A Rogue’s Pleasure

by Hope Tarr

  “I’m sorry I hurt you. Believe me when I say, I had no idea you were a virgin.”

  She twisted a corner of the sheet in her hand. “If you’d known, would it have made a difference?”

  “Yes…I mean, no.” He drew a heavy breath. “I would have gone slowly, taken care not to hurt you…at least, not nearly so much.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. “Christ, I wouldn’t have breached you like some rutting animal.”

  And suddenly she understood. He wasn’t angry with her but with himself. Self-loathing gave way to relief, then to a rush of tenderness.

  She reached up and touched his hard cheek. “It’s not your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself.” She summoned a cheerful smile. “At least it was over quickly.”

  He scowled. “That, my dear, was just the beginning.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “How much longer could it last?”

  He cocked a brow as though asking himself if anyone could possibly be that innocent. “That depends on a number of factors, not the least of which is the stamina of one’s partner. But I was—am—very excited. I wouldn’t have lasted very long this round.”

  This round! “You mean you intended for us to do this—” she swallowed, “—more than once?”

  He smiled. “Indeed, I had thought we would do this several more times ere morning.”

  She was so shocked that she didn’t notice him unfurling her fingers from the sheet until it was too late. He tugged it down to her toes in one swift motion.

  Pulling herself up on her elbow, she grabbed for the quilt.

  He sat next to her, his thigh brushing hers. “It’s a bit late for modesty, don’t you think?”

  She cast a wary eye to the basin on the bedside table. “That depends. W-what are you planning to do with that?”

  He dipped a cloth inside and wrung it out. “I only want to make you more comfortable.”

  He eased her back against the pillows, and his hand slipped between her knees. When she felt the cool cloth on the sticky inside of her thigh, she thought she would die of shame.

  “Really, this isn’t necessary,” she sputtered, cheeks flaming. “’Tis nothing a hot bath will not remedy.”

  “If only that were so,” he muttered, wiping her with brisk, efficient strokes.

  He spread her legs wider and began sponging the tender folds. Mortified, she tried to grab the cloth from him, but he only urged her to lie back. She surrendered, focusing her gaze on the ceiling shadows cast by the guttering candle. He began to hum softly—some odd but vaguely familiar melody—and almost against her will she began to relax.

  He tossed the cloth in the water, covered her, and sat back down. “You should know that tonight was a first for me as well.”

  She snorted. “Really, milord, I may be a virgin—well, an only-just-ruined virgin—but that doesn’t make me a fool.”

  He frowned. “I meant that I’ve never lain with an innocent before.” His eyes glinted with the familiar mischief. “Of course, I’ve never lain with a highwayman either. Sex with the person who once held a pistol to my manhood lends a certain novelty to the encounter as well.”

  Tears still veiled her eyes, but a smile tugged the corners of her mouth. “You may have a point.” She searched his face, levity fading. “I’m sorry for keeping the truth from you…and for being so woefully inept.”

  He smoothed the hair from her forehead. “Virgin, yes. Inept, hardly.” He bent and kissed the tip of her nose. “I was only surprised and, while we’re on the subject, terribly honored.”

  “Honored?”

  He nodded. “As for experience, you have a standing invitation to sharpen your womanly wiles on me anytime and anywhere you wish.”

  A sick emptiness drifted to the center of her chest. What good could come of confessing that there would never be another night? If she did, he would only spend what was left of this one remonstrating with her, alternately begging and bullying her to change her mind.

  He got up. “I should leave you now.”

  “Leave?” She fretted her bottom lip, scouring her bemused brain for the words that would coax him to stay. “But the damage is done, so you may as well stay and finish the business.”

  Those obviously weren’t the words. He looked as though she’d struck him.

  Blast, Chelsea, what an idiot you are. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. What I meant to say is…do you want to go?”

  “Honestly, no. But I also know that, if I stay, I can’t promise that I won’t try to finish the business, as you so charmingly put it. And, after the way I bore into you, you’re bound to be sore.”

