wardrobe. Gritting his teeth against the squeak, he stepped out. Behind a closed door, a baby started to cry. Taking advantage of the loud wailing, he thudded across the bare floorboards to the stairs.

  Outside, he headed for the alley where he’d left his horse. The lazy beast wasn’t much for galloping, but Jack dug in his heels and the horse bolted.

  But when he reached Lord Montrose’s town house, the butler informed him that his master had left for the evening.

  Muttering curses, Jack stepped off the stoop. That was the Fancy for you. Always out and about, rushin’ to this or that and not a one of them had the sense to stay home of an evening.

  No sense in cryin’ o’er spilt milk. He’d just have to find Miss Chelsea and tell her everything. She’d know what to do.

  But when he returned to the house on Mount Street, he found it empty.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He should never have come.

  Why had he? Anthony asked himself as he strolled down Vauxhall’s Grand Walk with Phoebe on his arm.

  Foolish question. Guilt, of course.

  That afternoon, standing in his study with Chelsea in his arms, he’d been tempted to jettison everything—his father’s earldom, his marriage, his future—and beg her to run away with him. Even if his father disinherited him—God knew the old man had been looking for an excuse to do so for years—Ignatius’s money and lands would enable them to live in comfort. But would it be enough for them to live down the scandal, silence the wagging tongues that would brand Chelsea as a title-seeking adventuress, buy respectability for their children? No, they’d have to go away, leave England. But go where? With Napoleon cutting a blazing swath through Europe, the Continent was out of the question. And, across the Atlantic, another war waged between Britain and America, so there could be no thought of starting afresh in Virginia. No, for the time being, they would have to hole up in Sussex, for they would never be able to show their faces in polite society after they were wed.

  After they were wed.

  The outrageous thought had raced through his head ever since that afternoon. He stifled it now. He must think clearly, rationally. He had an ancestral home, a noble legacy—a seat in the House of Lords, no less. His future was here, now—his fate inextricably linked to the pale blonde keeping pace beside him.

  So he’d sent Phoebe the message, late in the afternoon, that he’d escort her to the supper ball after all. And then, deuce take it, he hadn’t been able to find his blasted invitation. He’d sworn he’d laid it on his desk, but when he’d gone to look for it, it hadn’t been there…or anywhere, for that matter. Fortunately Phoebe had kept hers.

  “Oh, Anthony, I simply adore Vauxhall.” Eyes sparkling and face flushed, Phoebe pointed to a miniature minaret. “Why, look at that adorable little tower. That dome behind it is shaped just like an onion.”

  What a child she is, he thought, forcing a smile. “It’s called a minaret. In Turkey, the muezzin stands on the balcony to call the people to prayer.”

  “Humph.” She screwed up her face. “Why don’t they just ring the church bell?

  Anthony was asking himself whether he should expend the energy to form a reply when, thankfully, the Roman Pavilion came into view.

  True to its name, the pavilion’s interior was decorated to give the illusion of a classical temple. Waiters wearing togas and laurel wreaths—no fig leaves, thank God—ferried silver trays of champagne and iced lemonade through the bejeweled assembly of London’s elite. At one end of the tent was a buffet table in the form of a sarcophagus; smaller tables fashioned from cornices lined the wooden dance floor. A musician playing panpipes circulated the crowd while, behind a crumbling stone altar, the orchestra tuned their instruments.

  Seated, Phoebe lost no time in taking stock of the assembly. “Oh, look, Anthony, there’s Libby.” She waved at her friend, who flagged a hand in return and started toward them.

  Anthony stifled a groan. Olivia—Libby—Whitebridge was an inveterate gossip and about as silly and spoiled as women came. To make matters worse, she seemed to have formed a tendre for him, although he could recall having danced with her only once.

  Watching her friend advance, Phoebe pulled a face. “I know that white is all the rage, but I wish someone would tell her that she looks like death in it.”

  God, but it was going to be a long night. Anthony fell back against a columned post and flagged a waiter. Seconds later, he handed Phoebe a glass of lemonade and took one of champagne for himself.

  She indicated a pale-faced young man with sad eyes. “Anthony, isn’t that Junius St.

  John?”

  “I believe so.”

  She hesitated. “Is it true what they say—that he staked the deed to his estate on a single game of hazard and lost?”

  “I have no idea,” he lied, not inclined to whet Phoebe’s appetite for gossip by confirming the rumor.

  He imagined that Phoebe and he would share a lifetime of such meaningless, empty evenings. He tilted back his flute and swallowed the rest of the champagne.

