The Rogue's Last Scandal

by Alina K. Field

  She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she had rehearsed the words. They were laced with a suppressed emotion he could not identify, but that told him she was telling the truth.

  “I was a virgin, but I gave myself so he would not hurt them. I was not strong enough to resist...He was not drunk enough for me to be able to stop him.” She shook her head. “I lived on ships. I saw men fight. I’d seen men flogged. I’d never seen such brutality as his. He carried me off, and I was captive for three days. I did try to escape. To fight, I...” She drew in a shallow breath. “He thought I should come to enjoy what he did, and when I didn’t, I couldn’t, he…he said if I would act like a dumb cow he would mark me like one.”

  Blood roared in his ears. He would take the next ship and hunt down this beast. He would torture him first, and then kill him. “He is a dead man.”

  Pain swam in her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. “Yes. He is.”

  Charley’s mouth went dry. “Oh, my love. You killed him?”

  “No, not I.” She choked. “I was weak. Weak, Charley. I could not...” She inhaled a long breath. “I could barely walk from his attacks. When he showed me the iron, I tried to resist. I threatened him with my father’s wrath. I told him my father would kill him, and he said we would be married by then, and he would have my dowry, and my child, and my father would learn to accept it. It was the way things were done when a bride was reluctant. He said Papa would never know the rest, unless I was the one to tell him, and if I did I would not live long past my first-born son. He said he would go back and kill Consuela, and Mama also.”

  Tears seeped from beneath her lashes. “He said many horrible things. But they tracked us and found us first. The scar is bad, but it could have been so much worse. Mama got to me just as he touched the hot iron to me. She shot him, but he got up. Consuela knocked him down with a shovel, and then she hit him, again and again, until he didn’t get up.” She gulped in a breath. “Her own brother. Her own brother, Charley. Oh, how her heart hurt. It is all tied together in my memory: my body on fire, the shot, the crack of his skull.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, seeing the picture—two women and a sick child fighting a monster.

  When he opened his eyes, Gracie was watching him.

  “I’m so sorry, my love.”

  She let out a long breath. “They heaved his body into an arroyo. Then they tied me onto a cart and found a village. A padre there helped us. They told everyone I had a fever—which by that time was true—and they must keep away. We stayed there until I was well, and then we stayed longer, and when Reina was born, we said she was Consuela’s child.”

  She braced a hand on the chair arm, preparing to stand.

  “Wait,” he said. “Wait.” He pushed a lock of hair back from her face. “I’m glad that you told me. She’s a beautiful child.” She would be his beautiful child, as soon as they married.

  “I do not look at her and see Rigo. I see Consuela. I cannot toss her away. I will never toss her away, not for any husband or any guardian.”

  “No. She’ll be with you always. It is good Consuela’s family showed no interest.”

  “It was Papa’s idea to contact them. He...wrote letters.”

  “Which did not arrive?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head. “I made sure they would not.”

  “So, he doesn’t know the truth?”

  She went so still, her breath stopping, he wanted to press his mouth to hers and breathe for her. He swept a thumb down her cheek.

  “I never told him. And if he truly is dead...there has been enough of lying and enough of secrets. Everyone who knew died. Not even Francisca knows. No one knows but you.”

  His heart pounded. She had trusted him with her darkest—and her brightest―secret. But why, if her plan was to break their engagement and cast him off?

  He must cease with this business of feeling and think.

  She squirmed in his lap. “And so you see, I am what you English call very damaged goods. Not a suitable wife for even the younger son of an earl.”

  Thinking was almost out of the question with her backside twitching against him, making him want to touch her more.

  “Please. Sit still a moment.”

  She jumped off his lap and faced him, wringing her hands at her waist. “There is another reason you will not want to marry me,” she said. “I am not a-a good lover. I could not respond. I could not pretend. And I had a thorough education in those three days. I know the English don’t expect a wife…well, that is why the husband keeps a mistress, but…” Tears filled her eyes again and her voice trailed off.

  He fisted his hand to keep from grabbing hers.

  “Gracie.” Somehow, he held back the anger that wanted to rage, somehow, he made his voice calm. “You were raped. That was no education. No normal woman responds to brutality with feelings of pleasure.” He rested his hands on the chair arms, forcing himself to stay seated. “And you do respond when I kiss you. In fact, every time I touch you, I sense your response. Were you ever kissed before Rigo?”

  She nodded.

  “Touched?”

  She hung her head and still managed a nod.

  Someone had shamed her for that also.

  “And?” He pushed ahead. “Did you enjoy it?”

  She swallowed and slowly nodded.

  “There you have it. You’re a sensual woman. That doesn’t mean you should enjoy being forced. You just didn’t have the right man until now.”

  Trembling shot through her limbs and set her lip quivering and her teeth chattering. “I d-don’t know what I am.”

  “I do.” You are mine. “And I love you, Gracie, all of you, every part of you, including that little girl in the nursery.”

  Her head shot up and her mouth dropped open.

  He wouldn’t claim her though, not until she was ready to claim him. One thing he’d learned swiving women for king and country—a woman’s pleasure involved far more than the act. Total surrender was required.