  “I don’t feel sore.”

  Expression grim, he rose. “Wait until tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Forcing nonchalance into her voice, she replied, “Why not let tomorrow take care of itself?” Especially when tomorrow’s physical pain will be a welcome distraction from a far greater grief.

  “Get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead and left her to scrounge for the rest of his clothes.

  She bolted upright in the bed, for the time being too frantic to care that the sheet lay about her waist. “Don’t go. I don’t want you to leave me. I want you to stay with me. Please stay.”

  His hand stalled at the last buttonhole of his shirt. “Even if it means—”

  “Especially if it means…that.” She nodded emphatically.

  He tore off his clothing, sending buttons popping. He swooped down beside her, pulled her against him, and feathered kisses over her brow, her eyelids, and her throat. “Darling, this time I’ll make it good for you, I swear it.”

  He wooed her with whispered endearments, soft, coaxing kisses, and gentle, questing caresses. He was all lean muscle and corded sinew, strong where she was weak, hard where she was soft. He rubbed his pelvis against her lower belly, and a frantic anticipation gripped her. She arched against him, hot, tingling heat pooling inside her.

  He pulled back. “Christ, Chelsea, I’ve wanted you—this—for so very long.” His breathing was labored as though he’d been running. “But if I go any further, I won’t be able to stop.”

  She looked up into his strained face, the dark eyes almost feral, and vowed that this time there would be no retreating, no crying off. Whether or not there would be pain, she no longer cared. She wanted Anthony inside of her.

  “I don’t want you to stop. Only show me how to touch you.”

  Silent, he took her hand and placed it along the length of him. Her fingers curled around him. He was granite hard and velvet smooth, and he throbbed against her palm. She dipped her thumb in the moisture glistening at the tip of his shaft. Tracing a slow circle, she marveled that the small, innocent droplet carried his seed, the seed that could result in a child. Their child. The prospect both terrified and thrilled her.

  He shuddered. “This time, we do it together.” His hands slipped beneath her knees, lifting them. “Take me inside you,” he whispered, positioning himself between her parted thighs.

  She still held him. His fingers encircled her wrist, guiding her hand downward until he pressed against her soft woman’s flesh.

  Despite all her fine resolutions, Chelsea tensed when he entered her. The pressure began to build, and she gritted her teeth, waiting for the rending pain.

  He reached down and stroked her breasts, his fingertips fluttering over the tips. “Try to relax.” Gaze intense, he eased the rest of the way inside her, then stilled. “All right?”

  Dumb with awe, she managed a small nod. All right didn’t begin to capture the sensation of being stretched and filled beyond her wildest imaginings. And, this time, her body mounted no resistance. A tingling awareness had replaced the pain.

  He began to move back and forth, slowly at first, his eyes intent on her face. Gradually he increased the pace, slipping in a slickness that owed nothing to blood or pain. Long, languid strokes interspersed with short, intense ripostes stoked the heat between her thighs to a raging firestorm.

  And
then she was nipping his neck, clawing his back, matching him stroke for stroke, and begging him to do things that would have shocked her only hours before.

  “That’s it,” he whispered, slipping a hand beneath her buttocks. “Meet me halfway, darling. That’s all I ask.”

  Chelsea felt her breasts flatten against the hard, unyielding plane of his chest, felt herself crushed into the cradle of his thighs as he buried himself to the hilt.

  Withdrawing, he rasped, “Chelsea, I’ve waited so long, wanted you for so long. I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

  Hands slipping in the sweat rolling down his back, she pressed a kiss to his taut jaw and arched against him. “No, don’t wait.”

  His mouth closed over hers in a bruising assault that murdered reason. At the same time, he reached down between them and tweaked her hidden nubbin with his thumb.

  And then the world exploded with pleasure so intense it skirted pain. Chelsea squeezed her eyes closed and clutched Anthony as wave after wave of molten lava poured over her. Her toes curled, perspiration filmed the backs of her knees, and even her fingertips tingled.