  “Anthony.”

  “Hem?”

  “The red-haired girl in the gaudy gree
n gown, I’ve not seen her before. Do you know who she is?”

  “Phoebe, half the women here have red hair.” This time he didn’t bother to hide his annoyance.

  “In the green gown.” She pointed her closed fan to the dais at the far end of the pavilion.

  “The one flirting with Lord Ambrose.”

  Knowing that he would have no peace until he complied, he looked to where his nemesis loomed over an alluring figure in green, her back to the crowd. Whoever Ambrose’s mystery lady was, Anthony pitied her. No woman, be she lady or whore, deserved what Ambrose would visit on her.

  The woman turned to look below. Anthony caught his breath.

  No, it couldn’t be, he assured himself, even as his own eyes provided the irrefutable proof.

  But it was.

  Chelsea.

  At least, he thought it was she.

  The Chelsea he knew swaggered about in breeches, scaled roof tops, and didn’t shrink from performing the most menial chores. She didn’t have a coy bone in her lovely body.

  This Chelsea moved with the seductive grace of the most expensive courtesan. Stunned, he watched her slowly draw her closed fan across her rouged lips in a blatant invitation to be kissed. As though her appearance weren’t invitation enough. Her red curls were dressed à la grecque and topped with a glittering tiara; the upswept style only emphasized the graceful column of her throat and the elegant set of her milky shoulders. But it was her gown that caught and held his eye. The emerald silk clung to every delicious curve, and what wasn’t outlined in shameless detail was left bare. His regard riveted itself on the high slopes of her breasts. The rake in him yearned to take her somewhere secluded—the Gardens’ infamous Dark Walk came to mind—and tug the silk down to her waist; his more sober self wanted to snatch some matron’s shawl and wrap it around her torso.

  Ambrose pointed to something below, and she leaned forward. Anthony held his breath, certain that she would overflow the flimsy silk barrier. Predictably, Ambrose’s gaze dropped. Rage boiled the blood in Anthony’s veins.

  The master of ceremonies emerged from the orchestra to announce that supper was being served. Almost immediately, guests thronged the center aisle leading to the buffet tables.

  This might be my only chance. Anthony shoved away from the post. “I’ll bring you a plate.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m far too excited. Perhaps I’ll have something later.”

  Sweat pricked his palms. “What nonsense, you must eat.”

  Her pale brows crossed. “I’m really not the slightest bit hungry.”

  “You know how prone you are to fainting. And,” he added, “you wouldn’t want to miss the fireworks, now would you?” He held his breath.

  She hesitated. “Well, perhaps just a bite.”

  He exhaled. “That’s the spirit.”

  He made his way toward the front of the pavilion. Several acquaintances approached him to offer their congratulations on his coming nuptials, but he only nodded and kept on. At the canopied entrance, he turned and glanced back. Phoebe had been joined by her friend. The two looked to be immersed in animated conversation, which, this once, was a stroke of luck for him.

  He darted outside and skirted the pavilion, praying his luck would hold.

  “It was so good of you to invite me to your table, Lord Ambrose,” Chelsea simpered.

  Batting her eyelashes, she asked herself just what it was about her host that she found so repellant. He wasn’t as tall as Anthony or as muscular or as young. Even so, she supposed he cut a pleasing enough figure in his dark evening clothes. Yet there was something about him that disturbed her.

  Beneath his neatly trimmed ginger mustache, the corners of his mouth lifted. Dark teeth marred an otherwise brilliant smile. “Tut, tut, Mrs. Brighton. You are to call me Monty.”

  “You’re the only person I know in London—” she paused, then added, “—Monty. When I received your invitation, I nearly burst into tears.” She glanced downward. “In truth, I never would have expected you to remember me.”

  “Not remember you! Perish the thought.”

  Liar. She shot him a coquettish smile from over the top of her open fan. He was so easy to read. She could almost hear the wheels of his mind turning as he struggled to place her.

  “But we met so very briefly and ’twas so long ago,” she said. “Not everyone is so keen to rekindle a former acquaintance…especially with a widow who finds herself alone and friendless.”

  He lifted her hand and patted the top. Eyes on her breasts, he asked, “Do you truly find yourself all alone since your husband’s death?”

  Chelsea admitted the barest hint of regret into her voice. “I did have a protector for a time, but he had to give me up when his father-in-law threatened to cut off his allowance.”

  “Spineless cad. But now you are once again…alone?” His feral gaze belied the sympathy in his voice.

  She shivered, feeling like prey. “I’m afraid so.”

