The Devil Rogue

by Lori Villarreal

“Do you like it?” he asked, pleased by her passionate response.

  “Y-yes – ohhh, my goodness!”

  All thoughts of getting a name from her flew from Ian’s head as he gently laid her back on the mattress. He parted her legs with his knee and kissed her deeply, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. When he inserted his finger she instinctively lifted her hips against his hand, moaning into his mouth. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart,” he commanded hoarsely, his own arousal so powerful it made his temples pound.

  He continued to kiss her, sliding his finger in and out, again and again, increasing the rhythm until she was writhing beneath him. She matched him stroke for stroke, raising her hips completely off the mattress.

  Angela had never felt anything so wild and intense and pleasurable. Who was this man – this stranger who’d entered into her life by some odd twist of fate? He was such a contradiction. One moment he seemed to despise her, and then there were moments like these when he gifted her with his magical touch. Her body hummed and throbbed, a force building inside her as he kissed her and touched her so intimately.

  “Come for me, princess,” he said hotly in her ear. “I want you to come on my fingers.”

  His words, combined with what he was doing to her down below, released the floodgates in a torrential outpouring of sensation. Blinding light burst behind her closed eyelids, and she cried out as wave after wave of ecstasy in its purest form flowed through her.

  “That’s it, my angel,” he crooned as he gentled her quivering body. “Come back to me now.” He rained light kisses over her face, and ran his hands over her body as though calming a prized mare.

  “That was wondrous!” Angela exclaimed once she’d caught her breath. “I never knew such a thing was possible. Is it always like that?”

  Raising himself above her, he looked down at her. “No, angel,” he replied huskily. “You just happen to be an exceptionally passionate woman, to my supreme delight. And there’s more.”

  “More? Oh! But what about you, my lord? Is it the same for a man, as well?”

  Chuckling softly, he said, “Yes, men also experience pleasure, and release, but in a different way.”

  “How so?” She wanted to know everything.

  “I’ll show you.”

  He reached down, unfastening his breeches. His thick, hard member dropped heavily between them. Grasping her hand, he placed it around the shaft, guiding it up and down as he’d shown her in the bath earlier. The skin was hot and velvety soft. He groaned deep in his throat when she squeezed him.

  “Did that hurt?” she asked, hesitating.

  “No, it was wonderful,” he said in a guttural voice. “Please . . . don’t stop what you’re doing.”

  “What does it feel like?”

  “It feels like what my fingers inside you must have felt like.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Indeed.”

  He let go of her hand and allowed her to continue unassisted. “My God, don’t stop.” He gasped. “Faster.” His breathing came in harsh pants.

  He grunted as his shaft pulsed in her hand, and then ejected a creamy fluid in little spurts. Angela was thrilled by the knowledge that she’d somehow had something to do with his pleasure. Her feelings about this man were confused and wary. Her hand was wet and sticky, his man-thing now much smaller and soft.

  “What is this wetness I feel in my hand?” she asked, unaware her nightgown was still bunched up around her waist.

  “It’s called semen. It’s the fluid that carries a man’s seed. He sat up, buttoning the flap on his breeches, his gaze running along her naked limbs.

  “Oh.”

  “My penis goes in here.” His hand cupped her mons, one finger dipping inside. “Like this. And when I come, my seed is ejected deep inside.”

  Angela sucked in a startled breath, her heartbeat picking up again when he touched her there. “But your – p-penis is so . . . so big . . . and hard, except for right now. Will it fit? Will it hurt?”

  “Yes, my innocent princess.” His voice had turned hoarse, a familiar bulge appearing in the front of his breeches. “It will fit, do not worry about that. A woman is made to accommodate a man.” He pulled her nightgown down, covering her legs. “Enough of this for now. I think you’ve had enough lessons for one day.”

  When he made to rise off the bed, his hand pressed against her injured arm, causing Angela to cry out in pain. She’d forgotten all about it during their love play. She cradled her arm with her other hand.

