The Virgin and the Rogue

by Jordan, Sophie

  Very civil and acceptable, as it should be—as it should have been from the beginning.

  “Did you not go home for holidays when you were at school?”

  He lowered down beside her, the springs protesting slightly as he rested his hat on his knee. Her gaze skimmed over that knee encased in his well-fitted breeches, and then darted away, up to his face—another manner of distraction there, for certain.

  “I would visit my mother, yes,” he answered. “I would not say I ever went home as she was rarely ever at the same place. She moved around often. Very few places stand out in my memory. Certainly none were home.” Pause. “I’ve never known a home.”

  “Oh.” She tried not to reveal how very sad Kingston’s life sounded to her.

  Her heart softened as she imagined the small, adrift boy he had been, and she felt the wild urge to touch him, of all the ill-advised things to do. Pat a hand on his arm or shoulder. Ridiculous and dangerous. She should certainly stay any impulse to make physical contact.

  Except she could not help thinking: He was a boy without a name or a home.

  She curled her fingers into her palm until her nails cut deep. She had no doubt if she were to look at her hands she would see tiny half-moons carved into her skin. She didn’t care, though. She’d gladly take the pain. Anything was better than touching him.

  Chapter 12

  The proximity was too much to bear. Sitting close to him felt a precarious thing. Charlotte surged to her feet, determined to put some space between them before she bled all over her skirts from digging into her palms.

  “Shall I give you a tour?” she asked abruptly, striding away from him, ahead of him.

  “Very well.” He followed her up the stairs.

  While keeping a safe, respectable distance, she showed him each sparsely furnished room, trying not to reveal how very nervous he made her. She supposed that was natural given their history with each other, but, again, she wanted to prove herself strong. Not a slave to her impulses. She was not under the influence of Nora’s tonic, so she could behave properly.

  As she moved through the house, she witnessed everything through his eyes. She saw the shell of a house he must now see.

  They’d sold off several pieces of furniture after Papa had died. Before Marian married Warrington. It had been necessary, but she was hoping she could locate some of those items and buy them back once she and William married.

  “Nice light in here,” he commented as she showed him the master chamber.

  The bed was still there—a lovely mahogany four-poster bed that had belonged to her grandparents before her parents. All three of her siblings and Charlotte had been born in that bed.

  She realized the sight of the bed and Kingston in proximity to it should have struck a chord of alarm within her, but why should one mere bed strike her with anxiety? They’d never been near a bed before, and that had not stopped them from succumbing to lascivious behavior. No, if they had surrendered to passion in the library at Haverston Hall and out beneath the wide-open skies on a summer afternoon, then any environment could be conducive. If she so chose. If she was weak again. Which she was not.

  She was in full control of herself and all impulses. She had nothing to fear.

  “I’ve always thought so,” she agreed, moving past the bed to the double balcony doors. Unlocking them, she pushed them open, allowing the afternoon air inside. “It overlooks my mother’s wildflowers.”

  Kingston stepped onto the balcony and peered down. “The world can’t be too bad whilst waking up to such a view.”

  “Indeed not,” she agreed, feeling more relaxed.

  She rather enjoyed the ease of talking to Kingston. Kingston. Did he not possess another name?

  Turning from the view, she faced him. “Does everyone address you as Kingston?” She’d never heard Nathaniel or Marian call him anything else. Charlotte hadn’t the slightest clue as to his Christian name.

  “Ever since I was a lad, yes. Even my own father calls me Kingston.”

  “That’s rather . . . perfunctory.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Are you asking me for my Christian name, Charlie?”

  She stiffened at the intimate moniker on his lips. She supposed digging around for his name invited that. “Yes, I expect I am.” She forced the rigidity from her frame. They were having a perfectly normal interaction and she did not wish to ruin it.

  “I’m not certain anyone even remembers my name,” he mused, staring out into the trees, resting a hand on the railing.

  She gazed at him a long moment, wondering if he was simply jesting. His sober expression hinted at no such thing.

  “Certainly your mother,” she supplied.

  A shadow fell over his face. “I would not rely on that.”

  She fought against a frown. What manner of mother forgot her child’s name? The wretch. Charlotte immediately felt a keen dislike for the faceless woman. Perhaps disproportionately so. And yet she could not help envisioning, yet again, the handsome man before her as a little boy, lost and yearning for a mother’s love.

  Kingston continued, “My mother is not well these days. I suspect her illness precludes her from remembering a great many things.”

  “Oh.” Now Charlotte felt the wretch for thinking poorly of an ailing woman. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” She moistened her lips and pressed, “What is your name?”

  He sent her a small smile. “You know my name.”

  “Kingston is a surname.”

  “It’s all anyone ever calls me.”

  She frowned. “I’d like to call you by your name. Your true name.”

  “You’d be the only one to use it.”

  The only one.

  At that, she hesitated. She knew she should let the matter drop. It would be far too intimate to be the only person using his Christian name. She didn’t want that intimacy to exist between them.

  Still, she heard herself saying, “I don’t mind that.”

  After several beats of silence, he answered. Over the chirping of birds and wind rustling in the branches, he said, “It’s Samuel. Sam.”