  “Oh, God, Chelsea.”

  Chelsea opened her eyes to Anthony’s taut face looming above her. He pumped into her, his hoarse shout of satisfaction filling her with feminine triumph as old as Eve. She wrapped her arms about him and closed her eyes, filled with reverence. For this night, this moment, this magnificent man, belonged to her and her to him.

  Love, completion, wholeness teemed through her.

  Everything but peace.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Anthony rolled onto his side. He wrapped an arm around Chelsea’s waist and drew her against him until her back and hips fitted to his chest and groin. Like two stacked spoons, they were a perfect fit just as this was a perfect moment. Almost perfect.

  He lifted his head from the pillow and kissed the top of her satiny shoulder. Screwing up his courage, he whispered, “I love you, Chelsea.”

  He waited, heart thumping. Please, God, let her say she loves me too. Let her say…something.

  But a soft snuffle was her only response.

  “Chelsea?” Wondering if she were crying, he pulled up on one elbow and peered over her.

  She wasn’t crying. She was sleeping.

  Long lashes fanned velvet shadows across the contours of her high cheekbones. Her lips, bright pink from his kisses, parted softly. Above the white sheet, the high tops of her breasts rose and fell with each heavy breath.

  Anthony flopped onto his back, releasing a soft laugh in deference to life’s little ironies. Women had been throwing themselves in his path, protesting their love for him, since he was fourteen. And yet, now that he had finally declared himself, the object of his affection could only…snore.

  How utterly humbling.

  He lay with his arms at his sides, battling the selfish urge to nudge her, to jiggle the mattress just a little. As soon as she awoke, he would say the words again, make love to her again, and hopefully hear her say she loved him too. The words, from this woman…he needed to hear them almost beyond bearing.

  But waking her would be brutish. Her head weighed like an anchor on the pillow and her heavy breathing bespoke of an exhaustion that was only partly physical. Now was not the time to press her for a declaration of her feelings. He could be patient when the situation warranted it. He’d willingly wait a lifetime to hear Chelsea say those four magical words: I love you, Anthony.

  A lifetime. His lifetime.

  Reality crashed down on him, burying bliss. Lost in the wonder of the woman lying beside him, he’d managed to forget that, in eight short days, he would take Phoebe Tremont, not Chelsea Bellamy, to wife. Having received the full measure of Chelsea’s generous passion, marriage to Phoebe seemed more sacrilege than sacrament, more ending than beginning.

  He sat up, combing damp hair back from his brow. The prospect of bedding his future wife shot ice water through his veins, but still he must keep his promise and do his duty. The banns had been read. It was too late to cry off. Surely Chelsea would see that he had no choice. Surely she’d not walk out of his life now, not when her virgin’s blood stained the sheet on which they lay?

  But this was Chelsea. The independent, willful, wonderful woman he’d fallen in love with. As much as he’d like to believe that last night signified her capitulation, he couldn’t. He may have breached her maidenhead but her will was another matter. It would further his cause enormously if he could manage to get her pregnant over the next week. Then she’d be in no position to refuse his protection. She might stubbornly deny herself even the most basic creature comforts, but surely she’d not deprive an innocent child?

  He stopped himself, sickened by the Machiavellian workings of his mind. Christ, what was he thinking? Chelsea deserved better than a life lived in the shadows. She deserved better than…him.

  As if sensing his inner tumult, Chelsea stirred and turned to face him. One shapely bare leg found its way free of the covers and flung itself possessively over his lower body. Anthony stifled a groan.

  Think pure thoughts, his nobler self counseled, willing the passion to ebb. It was damn difficult to do when she was exquisitely naked and wound around him like a skein.

  Not difficult but impossible.

  He should leave. His mind and body were too active for sleep, but beyond that a predawn departure would spare Chelsea the embarrassment of having to explain his presence to Jack.