  “What is it?” Ian asked, concerned by her obvious distress. “Let me see.” He reached for her arm, only to have her jerk away from him.

  “No, its fine. I’m fine.”

  “Give me your arm, Angela,” he said sternly. She held it out to him and he pushed up her sleeve. He saw the bandage with a spot of blood on it. “What is this?”

  “I-I cut myself while helping in the kitchen.”

  “It’s an odd place to cut yourself. What were you doing, hacking the heads off chickens?”

  “I was talking, not paying attention to what I was doing, waving my arms. I’m really rather clumsy most of the time, I’m afraid.”

  Her dismissive chuckle seemed strained.

  She was lying again. What was she hiding? Angela Hopkins was the least clumsy woman Ian had ever met. In fact, it was her elegant gracefulness, along with her beauty that had most of the male population of the ton completely in her thrall. Deciding to let it drop for the moment, he said, “Just don’t attempt to polish my sword collection, will you?”

  At his mention of swords, Ian thought of his own silken blade, thick and blunt-tipped, and he couldn’t wait to impale her with it, to make her cry out, not in pain, but in pleasure. He’d already become aroused again from her innocent questions. It was difficult to think with her lying there so temptingly, like a gorgeous nymph waiting for him to plunder her sweetness – again.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he rose from the bed. Looking down at her flushed face, her kiss-stung lips, and the overall dishevelment of a well-ravished woman, Ian had to forcefully remind himself that she could be someone he would ultimately come to hate. It didn’t seem possible, but the fact remained she was somehow involved in her father’s criminal dealings, and John’s murder.

  He leaned down to kiss her quickly on the lips, unable to resist one more. “Go to sleep now, angel.” She smiled up at him, and he left the room thinking that maybe he should put an end to those nightly baths.

  Angela stretched like a contented cat. This entire day had been full of new experiences, pleasurable sensations, and lessons in heretofore taboo subjects. Her own behavior had been nothing short of sinful. The way he had touched her had made her want to be naked, to feel his naked skin against hers. She wasn’t embarrassed in the least by what had just happened, au contraire, she wanted to experience everything Blackridge had to offer in the way of pleasure.

  She wondered why he hadn’t taken her virginity when he’d had the chance. She’d certainly been ripe for the plucking.

  Apparently, The Devil Rogue was more of a gentleman than he let on.

  5

  Villarreal / The Devil Rogue

  Chapter 9

  ROSEMARY STOOD WITH her hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me that you were with The Devil Rogue, himself. Alone. In his bedroom. While he bathed. And he didn’t do anything?”

  “No. Well, I didn’t . . . I mean he . . . we never—”

  “I don’t believe it! The man’s practically a legend. Why, he has the reputation as the most notorious womanizer and debaucher of innocents in London, maybe even all of England. And I hear he’s quite a skilled lover.”

  Angela barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “Where do you hear these stories?”

  “From other servants, of course. And the word is he’s been blessed with certain attributes, if you know what I mean, enough to make any decent woman faint. Did you faint? Is that why nothing happened?”

  Angela knew exac
tly what Rosemary meant by attributes. She’d seen them with her own two eyes. “No, I didn’t faint,” she said with exasperation. “I don’t think all those tales are true, or at least they’ve been blown out of proportion. He had the chance to er – debauch me – but he didn’t. He did do other things, however.”

  “What other things?” Rosemary asked, rushing over to sit on the bed next to her.

  “We kissed. I touched his – back – and chest.”

  Rosemary’s eyes were bright with curiosity. “Was he naked at the time?”

  “Well . . . yes.” Angela wondered how much she should tell her friend.

  “Oh, this is too good. What else did you touch?”

  “Rosemary! Aren’t you supposed to help me keep my virtue, not encourage me to give it away to the first rogue who crosses my path?” Angela suddenly grew suspicious. “And you don’t seem very squeamish about this particular subject. Care to tell me why?”

  “Servants aren’t under the same constraints as gentry. I’ve had a few experiences of my own.”

  “Rosemary!”

