A Rogue About Town (London League, Book 2)

by Rebecca Connolly

  “Don’t. I can’t bear it.”

  His hand was on her chin again, this time tipping it down, and Amelia managed to open her drowsy eyes to meet his heated gaze.

  “Please,” he whispered, his thumb pressing just below her bottom lip, parting her lips easily.

  “No,” Amelia sighed, her breath racing past her lips.

  He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers gently, tenderly molding them in a medley of caresses and grazes. His hands moved to cup her face as he kissed her again and again, each kiss teasing and searing, gently wringing exquisite delight from every tingling part of her.

  “Please,” he whispered against her lips, between each touch, each breathless moment weakening her further and further.

  She couldn’t stand this, didn’t understand it. She’d never felt anything like this, and the onslaught was heady and overwhelming and wonderful. She had never dreamed she could feel this way, so alive and wild, so insecure and filled with light. She had spent so long feeling nothing, and now she was infused with more emotions than she could bear to comprehend. This man had torn down her walls, stripped away layer by layer, and turned her into a creature she barely recognized, yet she had never felt more herself in her entire life.

  The heat was unbearable, the tenderness too sweet, and the sensations too real. Amelia broke off and pressed her face into his shoulder, fighting for control, gripping the back of his coat tightly. Her breathing was frantic, unsteady, and her legs shook beneath her.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his arms reaching around her to pull her in, hands gently smoothing along her back. “I didn’t mean to…”

  She shook her head against him. “Don’t apologize for that,” she scolded between breaths. “I’ve never… that is, I did not know…”

  “I know, goddess.” He kissed her cheek quickly. “I know. Settle yourself, we have all night.”

  But they didn’t have all night. They had almost no time at all.

  “Lord Wharton.”

  Amelia felt him stiffen at the servant’s voice, then growl a bit of a sigh. “Yes?”

  “Lady Geraldine wishes to know if you intend to return to the gathering at all.”

  He did growl this time, and Amelia pulled back a little from him, smiling at the frown he wore.

  “Tell her I might, but I make no promises,” he said firmly.

  The servant bowed, then returned to the ballroom.

  Amelia continued to smile, feeling more at ease. “Will she accept that reply?”

  “She’s my aunt,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “She certainly ought to by now.” He sighed and looked at her with a slight smile. “Well, now you know who I am, I suppose.”

  She pursed her lips and shrugged one shoulder again. “I suppose. Technically, at any rate.”

  “Technically?” That seemed to amuse him. “Explain.”

  “Well, if I knew anything about Lord Wharton, or who he was, or why it should be significant that you are Lord Wharton, then yes, I should say that I know you.” She smiled with as much of a mischievous air as she could manage with her mask on. “But as I know none of that, and only your name, it is only technically that I know you, my lord.”

  Lord Wharton stared at her, his blue eyes wide behind his mask, his lips barely parted. He slowly reached out and took her hand once more, then encased it in both of his. “I did not think,” he said slowly, his voice a low rumble, “that it was possible to find you any more perfect.” He laughed a little breathlessly. “And yet…”

  Amelia smiled in delight, tossing her hair behind her and turning to look at the garden behind them, which would have been quite exquisite by the light of day. “I am not at all perfect, my lord. Not even close to it.”

  “I did not say you were perfect,” he murmured, his thumbs rubbing across the top of her hand. “I said I find you perfect. There is a marked difference there.”

  She closed her eyes on an exhale, shaking her head slightly. “You really must stop saying such lovely things to me, my lord. I might begin to believe them.”

  His grip on her hand tightened. “You should believe them. You should believe everything I say to you and everything you feel with me.”

  “I don’t know what I feel,” she whispered harshly. “I don’t know what I believe. I don’t know what I want.”

  Her voice caught on the last words as she unexpectedly found tears forming, and she dropped her head, fighting for control.

  “Oh, goddess,” Lord Wharton soothed, kissing her hand again. “Don’t cry.”

  She laughed softly despite her tears. “I don’t think it stops with your order.”

  “I cannot command your tears?”

  She shook her head, laughing again. “I cannot even command them, and I have no title or authority.”

  “You may command me.”

  She opened her eyes and turned to look at him, so earnest and tender, so much of what she would have wished for if this had been her reality. He really was quite ideal, and were she anyone else, she would have fought hard for him.

  “May I?” she whispered almost to herself.

  He heard it and smiled a little. “Please.”

  The strains of music from the ballroom reached her ears, and she looked towards it with longing. But she did not want to return to the crowd, to everything else, to her investigation. She wanted to remain here with this man, in this moment.

  “I’ve never waltzed,” she admitted as she watched couples prepare within. “And I’ve always wanted to.”

  “Ask me.”

  His voice warmed her from head to toe, sent a shiver down her spine, and drew a sigh from her. She felt more alive than she had in her life and more herself than with anyone else. She looked over at him, smiling, “May I have this waltz, my lord?”

  He grinned and drew her hand to his lips. “You may have them all, goddess.”

  He tugged her gently to the middle of the terrace and set her hand in position, then took her waist in his hand, and swept her into the movement easily, in perfect time with the dancers within.