  Jack. Damn, he’d been due to relieve him hours ago. He’d return to his house, quickly don his Toeless Tony garb, and then ride to St. Giles. On the way, he’d think up some excuse for why he’d been detained. Anything would be preferable to, “Jack, old sod, so sorry to be late. I’ve just come from deflowering your mistress, and it took longer than I’d anticipated.”

  But placating Jack was the least of his problems, he acknowledged, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose Chelsea. Somehow he’d find a way for them to be together, although how was a conundrum that set his head and heart aching.

  Dressed, he stood at the foot of the bed, gazing up at Chelsea’s contented face, the tension smoothed away for the moment. She looked so young, so innocent, so adorably disheveled, that he couldn’t resist coming up beside her to press a chaste kiss on her forehead.

  Chelsea sighed and nuzzled the pillow. A fresh spate of love welled inside him. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. If only she had happened sooner.

  But pondering what ifs was a fool’s pastime. Somehow, somewhere, he’d come up with a compromise they both might live with. He refused to contemplate the alternative.

  “I’ve got you now, my little thief, and I’ll not let you go. Not now, not ever.”

  Thirty minutes later, Anthony stepped over his own threshold. Chaos greeted him. His entire household staff, from scullery maid to butler, milled about the foyer. With the exception of Chambers, who was fully dressed, they all wore their nightclothes. Capped heads bobbed and nervous hands fidgeted with rope belts. And everyone, positively everyone, was shouting.

  Anthony called several times for silence, but his bellow barely dented the din. Finally he puckered up and whistled.

  A hush fell. All eyes turned to him.

  “Attention! Full kitty…now.”

  Backs straightened, shoulders pulled back, and chests puffed. A moment later, they scrambled into the military-style formation he’d taught them.

  “No shoving,” he ordered, quelling his impatience.

  He waited until they’d assembled into a reasonably straight line, and then gave the call to “At ease.” Turning to Chambers, he demanded, “What the bloody hell is going on?”

  Chambers hobbled forward. “Milord, ’tis my sad duty to report that last night two ruffians broke in.” He paused, voice quaking. “And you should also know that ’tis all my fault.”

  “Your fault, Chambers? How so?”

  “I heard the front door rattle. I was so su
re ’twas you, milord, that I opened it without ever asking who was there.” He shook his grizzled head. “I tried to close it again, but they forced their way inside before I could reach the bolt.”

  “They?” Anthony massaged his pounding temple. He’d been burgled. What next?

  “There were two of them, milord. The one was a gallows-faced chap with a scar and a gold front tooth, the other a bullnecked fellow, built like a prizefighter.”

  “I see.”

  And, by God, he did see. Stenton and Luke must have tired of waiting and abandoned his—Toeless’s—kidnapping scheme, in favor of burglary. Anthony only hoped they didn’t experience a similar impatience to dispense Chelsea’s brother. To be safe, he’d alert Mugglestone and Jack. The three of them would mount the rescue that night even if they had to raze the Rookery to do so.

  “Was anyone harmed?” He kneaded the tightness at the back of his neck. To think that, but a few weeks before, his life had seemed so neat, so conventional, and so dull. How he would welcome a spot of dullness now.

  “Master Reggie received a black eye and there are rope burns on his wrists from where he was bound but otherwise he is unharmed. He’s lying on the sofa in your study.”

  “Good. Have you sent for the magistrate?”

  “Only just now, milord.” Anthony frowned and Chambers hastened to add, “I was tied alongside Master Reginald. One of the scullery maids found us this morning when she came in to sweep out the grate.”

  “I see. When the magistrate arrives, show him into the study.” His gaze slid over yawning faces. “Unless someone else has something meaningful to contribute, you are all dismissed.”

  Anthony brushed past the dissembling line. He was anxious to hear Reggie’s version of the break-in before the magistrate arrived.

  “Wait, milord, there is more.”

  Anthony turned on his heel to face his butler. “A full accounting of the stolen articles can wait until later.”

  “Yes, milord, but…”