  “Don’t be so shocked. Once you get past the pain of the first time, it’s very enjoyable.”

  Angela experienced a sharp stab of hurt that her friend hadn’t confided in her. “When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, love,” Rosemary said, putting a hand on Angela’s shoulder. “It happened several years ago. I didn’t want you to worry, and it wasn’t a subject to be blathering on about to a young, unmarried girl.”

  “Excuse me,” Angela said indignantly, “but you’re the same age as me.”

  “Yes, and you’re also the daughter of a baron, and I’m a servant. You don’t just go talking about sexual relations to the daughter of a baron.”

  But I may not be the daughter of a baron, Angela thought. “Well, anyway, I ran out on Blackridge before anything could happen. I-I didn’t want him to see my scars.”

  “Oh, sweetheart! You shouldn’t worry so much about it. Those scars aren’t so bad as you think. They’ve lightened up quite a bit over the years and there’s only a few of them across your back.”

  “And the one on my stomach from where the whip came around,” Angela said bitterly.

  “That one isn’t so noticeable, either. You’re a beautiful woman, both inside and out, and don’t you ever think otherwise.”

  “He came to my room last night.”

  “What?”

  “I told him the gowns in the trunk had been ruined by mold, but he obviously didn’t believe me. He waited until I was asleep, snuck into my room, and found the shredded dresses.”

  “What happened?” Rosemary asked with concern. “I swear, if he hurt you in any way, I’ll tear him limb from limb!”

  Angela laughed. “There’s no need for that, Rosemary. He was angry at first, but then his anger turned to—”

  “What? Turned to what? Tell me.”

  “He looked at me . . . well . . . like I was the most delicious confection he’d ever seen, and he had a desperate need to feed his sweet tooth.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Then he began to touch me,” Angela whispered. “My breasts – under my nightdress. We kissed. He laid me back on the bed and touched me down there. And it was wonderful.”

  “He may not have done the deed completely, my girl, but you have, nonetheless, been thoroughly ravished.”

  “Do you think so? Because I wouldn’t mind being ravished again.” Angela grinned. “I wouldn’t mind ravishing him again, either.”

  Rosemary’s eyes narrowed. “What else happened, exactly?”

  “Once he finished ravishing me, he was, he had not . . . you know . . . so he asked me to sort of . . . help him. So I did.”

  “Miss Angela!” Rosemary choked on her laughter. “You are a wicked, wicked girl. I suspect this Devil Rogue may have met his match.”

  “I doubt that very much. He’s an experienced man, as you said, and I’m just a clumsy innocent destined to live out my days in a small cottage filled with cats.”

  “I don’t believe that, Miss Angela,” Rosemary said fervently. “There are great things in store for you, I think.”

  Angela’s mood turned somber. “I have a feeling there is something in store for me, but not so great, I fear.”

  “You just wait and see if I’m right.”

  IAN HAD DECIDED to allow Miss Hopkins her week to recover, having rescinded his order that she bathe him every night. The way that first attempt had played out, and the subsequent encounter in her room, had him rethinking his ridiculous scheme to ‘punish’ her.

  Punishment indeed!

  It was a fiasco guaranteed to torture him, is what it was, and would have ultimately resulted in her total and utter ravishment. And since there were her recent injuries to consider, it wouldn’t be very good of him to abuse, or rather misuse, the woman before she had fully recovered.

  He did find it odd that someone with the kind of poise and grace as Angela Hopkins possessed, would succumb to so many injurious accidents in such a short period of time. Oh, she claimed to be clumsy, but he didn’t believe that for one minute. What other reason could there be?

  For the entire week, he’d spent most of his days away from the house, visiting his club and tending to estate affairs. He had also decided to absent himself from dinner, preferring not to subject himself to the far too tempting allure of Miss Hopkins.

  The bolts of material had arrived and he assumed she and her maid were fast at work manufacturing new gowns. There was an upcoming ball he planned for them to attend in two day’s time. He would have to inquire if she’d finished a suitable gown. If not, then he would have one made for her, regardless of her feelings on the matter.

