The Virgin and the Rogue

by Jordan, Sophie

  She didn’t ease into the water hesitantly. She rushed in to her waist and then plunged the rest of the way in until she was submerged up to her shoulders.

  With her hair coiled and pinned atop her head, the cool water lapped deliciously at her neck and shoulders, helping to relieve the fires.

  And yet it did not bank them entirely.

  The throb was still there between her legs. Her breasts were heavy and tingling as she stretched her arms and sliced through the water, feeling as free as a mermaid. At least she always imagined a mermaid would feel free. No societal pressures or expectations.

  It was scandalous, she supposed. Swimming naked in the great out of doors.

  No one would ever guess she was capable of such behavior. Not even her sisters. They would never say so, but she knew they thought her boring and predictable.

  This was her secret. Something that was hers alone. In addition to what she’d done with Kingston earlier.

  She winced. He was departing today. At least there was that. She would not have to worry about confronting him any time soon.

  Shaking her head, she turned and floated on her back, letting her arms fan out at her sides in rhythmic strokes. Closing her eyes, she ignored the pulling ache in her body and tried to melt and relax into the gentle current.

  Water lapped at her sides, splashing over her bare breasts. Air flowed over her chest, pleasantly cooling all her wet skin.

  A bird chirped in the distance, signaling the impending dawn, and she knew she’d have to leave soon and make her way home. She couldn’t risk lingering much longer.

  She was no daring heroine, unfortunately. No. Not unfortunately.

  Her sisters were bold heroines. Outspoken and adventurous. She had never aspired to that. As much as she admired them, she did not envy them. What they had . . . what they were . . . it was not in her.

  Only here, alone, reveling in the privacy of this pond, she felt decadent and free. For once she felt like a bold heroine.

  But it would have to end.

  It was Sunday. They had church to attend. Unless she begged off because of illness, she would be expected to go. Billy and his family would be there. She had promised to take afternoon tea with them.

  She must make an appearance with a smile on her face, all misdeeds put firmly behind her.

  Kingston stared wide-eyed into the darkness, one arm tossed over his brow, his breathing still much too labored for a man who should be easing into slumber. But there was no ease. There’d be no slumber.

  Not this night.

  Of course not. After that encounter? After Charlotte Langley had shattered him so thoroughly? How could he sleep?

  He was as awake and alert as when he first returned to his chamber a few hours ago. Sleep was impossible. His pulse thrummed hard and fast at his neck.

  He stilled at the sound of movements outside his door.

  Footsteps.

  He assumed the tread belonged to Charlotte Langley.

  Strange as it was, he felt acutely attuned to her. His nostrils flared and his pores contracted as though sensing her just beyond the door.

  Impossible, he knew, but she had already proved herself to be someone who kept late hours. And did outrageous things in those late hours.

  It had to be Charlotte. Who else could be up at this hour in the family wing of the house? This wing of the house boasted the most luxurious chambers and was only for the privileged few—the duke and his wife and the Langley sisters. The list was short. He did not expect to find himself included on it. It certainly was not his stepbrother’s doing. If it had been up to Warrington, he would likely be sleeping in the barn with all the animals. No, the lovely Duchess of Warrington had had her hand in this. Her generous hospitality had seen to this arrangement.

  Her tread faded away. She was moving quickly.

  He could not stay put a moment longer.

  Climbing from his bed, he dressed quickly, determined to follow her and see what mischief she was up to now.

  He told himself he was concerned.

  She had been distraught when she left him earlier. There’d been something in her eyes. A wild-eyed glazed look that seemed to go beyond the passion of their liaison. He couldn’t entirely credit it, but he could still see it clearly in his mind. It was troubling.

  As he emerged out into the hall, the distant squeak of hinges below alerted him that she had moved downstairs. He took himself below, marching down the corridor and bypassing the kitchens until he reached the back servants’ door.

  He opened and closed the door carefully, mindful of the noisy hinges. When he stepped outside, he spotted a flash of her pale dress in the distance against the murky air, disappearing into the tree line.

  Where was she going?

  He followed, sticking to the narrow path that led through a thick copse to a pond. He stepped out on the bank warily, glancing around. He didn’t see her.

  The burbling little body of water was secluded. Even in the predawn darkness, it was covered by the shade of several large oak trees, blocking out most of the moonlight.

  Was she meeting someone? Her betrothed? Someone else?

  An uncomfortable sensation spread through him, almost as though a great weight was pushing down on him. He rubbed at the center of his chest, hoping that might alleviate the strange discomfort. It did no good.

  He knew so little of her. Other than that she felt ripe and yielding in his hands and moved like the sweetest seductress.

  Dropping his hand, he turned to go, telling himself that whatever she was up to was of no matter to him. Charlotte Langley was not his mystery to solve.

  The sound of water splashing stopped him. Turning, he looked back out at the water and spotted her.

  The air trapped in his chest.

  She floated on her back, those teacup breasts she had displayed for him so eagerly earlier now perched and bobbing above the water as she glided, silent as a raft.