  “In that case, perhaps you will do me the honor of joining me after the fireworks. My chef is preparing a buffet breakfast back at my house. Nothing elaborate, mind you, just an intimate gathering for a few close friends.” His fingers skimmed her bare shoulder.

  Swallowing her revulsion, she smiled up at him. “Why, that sounds delightful. I would so love to see your home.”

  Especially your coin collection. Earlier she’d trekked to Murdock’s Lending Library where, she’d rightly reasoned, Anthony would hold a subscription. She’d searched out several volumes on rare and ancient coins from the musty stacks. A Roman aureus, in reasonable condition, could fetch several thousand pounds. Her plan: locate the coins, filch one of the lesser ones, then plead illness and leave. Even a voluptuary like Ambrose would not welcome a retching woman into his bed.

  “Then ’tis settled.”

  Their backs were against the curtain. He slipped a hand over her buttocks and squeezed.

  Chelsea jumped. He laughed, and she forced an insipid giggle. If she was going to play the harlot, she could hardly complain when a man like Ambrose felt at liberty to paw her in public, no matter how much she yearned to slap him.

  Suddenly the curtains parted, and Anthony burst inside, an evening cape slung over one broad shoulder. Chelsea’s heart fluttered, and then fell. Surely Anthony wouldn’t expose her…would he?

  “Good evening.” Anthony glared at Ambrose’s hand, still cupping her bottom.

  Heart pounding, she moved away from Ambrose. “Why, Lord Montrose, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I am sure you did not,” Anthony murmured, eyes glittering.

  Ambrose looked from Chelsea to Anthony. “You two know each other?”

  Eyes hard, Anthony smiled. “We’re old friends.”

  Chelsea sent Anthony a beseeching look. “What Lord Montrose means is that his sister and I are old friends.”

  “Indeed.” He gave Ambrose his back and reached for her. His powerful fingers closed around her upper arm just below the puffed sleeve. “A word with you, if I may.”

  Ambrose stepped forward. “Now see here, Montrose. Mrs. Brighton is my guest.”

  “Then you won’t want to monopolize her.” Anthony lifted the tent flap. “After you, Mrs. Brighton.” He dragged her through the opening and down the back steps.

  “You’re hurting me.” Squirming, she tried in vain to break his bruising grip.

  “Too bad.”

  He steered her off the torchlit path into a small, hedge-trimmed garden. In the center, a fountain splashed. Lights winked from the boughs of a spruce tree; otherwise, the garden was cloaked in twilight shadows.

  He maneuvered her toward a marble bench. “Sit.”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Still holding on to her, he buried his free hand in the elaborate arrangement of curls gathered at her nape. Fingers on her scalp, he steered her toward him until she was inhaling his peppermint-spiced breath.

  Outrag
e, fear, and, yes, desire struck her at once. Her chest heaved, her pulse raced, her head spun. She felt warm everywhere except for her hands, which had frozen to blocks of ice. And between her thighs, a slow staccato had begun to beat. Outrage was by far the least threatening emotion. She sought sanctuary in it now.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, twisting in his arms.

  “Saving you from yourself.”

  “I don’t need saving.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  He bent and claimed her with a savage kiss.

  Chelsea gasped. Anthony devoured the small, choked protest—fear, anger, and passion all rolled into one—and backed her against the tree. He pressed into her until they fitted together from shoulder to thigh, so tight that he couldn’t be sure where his body ended and hers began. She struggled, the futile movements chafing his lower body until his rock-hard erection smashed against her stomach.

  And it was then that she surrendered. Her body softened and her mouth opened, not in submission but in invitation. He accepted and plunged deep inside. She moaned. He slipped an arm behind to cushion her against the bark. At least, that was his intention. But she felt so good, so right, in his arms, the silk the nearest thing to having her naked. His hand slid down her spine, his fingers slipping between the lobes of her rounded buttocks. She trembled, and he felt a matching shudder charge through him.

  “Oh, Chelsea. What have you done to me?”

  He rubbed against her, his manhood chafing her softness.

  And suddenly he was the one in danger of losing control, of being taken prisoner.

  He broke off the kiss.

  In the dim light, Chelsea’s angry eyes glittered. “I d-don’t need s-saving,” she repeated between heavy breaths.

  Her mouth, swollen from his assault, no longer owed its rosy hue to paint; her cheeks, burned bright, were scoured of rouge.

  He reached for her. “You have no notion of the type of man you’re dealing with.”

  “At the moment, I would say a rather brutish one.” She cast a pointed look at his fingers still wound about her upper arm.