  Chapter 22

  Gracie closed her mouth and tightened her arms, hugging herself. “I am glad you love me. I have leaned on you very much, Charley.” She inhaled deeply. “I was angry today because I was jealous. It is a foolish emotion when so much is at stake. It seems that to be free, I must pledge myself to someone and I wish it to be you. Please m-marry me. I will try not to trouble you about your l-lovers.” She chewed on her lip, frowning. “I have shared all my secrets, and I should like you to tell me yes or no, whether you will marry me.”

  His heart stuttered.

  He ought to be happy. But what the hell did she mean about being free? She was fooling herself if she thought marrying him would leave her free to go her own way, have lovers, live apart from him. It wouldn’t happen, and he had no need to brand her. She was his. And he was hers. Until she realized that, a marriage like the one she was proposing would be no more than another cage for her.

  And—damn it all—it would be a cage for him also. The freedom he wanted was not that sort of arrangement.

  He almost laughed at the irony—the freedom he wanted was the trap he’d been dodging. Or…could it be that was the freedom she was talking about?

  “Let me be clear on one thing: I will not marry and take lovers on the side.”

  Her gaze dropped to his feet.

  “You say you must pledge yourself to someone, but what of love, Gracie?”

  Her head moved from side to side. “To love a husband is dangerous, they say.”

  “They? Not my brothers’ wives. You haven’t been talking to them.”

  “Lady Kingsley—”

  “Lady Kingsley beat that convention into you. I don’t think you should trust her.”

  Her eyes sparked, shiny and defiant. “I’m not sure I should trust anyone.” She fisted her hands. “Will you marry me, Charley?”

  “Without mutual love, Gracie?”

  She opened her mouth. Her forehead crumpled. Her lips trembled. No sound escaped.


  Oh, this was a stubborn girl, but with good reason. She’d been fighting her way alone through the world for the last three years, carrying a great burdensome lie on her scarred body, all alone.

  And he needed to push her just a bit more.

  He stepped closer. “Then, no.”

  “No?” Graciela’s heart jumped, her chest constricted and real pain gripped her lungs.

  He said he loved her, but he would not marry her. Her shame was too much for him. She must find another way.

  By force of will she drew herself taller. “Very well.” She turned toward the door.

  He reached it before her and blocked the way.

  Fear flashed within her, quickly replaced by sense. This was Charley. She did not fear him, and she did not want to leave him. She wanted to be back sitting on his lap, his comforting arm around her.

  “That’s it?” In the shadows, only his eyes gleamed. “You’d walk away? You won’t fight for what you want?”

  “I am not a coward. You do not want me.”

  “Oh, I want you.”

  A tendril of warmth unfurled in her. Only his scent and his voice and that gleam in his eyes touched her, yet her body had opened as it had before with him.

  “I’m not a virgin.”

  “So what? No man or woman is after the first time.”

  “I have borne a child.”

  “A lovely, vibrant, beautiful child.”

  “I am scarred. I am ugly.”

  “You are scarred, but you are not ugly, Gracie.”

  Confusion swirled through her, hope and fear warring.

  Fear won. She lifted her chin and steadied her voice. “I will never be used like that again.”

  “Not by anyone. And definitely not by me.”

  The steel in his voice cut her and her heart plummeted again, bringing the rest of her with it. Her knees buckled, and he steadied her, his arms like the firm balustrade of the staircase. Compressed anger had turned him to stone. She had bungled this meeting and insulted him.

  He lifted her hand and pressed the fingers between his own.

  “You are driving me mad,” he said. “No, you are driving us both mad. I won’t marry you for your money or merely to protect you. I have enough money for the life I want, and I can and will protect you without marrying you if that’s what it comes to.”

  His hands sent little bursts of lightning through her, addling her brains. Of course, his family was rich. He must have a generous allowance. He was not greedy. He did not need her funds. And his protection would bring them together, and that maddened him because he wanted her and would not be able to take her unless he married her. So why would he not marry her? Why would he protect her until she reached her majority or found another husband?

  She caught her breath. Once she turned twenty-one, she could have control of her funds. Marrying anyone but Charley was unimaginable, and she would not need to. If he didn’t want her, she’d be free to go her own way.

  If he protected her until then...Whatever was to happen between them, she wanted to explore it, in her damaged, fallen, scarred state. She’d never be an English lady. She wanted to be a real woman. To know an honorable man’s loving.

  He wanted her but he would not use her, so she must persuade him, only she had no skills either in politics or seduction.

  “Teach me,” she blurted out.

  He stilled. She thanked God for the darkness concealing her flaming cheeks.

  “You want me, Charley, and I...I want to know, to understand.” She huffed out a breath. “Oh, I am saying this badly. You are a man who has had many women—”

  “Not so many—”

  “And you are right that I do feel...That is, I like when you kiss me. I want to know more.”

  He moved closer, so close she could feel his breath at her ear, making her shiver. “About?”

  “About love. That is, about making love.”

  He pulled her closer again and she felt his hard phallus against her belly. A frisson of fear went through her, and he stepped back an inch breaking their bond.

  She pushed herself close. She must not show fear. Must not. “Help me to not be so afraid.”