  She’d never waltzed in her life, and until now, she had never known why.

  Now, she understood. She was meant to waltz with him.

  It was perfection embodied and nothing less. They glided effortlessly together, as if the steps had been prepared for them and practiced for hours in advance. They moved with more grace and poise than Amelia had ever managed in her entire life, let alone with someone else. Lord Wharton guided her expertly, spun her in his arms, drew her close to him, and never shifted his gaze away from her face.

  Amelia felt her blood begin to pound in her ears even as her steps became lighter, as she melted into his embrace in the dance. This was no mere waltz, no simple dance between strangers. This was so much more, a promise and a conversation, and every word went straight to her heart. She felt carried away, swirling in the sky among the clouds and the stars, yet she felt her heart was quite soundly here with his, beating in time with the music, and drawing her breath from her.

  Closer and closer they moved, and although it was not proper waltz form, it was the most natural thing in the world in this moment. There was no leader and no follower anymore. They only moved, always together, as one, and where she ended and he began was impossible to say. It was breathtaking and poignant and beyond her ability to describe or imagine.

  So, it was only natural that with a particularly evocative swell of music, he should pull her flush against him, take her face in his hands, and kiss her with all the passion in the world, as if he could reach for her soul. She responded without thought, tangling her fingers in his hair and pouring her sudden longing and desperation into her kiss, wishing she could draw herself into him, become part of him, and only exist as his.

  His lips seared her, branded her, and she yearned to do the same to him. To make him want her and only her, to erase the memory of any other woman from his mind and his body. If she could give her heart to a man after only a few ho
urs of association, she had done so now, and she would not be the only one to do so. She wanted his heart and everything that came along with it.

  She sighed against his mouth, loving the feel of his hands on her face, clenching as if they would never let go. Then one hand moved and wrapped around her, hauling her up against him for a somehow even deeper kiss, and she was lost.

  Except…

  She wasn’t a goddess. She wasn’t Alexandra Driscoll. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong in the arms of Lord Wharton, or anyone of that station. She had a past that would horrify any member of the gentry and scandalize anyone who knew her.

  She could not do this.

  Fantasies were not realities.

  And she had a job to finish.

  With a gasp and a cry that seemed to wrench her heart from her chest, Amelia tore away from Lord Wharton’s embrace with such force that he stumbled. She raced into the ballroom and around various guests in varying levels of sobriety, ignoring any and all cries, least of all any in a particularly lovely voice. She was grateful for the ease with which she could move in her costume, even with the troublesome train, and that she had taken time to examine the particulars of the room earlier. She knew exactly where to go, and there was nothing to hinder her.

  She darted out the main door, past the footmen who looked curiously at her, then out of the house itself. She had stashed her thick cloak a few blocks away, and only when she was safely ensconced in that alley did she pause. She pulled the wig off and stuffed it into a satchel, not caring if she ruined the exquisite piece. Tilda could curse at her for years, and still, she wouldn’t care.

  She changed her shoes, put a larger, plain colored dress over her costume, and wrapped the cloak around her, drawing the hood up over her disheveled hair.

  Then, and only then, could she proceed at a more sedate, sneaking pace.

  And let her burning tears fall.

  Gabe stared down the street in front of his aunt’s home, confused, disappointed, and flat-out angry.

  If it weren’t for all those inane guests in the ballroom, he would have been able to catch her. But the sight of Lord Wharton alone was enough to end the blessed reprieve his goddess had given him from the rest, and when he had managed to extricate himself from them, there was no sign of her.

  Why had she left? Had he been overwhelming her? That was possible, he was feeling quite overwhelmed himself, but why then run without a word?

  And he’d heard the pain in her cry when she pushed herself away from him. He’d felt how tightly she was clinging to him, and she was not so skilled an actress that she could pretend such reactions to him. She had been perfectly present with him in their time together, and he most definitely had not been alone in what he was feeling.

  He was simply astonished he had been feeling it at all.

  In his entire life, with all that he had been through, he’d never felt anything like what he had experienced with that woman.

  Was that what it was supposed to be like?

  If so, why wasn’t the entire male species doing everything in its power to secure it for themselves?

  If not, what was the bloody point?

  He stared down the road with a dark glower. Whatever had made her run, it would not be enough. He would find her and find a way to make her his in truth. He had endless resources at his disposal and more motivation than he had ever had for any task assigned to him. London was his territory, and there were not that many places to hide from someone who knew London as well as he did.

  For her, he would turn the city upside down.

  He would restore Whitleigh and live there for the rest of his days, if she wished it. She was everything he had never known he wanted, as bewildering as the thought was.

  And she kissed as though it was the breath of life.

  Which it very well might have been.

  Three men were suddenly beside him, and he barely glanced at them.

  “Trouble?” the cold, clipped voice of Cap said.

  “Not for you,” Gabe grunted, turning back for the house.

  “What’s going on?” Weaver asked, flanking him on one side.

  “Nothing.”

  “Wharton…” Gent murmured.

  “No.”

  “My lord, those answers will not…” Cap began, his voice straining for politeness.