  “Samuel. Sam.” She tested it on her tongue. “It’s a nice name . . . makes you seem more human. It’s certainly less imposing than Kingston.”

  At that, he grinned. “Perhaps that is why I never tell people. A bastard is better served if he comes across as a little imposing.”

  She flinched at the ease in which he called himself bastard.

  “You knew that, of course?” he asked. “I am the Earl of Norfolk’s bastard.”

  “Yes, I knew that.” She gave a perfunctory nod.

  He smiled humorlessly. “People talk.”

  Indeed. She knew that, too.

  He moved from the railing with a crisp turn. “So what are the plans for this place?” he asked in what felt, to her, an obvious evasion or, at the very least, an effort to change the topic from his mother. He strode to the center of the chamber and stopped, turning idly to examine the room.

  She released a sigh. “For now, Marian is holding on to the property, on the chance that one of us might choose to reside here some day.”

  Charlotte chose to be deliberately vague. She did not feel inclined to speak of her future in that moment—specifically of her future here, in this house, with William.

  Yes, she was counting on residing in this house again. It was decided. It was what she wanted and William had agreed.

  It felt in poor taste, however, to speak of it with Kingston, a man with whom she had recently shared intimacies, however ill-advised those encounters happened to be . . . however much they would not repeat on those mistakes, however much she battled the shame of her actions.

  Even if she believed herself unable to resist, she still battled with shame.

  “Ah. Might you then? With Pembroke?” Despite her prevarication he saw directly to the matter. He stared at her politely, patiently waiting for her response.

  “Well, actually . . .” No sense
lying. Perhaps it would be a good thing for him to realize how very much their paths diverged.

  He stared at her mildly. Apparently he felt no reaction over the mention of her impending marriage. Something pinched near her heart at that. Relief, she supposed. What else could it be?

  “Yes,” she admitted. “William and I have decided to move in here after we’re married.”

  She studied him then. Was it her imagination or did he look affected at this announcement? For the briefest moment did the line of his mouth compress?

  “I am certain living here will make your marriage more palatable.” He delivered the words so politely it was not easy to detect the offense given at first. Until she did detect it.

  Until she heard and felt the remark for all its intended sting.

  She pulled back her shoulders in affront. “My marriage will be palatable no matter where we reside.”

  His look turned pitying. “Do you think so?”

  “Oh,” she puffed in outrage. “Are you deliberately insulting me?”

  “Does the truth offend?”

  “It’s not the truth,” she insisted.

  Again came a pitying look. “If your impending marriage to this Pembroke fellow was right for you, then you would not care where you lived as long as you were together.”

  “Well, o-of course, that is true,” she stammered.

  “Is it true, though?” he queried, one eyebrow arched in skepticism. He motioned about him. “I think you love this house and the idea of returning to it more than the man you’re to wed.”

  “Oh!” Heat swelled up from her chest to burn her face. She opened her mouth, wanting to deny him further, but she was too busy digesting his words.

  Was this house more important to her than William? Could that be true?

  He pressed on. “In fact, I don’t think you love your betrothed at all.”

  She sputtered at the accusation, pointing a trembling finger to the door. The man did not know when to cease. “I think you should leave, Mr. Kingston.”

  “Mister Kingston, is it? What happened to Samuel? Or, if you prefer, Sam?”

  He strode closer, his tread falling on the bare wood floor in steady thuds. The plush Aubusson rug that once covered the floor was another thing gone, another thing sold off. “If you felt even a fraction of love for your Mr. Pembroke you would never have touched me . . . never have let me touch you. Even now, you would not look at me the way you do.”

  Dear heavens. What way did she look at him?

  She must have asked the question aloud because he was answering her with a slow smile that belied the gravity in his voice.

  “You are looking at me as though you would like to continue where we left off at the pond. You’re looking at me,” he repeated, his voice an erotic rasp, “as though you can still taste me . . . the way I can still taste you. With the morning light on your skin. The summer air wrapped around you.”

  She was in trouble. Deeply. Tragically.

  His words were dangerously seductive. And quite dangerously, possibly, true.

  Growing up, whenever she had heard hushed gossip of young ladies that toppled over the brink into ruin, she had thought herself unlike them. She had never understood how they could succumb and give up all propriety.

  Now she did. Now she understood.

  Now she knew she had been a small-minded prig lacking imagination because she entirely and wholly understood how one could surrender to desire.

  Now she understood how a man’s words could turn a woman giddy.

  This close to Samuel, his words were a warm, heady husk on her skin. She felt intoxicated, drugged again, although that was not the case.

  This time she could only blame herself for the way she melted beneath the sensual assault of his words.

  She closed her eyes in a hard squeeze. This was wrong, and fair to no one . . . but especially not fair to William. He deserved the loyalty of a good woman, and presently she felt like neither of those things. Not loyal. Not good.

  This had to stop.

  Her eyes flew open. “We cannot continue to consort this way,” she said in a feverish rush.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m betrothed. I’m not free to . . . to do this.” She waved a hand back and forth between them.