  “And if I got you with child?”

  “Oh.” Given what happened before, it was a real possibility.

  He kissed her forehead. “If I say yes, if that should happen, we shall deal with it.”

  “How?”

  “In the usual way.”

  Fear raced through her. She had heard whispers of things desperate women did. “I will not get rid of a child. Never.”

  He walked her into the light and studied her, his eyes very serious. “No. That’s not what I meant. I meant, that perhaps, by then, you would love me, and we could marry.”

  I love you now. She opened her mouth, but the words would not come, and in truth, her own judgment couldn’t be trusted. Hadn’t she trusted her guardian at first? And Rigo? At first, she had thought her mother’s fears excessive.

  “So you will teach me?”

  “I will.”

  “After the ball tomorrow night?”

  He nuzzled her ear, sending ripples of pleasure through her. “Why no. We’ll have our first lesson right now.”

  Chapter 23

  The library candle sputtered and died, leaving them wrapped in a thin stream of smoke and darkness. Charley’s hands cradled her shoulders, his lips moved against hers but a moment, and then trailed to her cheek, to her ear, and down to a spot on her neck that sent her wriggling. Pleasure coursed through her, making her heart pound, stealing her breath. She tried to push closer, but he held her away, his touch gentle but strong.

  “We’ll be more comfortable in a bed,” he murmured. “Your bedchamber or mine?”

  A servant could enter her chamber any time. Even Lady Perry might come knocking. But that could happen at his bedchamber also.

  “Can we not lock the door here? There is the sofa.” She squeezed her eyes tightly. Rigo had taken her on the hard ground, many times, many ways, the rocks and pebbles grinding into her back and her breasts.

  His lips touched her forehead like butterflies landing, so soft for a man. “I’ll lock this door.”

  Her courage surged. She reached for his arm. “No. We’ll go to your bedchamber. Your valet will be discreet?”

  “I was only joking in the nursery about my valet being upset. I don’t keep one. And I have a sturdy lock on my door.”

  In mere breathless moments they had reached his chamber.

  The heavy curtains were pulled back, the window open to the moonlight and a breeze alive with the city’s scents.

  He struck a spark, lit a lamp, and then one by one, each taper in a brace of candles on the mantle.

  Books and journals were piled atop a carved table near the fireplace. The hangings and upholstery were a dark, manly color; forest green, she would guess. The bed...the bed stood back, tall and not particularly wide. It was a chamber for a single man, and other than the presence of the books, impersonal, as though Charley did not really live here.

  He went to another table, poured a glass of amber liquid, and walked it back to her.

  “You may turn the key in that lock,” he said.

  She did.

  He extended the tumbler to her. “Brandy. I’m sorry, I have but one glass. I should have thought to bring another from the library.”

  She shook her head. “I wish to be sober.”

  He looked at the glass, frowning as if seeing all her secrets in it, again.

  Her heart pounded. Charley was not Rigo. He was not. The only time she had seen Charley drunk, at her betrothal ball, he had been but acting.

  She snatched the glass from him. “One sip perhaps.” The hot liquid burned her lips. She swished it in her mouth, let it coat her throat, and handed it back to him. “Bottoms up.”

  A small smile curved his lips. He tossed the rest of the drink back, eyes locked on hers, Adam’s apple moving in a way that made her shiver.

&n
bsp; Everything about him was well made. She shut her eyes tight. Everything about Rigo had been well made also. Everything except the man he was.

  Soft lips touched each eyelid. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll stop whenever you ask.”

  She opened her eyes and saw that he had moved away, carrying the empty glass back.

  She followed him, deciding to be brave. “I am not afraid of you. What comes next?”

  He pointed. “The dressing chamber door needs locking.”

  She crossed the room and did that. “Now what?” she asked.

  “I am yours to command.”

  Her heart pounded, excitement building. His kisses were divine. Perhaps a kiss and then…

  He tugged at his neck cloth, unwinding it.

  Every nerve in her tingled. Taking off her clothes for him—it had excited him. Underneath her fear, her own desire had answered his.

  He had seen her. She had not seen him.

  The white linen landed on the back of a stuffed armchair, one he moved to sit in.

  “No,” she said.

  Through it all, his gaze had not left her. It sharpened, like that of a man just challenged.

  “Please...” She took a breath. “Please remove your clothes.”

  Coats flew. His white shirt cleared his head and sailed across the room at her. She caught it and when she looked, he was grinning. She could not help but smile back, lifting the linen to her nose.

  Dios. His scent filled her, sent her bones to shaking. He sat and crossed a booted foot across his knee.

  “Wait.” She tossed the shirt aside and hurried over. He had frozen in the chair, shirtless, his chest as muscled as any well-fed sailor’s. A smattering of tawny hair ran to a point below his breeches.

  And Charley had scars of his own. The largest one had carved an arc from his center to his flank, puckered from stitching and still in places pink. Older, shallower slices marked a shoulder and his arms. Those were, perhaps, from dueling.

  A man with married lovers would have had a duel or two. Because he was experienced, which she was not.

  Anxiety crashed through her. Perhaps this was a mistake.

  His gaze met hers, sending her a challenge.