  She swam in the nude? The chit lacked all decorum . . . all modesty.

  And he’d never been so intrigued in his life.

  His concern ebbed at the sight of her. She looked so peaceful, floating with her eyes shut. Not at all distraught.

  He cleared his throat to gain her attention, but she did nothing that indicated she was aware of him. She didn’t hear him with her ears underwater apparently.

  He considered her for a moment, glancing around at the quiet woods surrounding them. Looking back at her, a small smile curled his lips. Drifting through the water like a woodland sprite in the softly purpling air, she seemed more magical than real.

  This whole night felt unreal to him.

  Perhaps it was all a bit of fantasy. The memory of her most sensual assault, her body riding him in hungry vigor . . . Perhaps it was all imaginary, an illusory whim invented within the secret longings of his mind.

  A dream.

  A dream where anything could happen. Where impulses could be followed with no fear and no consequence.

  Certainly none of the wanton images of her matched up with his memory of the girl from the tediously dull dinner party.

  She’d come across as so very boring. A dull, vapid creature alongside her dull, vapid betrothed. He’d dismissed her as one would the wallpaper of a room. Something that existed . . . something one was consciously aware of but could not be counted upon to recount in any degree of detail later.

  Except now he could not forget her. Not the feel of her. Not the sight of her.

  Especially not this sight of her.

  His skin felt overheated again. The water beckoned, tempting him—almost as much as she tempted him.

  Of course, he wouldn’t dare. Despite their earlier intimacy, he would not be so bold as to join her in the pond. Not without express invitation. To do so felt vaguely predatory . . . diving into a pond occupied by an unsuspecting naked female. It was enough for him to watch her, so vulnerable and appealing and . . . remarkable. She was remarkable and she astounded him.

 
He’d been wrong about her, and watching her now only reinforced that. She had sparked his interest. His heretofore dormant interest, and he could not look away.

  He could not ignore such a turn of circumstances.

  She could be the answer to his return to self.

  Hope stirred in his chest. He wanted that. He wanted to feel less confused . . . less lost. He wanted to be his old self again—living in carelessness and freedom with no taste of sorrow in his mouth. With no grief in his heart.

  He shook his head. It had been a long time since he’d bedded a female.

  Clearly too long for one slip of a girl to affect him thusly, even if she was enticingly wet at present and without garments. He was no green lad. He’d seen plenty of naked women before. The sight did not typically undo him. Clearly this naked woman was singular in that aspect. Ah, bloody hell.

  Of all the women for whom he should experience this awakening . . . it had to be a kinswoman to Warrington. And she was betrothed, no less.

  She was encroaching closer to the bank, still unaware of him, still on her back, still floating on the surface of the water with her small pert breasts proudly on display.

  His mouth dried.

  Evidently his tastes had changed and he was only just now becoming acquainted with that fact. From now on, he would know.

  From now on, he would know he preferred his women repressed, seething cauldrons of desire ready to boil over onto him. Slender wispy females who looked—deceptively—as though they would run at the first kiss.

  The purple air softened to a pale gray. He lifted his face to smell the clean scent of impending day. Dawn would be here soon. People would be about their day. Perhaps not here in this secluded glen, but on the estate. It was time to find his voice and alert her to his presence.

  He lightly cleared his throat, hoping this time she heard him. “I had no idea this pond was frequented by mermaids.”

  Thankfully, his voice escaped in an even tone, reflecting none of the desire shuddering through him.

  Chapter 6

  Apparently she heard him. She flailed, dunking herself underwater.

  Kingston watched as she came up sputtering, water splashing all around her, her mermaid hair sluicing over her face, shoulders and chest, clinging like coils of golden kelp.

  “What are you doing here?” She slicked her hair back from her face to gaze at him, blinking spiky wet eyelashes as though she could not quite believe her eyes.

  He scanned her water-speckled face, the compulsion to stride directly into the water and lick the droplets from her skin hard-fought. She looked younger, her delicate features fragile as she gazed at him in astonishment.

  Licking the water from her face would not be the thing to do right now. Most definitely not.

  Splotches of red marked her face. She appeared close to apoplexy.

  “I heard you leave the house,” he explained.

  “So you followed me?” Her bare shoulders bobbed above the waterline as she treaded water, her pale skin gleaming.

  “I was worried . . . after earlier tonight—”

  “You thought me mad? Unhinged? You thought me in need of monitoring?” She launched the questions at him like arrows, her eyes hot with temper . . . or perhaps it was some other emotion.

  That wild-eyed glazed look was still there.

  He shook his head slowly, quite certain no other female had ever made him feel so doubtful of himself. With her, he felt as though he were fumbling around in a dark chamber. “I did not say that.”

  Although it was not far off from his thoughts.

  She swept her gaze over him. “You should not be here.”

  “I merely wanted to assure myself you are—”

  “I am quite well,” she snapped in a tone that conveyed the exact opposite. As did the stormy look of her gaze.

  “I’m happy to escort you—”

  She laughed briefly, the sound rather shrill and desperate. “That would be highly improper.”