  “It’s personal, Monty,” Gabe barked, allowing himself to use Cap’s lesser-known name.

  Despite the mask, he could see Cap’s astonishment, and the look he exchanged with Gent was telling.

  “Go back to your wife,” Cap gently ordered Gent, returning his eyes to Gabe. “And for pity’s sake, keep Pratt from snooping.”

  Gent nodded and left without a word to any of them.

  The less time they spent together, the better. It would not be unusual for men of their station to associate or even be friends, and at a masquerade there was even less chance it would be an issue. But old habits were hard to break, and they almost never met socially.

  Cap folded his arms and stared at Gabe hard. “Personal,” he said at last.

  Gabe only nodded, his jaw tightening.

  “A woman?”

  He looked away, unable to answer.

  Cap grunted, shaking his head. “That’s surprising, considering… Well, makes no difference. Do you know who she is?”

  “No,” he admitted with a wince.

  Cap and Weaver exchanged looks. “Ah ha,” Weaver said slowly. “And how serious is this?”

  Gabe took a moment to gather himself, then looked directly at his superiors in both position and title. “I understand Gent’s situation now. I would do exactly as he did, only I would not have been so obedient.”

  Cap nodded slowly, his mouth tightening. “I see. I know better than to tell you what is at stake, and I will not give you orders.”

  “Nor I,” Weaver said, though he looked more amused than Cap.

  “Thank you,” Gabe said with a snort.

  “But I will say this,” Cap continued without stopping, his eyes serious. “Control yourself. Use your instincts, but exercise caution. And don’t give up.”

  “Absolutely don’t give up,” Weaver added, grinning now.

  That surprised him, and Gabe tilted his head in an unspoken question.

  Cap smiled just a little. “Any woman who can turn you into knots is worth hanging on to. I look forward to meeting her.” He clapped Gabe on the shoulder and started away.

  Gabe stared after him for a moment, then shook himself. “Monty.”

  Cap turned, looking like the polite earl he really was.

  “What are you doing at a masquerade like this?” he asked with a hint of a laugh.

  The smile turned slightly bitter. “I’m a widower, Wharton. Children need a mother.” He dipped his chin in a nod and swept away.

  Cap was looking for a new wife? That was more shocking than almost anything else that had occurred that night. Gent would never believe it, not after how fiercely Cap had mourned his first wife. Gabe looked at Weaver in shock, though Weaver did not seem nearly as surprised. He quirked his brows at Gabe and turned back for the house.

  That was all they had to say? Cap encouraged him, Weaver echoed the sentiment, and neither seemed concerned by his desire to pursue his lost goddess?

  Gabe hadn’t been looking for permission to be given, but now that it had been, his goddess was going to have to watch herself.

  He was coming after her.

  A satisfied smirk lit his features, and he strode back into his aunt’s ballroom, not seeing anything or anyone else.

  The chase was about to begin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was astounding how unhelpful a person could be when they put their mind to it.

  Amelia would swear up and down on any religious relic that Rogue was intentionally making things difficult for her in the days that followed the ball. Whatever progress he had thought the Hertfordshire connection would bring seemed to stall completely,
and he was always too busy for more investigating about London. Too busy with what, he would not say, and he was biting her head off far more than before, even more than when they had first met.

  She had not even managed to tell him what she had learned at the ball, though she had created a perfect cover story, so he would never suspect she had breached the societal barrier. He likely wouldn’t approve of that, so it really was better that she keep her impersonation abilities to herself. She might need them later.

  She’d thought to present him with the clues as evidence of her usefulness, but when she’d come to his office, he’d glared at her as if she were the very devil and said, “Unless you are producing the man who sired you, I don’t bloody care what you have.”

  “But it could still help,” she’d said with a smile. “I’ve been rather industrious.”

  His expression hadn’t changed. “Then why are you still here?” He’d snorted to himself, shaken his head, and gone back to whatever he’d been working on.

  And that had been one of his more polite moments of late. At any given time, he was surly, he was cross, and he was rude.

  Which ought to have been normal by now.

  Except they had been passed this.

  He was avoiding her like the plague, and when he did see her, there was a sneer etched into his features. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t anything she could explain. As far as she knew, she’d not done anything to upset him. She’d actually become more biddable and docile in recent weeks. He could quite freely order her about these days, and she wouldn’t even snap at him. But instead, he was sharp without warrant and absent most of the time, only leaving instructions for tasks and no word explaining anything he was doing.

  It was as disheartening as it was irritating.

  Even Gent had no answers for her. He’d only shrugged and said it was probably something personal, and he would be moody until he figured out what to do about whatever it was.

  That was not helpful.

  For pity’s sake, Amelia was in agony over how she had left Lord Wharton and could not close her eyes without feeling his lips upon her again, and she needed work and distraction to keep herself from going mad! If she thought about it for too long, she would begin to cry, and she absolutely could not cry at the offices. One and Two would see, and they would start to fuss, and then Callie would start fighting with them while trying to help Amelia feel better, and either Rogue or Gent would show up demanding to know what the fuss was about.