  “I’ll take you as you are. I’ll have you any way you’ll permit. Betrothed or not. I’m not an honorable sort.”

  She blinked. He did not appear to be jesting. There was no pride or shame in his voice—no inflection at all. He uttered the words solemnly. Matter-of-factly.

  Only she could agree with him.

  He’d been respectful toward her and exhibited admirable restraint . . . even if he was offering to seduce her now.

  He wasn’t a perfect man, but there was decency in him. She would even say . . . honor. She’d wager on it.

  “I see you considering my words. You do not agree?”

  She lifted her chin. “You are not the complete cad you would have me believe.”

  The gold flecks in his eyes sparked. “Oh, you are far too trusting.”

  “I’m not—”

  “If you could read my thoughts you would not be so quick to defend me.” He laughed deeply and the sound was dark and rich, wrapping around her like the warmest, most luxurious fur. “It’s absurd, is it not? I’m being honest in that my intentions toward you are dishonorable . . . and you don’t believe me. Promise me you’ll stay in this provincial little hamlet forever and never venture to Town. The place is swimming with sharks ready to devour sweet chits such as yourself . . . even as they utter kind things to your face.”

  She took a steadying breath. “I’m only saying you judge yourself too harshly. You have . . . limits.” Clearly, there were boundaries he would not cross. She knew that from their first encounter . . . and their second. “You would not—”

  “Oh, don’t be so certain I wouldn’t.” His gaze warmed, the golden brown turning molten. “You have to feel it, too, between us. You know it’s there.”

  Her breath caught.

  Madness. He spouted madness. Tempting and impossible.

  “It’s just . . . the tonic . . .” she whispered brokenly, desperately reaching for it, for something to explain this hopeless thing between them. She dragged her gaze away, hoping to hide anything that resembled longing in her expression.

  “To hell with that bloody tonic. It has naught to do with the fire between us!”

  Her gaze shot back to him, rattled, unable to breathe. Her body was afire.

  Without touching her, she felt touched. Raw and exposed, vulnerable.

  “You need to leave,” she blurted, pleased to hear the firmness in her voice.

  “Evidently the truth offends.” He turned and sauntered toward the door.

  “It is not the truth you speak.”

  In response to that, he tossed a smirk over his shoulder.

  It was too much. At the infuriating sight of it, an epiphany struck her. She charged ahead and seized him by the arm, forcing him around.

  “And what if it is the truth? What if I don’t love him?” She felt as though she’d just emerged from a deep pool of water and took a gulp of fresh air after long deprivation. Her fingers tightened around his forearm. “Should I feel bad about that? Should I regret what is standard in our society? What is normal? Has marriage ever necessitated love?”

  “True.” He slowly nodded in agreement, looking down at her hand on his arm and back to her face. “Love and marriage rarely go together.”

  She yanked her hand away as though burned, appalled that she had surrendered to emotion and grabbed him.

  He stepped closer. “But you are not in a position where you have to marry anyone unless you want to. Unless you are in love.”

  “Don’t presume to know me or my position. You know nothing of me.”

  His face was so close now that she could detect the dark ring of brown surrounding his lighter irises. His smile deepened. “Oh, but I know a few things about
you. Do I not?”

  His words robbed her of all air. His implication seemed clear . . . full of dark and naughty things. Unspeakable things.

  Her lungs ceased to move as she held his gaze, studying his face and the starkly intent way he looked at her. All of those things, memories of taste and touch and pleasure, surged between them.

  “Leave me be . . . and leave this house,” she managed to get out in a whisper, desperate for him to go, for space between them.

  Desperate to hold strong. To do the right thing.

  He lingered for several moments, holding her gaze before he obliged and turned, striding from the chamber.

  She listened to the thud of his feet on the stairs.

  She listened as the front door opened and clapped shut.

  She listened until there was nothing more to hear.

  Until there was only silence and the beating pulse of her heart in her ears.

  Chapter 13

  Kingston strode out of the house, his biting steps perfectly matching his ire. He could not recall ever feeling so exasperated. So annoyed. So . . . rebuffed. Certainly no female had ever provoked such emotions in him before.

  She’d ordered him from the house. Clearly she refused to acknowledge the attraction simmering between them as anything substantive. Bloody hell. She refused to acknowledge it as anything that existed in truth at all.

  Delusional chit.

  She still blamed the tonic . . . and she was still planning to marry Pembroke.

  He didn’t know what was more ridiculous. A magical elixir? Or marrying some bore when no one was forcing her to do so?

  She was not being commanded by parents. No controlling papa was forcing her to the altar. She was not in dire financial straits that required her to wed.

  Countless unfortunate females all over the kingdom, all over the world, were at the mercy of family and society. His own mother had been one of them. She was left an orphan and penniless shortly after she turned sixteen.

  On holiday from school, during one of his occasional visits, his mother had offered him this glimpse into herself, sharing bits of her history with him.

  He knew so little of her upbringing until that moment. He’d been curious. He’d never met his maternal grandparents. No aunts or uncles or cousins. As far as he knew, his mother was alone. There was no other family. Just him.