  Now she was concerned with propriety? Now? Who was this strange creature?

  She looked around wildly as though there could even now be a witness to their encounter.

  “Have no fear. No one is about,” he assured her.

  Her gaze shot back to his. “Well, anyone could happen upon us at any time.” She lifted her chin high above the waterline, stretching her neck, showing off the lovely arch that his lips longed to taste. Bloody hell. She was not the only strange creature here.

  He glanced over his shoulder to the waiting path, considering granting her request and leaving. Apologizing for intruding and departing. Returning to Haverston Hall and packing up his things. Leaving this place. The stepbrother who wanted no part of him. The family who was not truly his family. And this maddening female whom he had just met but with whom he felt oddly entangled. He should turn and go and wash his hands of her for good.

  That would be the sensible thing to do.

  And yet he remained. They were alone. This was an excellent opportunity to gain an explanation for what had occurred in the library. She owed him that at the very least.

  He cocked his head. “When you accosted me in the library, were you not concerned for propriety then, too? Anyone could have happened upon us. One of your sisters . . . Warrington . . . a member of the staff?”

  Her mouth opened and closed several times at what he thought to be a very reasonable question. “Please. Let us not speak of that. And to be clear, I did not accost you.” She eyed the shoreline as though searching for the best point of escape.

  He practically choked at that. “Oh, you think not?”

  “No . . . I was under the effects of . . .” If possible, her face seemed to redden even further. “It wasn’t me . . . I—I would never . . . It was the tonic my sister gave me.”

  He could only stare at her as he digested this, turning it over in his mind.

  He had not imagined what she might say by way of an explanation, but it had not been this. He had briefly wondered if she was inebriated when she’d seduced him. He winced at the word seduced, but was there really any other term for it?

  He had quickly dismissed that possibility, however. He’d been around plenty of drunkards. Even been foxed himself on occasion. He knew what it looked like, and it had not looked like Charlotte. Nor had she reeked of spirits.

  As improbable as it seemed, she’d been a woman wild with desire. Perhaps an evening with her future husband and his family had pushed her over the edge. God knew it had pushed him to his limits. Perhaps her limits had been stretched and it toppled her over the edge. Perhaps she had decided to seize passion for herself so that she might have a taste of it—so that she might have the memory of it to keep her through the endless nights of tedium ahead.

  He didn’t know the reason.

  But this explanation? Rubbish.

  It was merely regret in the aftermath of her actions that kept her from admitting the truth.

  “There is no reason to be ashamed.” He assumed it was maidenly shame that prompted her into such a ridiculous excuse of denial.

  She blinked. “Ashamed?” The word struck him as humorous coming from a woman swimming naked.

  “Indeed. Desire is a natural thing.”

  Again, her mouth opened and shut several times as though groping for speech. She gave her head a slight shake. “Of course I’m ashamed.” She made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a grunt. “You’re a stranger. You do not understand. I’m . . . I am . . . Charlotte Langley.” Apparently that meant something. Something, if he was to infer correctly, that meant she was incapable of desire. “I do not do the things I did with you.”

  To be fair, upon first meeting her he had assumed the same thing. Miss Charlotte Langley was the very image of moral frigidity—of pristine and virtuous womanhood. The kind of woman who went to her marital bed in the dark, buttoned up to her neck in a woolen nightgown.

  She continued, her voice insistent, “I am a modest person.”

&n
bsp; “Modest?” He arched an eyebrow, looking very pointedly around them, his gaze sweeping over the pond and then her person—her very unclothed person. Modest was not the word that leaped to mind.

  He gave a slight chuckle.

  Her blush now extended from her face down her throat to her upper chest. “I was warm, overheated . . . I merely wanted to cool off in the water. I assure you this is not a regular occurrence.”

  “So . . . you said you don’t do the things you did . . .” He flattened a hand to his chest. “With me.”

  She nodded, but after a moment, she stopped nodding. Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. I do not do those things with anyone, if that is your implication. Not you. Not anyone!”

  He grinned. He knew the question would needle her. “Not judging. Merely inquiring.”

  “Of course you judge. That is what everyone does. Females are judged from the moment of their first breath. But to the point . . . I do not engage in liaisons with strange men—with any man!” She took a deep breath as though she meant to duck below and submerge herself in the water. Instead, she asserted, “Desire had naught to do with what happened between us.”

  He shook his head, refusing to accept that bit of absurdity. “Desire had everything to do with it.”

  It was that desire that had so shaken him. That had kept him awake.

  That had him standing at the edge of a pond at the break of dawn, conversing with a mermaid.

  She flinched. “It was not me.” She lifted a hand from beneath the water and pointed to her face. “Not me. Not me at all. It was the tonic.”

  Incredible. She was sticking to her ridiculous story. “You must indeed be mad if you believe what happened between us had naught to do with desire.”

  It had everything to do with desire.

  She sank a little lower and shook her head, her chin sloshing water. “It was a chemical reaction. A matter of science.”

  He chuckled, but felt no mirth . . . only a twinge of annoyance. “Is that what you believe? Truly?”