  Everything was coming together, his plan already in motion. Word was out about his arrangement with Miss Hopkins, spreading with the swiftness of a winter gale at full force. It was as he’d predicted – and intended. At his club, he’d already been clapped on the back by several of his associates for his newly acquired acquisition of the heretofore unattainable Miss Angela Hopkins.

  It was a well-known fact among the ton that the woman was a difficult, if not impossible, one to catch. The very idea that Ian had procured her as his mistress, no less, had them all smirking over their brandy glasses. Several toasts had gone ’round, lauding The Devil Rogue for a job well done. It had been commented upon, that if anyone could have toppled the ice queen from her lofty perch, it was the most reputed rake in London.

  As it stood, with her reputation most assuredly in a state of total ruin, Ian had successfully accomplished the first of several goals. He ignored the nagging feeling that he was dealing with forces beyond his control – that somehow this was all going to backfire on him.

  He also refused to acknowledge his conscience, which intruded with aggravating regularity of late, warning him that maybe he was wrong about Miss Hopkins. It couldn’t be possible. The evidence was there, tangible and irrefutable. There was no way she or her father were innocent – of blackmail – or of murder.

  The next phase of his plan was to take place at the Iverson’s ball. She would be exposed for the conniving, grasping bitch that she really was. He would enjoy her delectable body for the next several weeks, and then wipe his hands completely of her. She and her father could then take the twenty thousand pounds to hell with them.

  He was fairly certain Miss Hopkins would run back to her father and save him from financial ruin. But with the baron’s penchant for gambling and carousing, the money wouldn’t last long. At which point they would suffer whatever fate they deserved together.

  And then, there was the matter of John Winston’s murder. It would be difficult to prove, but Ian would do his best to gather the evidence. If convicted, the baron, at least, would hang.

  Miss Hopkins may not suffer the same fate, but she would most likely spend the remainder of her life in Newgate prison. Suddenly, the image of the slender, graceful young woman with the engaging blue e
yes wasting away in that unforgiving hellhole made Ian’s heart feel heavy.

  She would be brutalized, beaten, starved – raped. She wouldn’t survive very long. Death by hanging would probably be more humane. Fuck. Was he prepared to be the one to send her there? If she was guilty of murder, he would have no other conscionable choice.

  The baron had already sent several missives regarding the markers Ian held. Ian assumed the reason for Baron Eberly’s visit with his daughter last week was to discuss the money she would be receiving. The man was squirming, his pathetic pleas for his debts to be paid little recompense for what he had done to John.

  As for tonight, he would initiate Miss Hopkins into the world of pleasure as concubine to The Devil Rogue. His cock filled, springing to life in anticipation of the evening to come. Her week was over, and he would finally be able to sample the full extent of her hidden passion. He would introduce her to a whole new world of delight – awaken her body, opening her up like a flower spreads its petals to the sun.

  But now Ian cursed the damned fates that brought the missive. It had been sent by the steward of his country estate, Black Ridge. Ian had been relaxing at his club, enjoying his usual brandy and reading the Times when it came. There was no way around it. His presence was required at the estate, and he would not be able to return until the night of the ball. He would have to inform Miss Hopkins immediately, so she could ready herself for the party. Hopefully, she’d completed a suitable ball gown.

  ANGELA HAD BEGUN to wonder if her encounters with Blackridge had really taken place at all, or were merely a figment of her imagination. She hadn’t seen much of him in the last week. In fact, she hadn’t seen him at all. He’d left word he wouldn’t be dining with her in the evenings, due to his busy schedule. He’d also given her permission to spend as much time as she wished on her new wardrobe, and not to worry about chores.

  Even though it wasn’t required of her, she continued to assist Mrs. Olsen in the kitchen. She helped Mrs. Brown in cleaning rooms and changing bed linens, as well as Emma, whenever Angela could convince the head housekeeper to give her work. They all seemed to be reluctant to overwork her, which was ridiculous. She was young and healthy, and had no objections to a little bit of physical labor.