The Rogue You Know (Covent Garden Cubs)

by Shana Galen

  “No, sir. She was…” Sawyer’s gaze darted to her again.

  Dorothea glared back at him. “Out with it, young man.”

  He crumpled the hat. “She was dancing, your ladyship. She danced with Beezle’s man, laughed a lot, and from the way she was drinking, probably overindulged in that area too.”

  “This cannot be Susanna.”

  Sawyer plucked at his crumpled hat.

  Brook pressed his lips together. “I’d better go take a look.”

  Dorothea pounded her fist on the edge of the couch. “I tell you, it’s not her. You are wasting your time searching drinking establishments. She was abducted. She would never go to Field Lane willingly or dance in a public house!”

  She rose, and Brook climbed wearily to his feet.

  “You are wasting time.” She pointed a finger at Brook.

  Instead of agreeing with her, Brook clapped Sawyer on the shoulder. “Good work, sir.” He steered him to the drawing room doors. Crawford opened them, and Brook said something she could not quite hear.

  Then he turned back to her, the look on his face weary and guarded.

  “I’m for Field Lane. I doubt she’s still in the public house, but it’s a start.”

  Dorothea raised her chin. She could not allow her lips to tremble. “It is not she.”

  Brook tossed her imperious look right back. She’d taught him that, much as she would have liked to blame his father. “It is Susanna. Sawyer is one of the best Runners I know. He’s not mistaken. His information confirms what Mrs. Castle told us. Susanna was in the company of a man.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I had thought to question her again as to his identity. She knows, but she won’t say for some reason.”

  “I don’t understand.” Dorothea hated the tinny quality of her voice. She sounded like an old woman.

  “Don’t you, Mother?” Brook said with uncharacteristic venom. She could feel his gaze burn into her.

  “You’ve kept her under your thumb since the day she was born. She doesn’t take a breath without you telling her when to inhale. If she had a more docile spirit—”

  “I would not need to keep her in check!” Dorothea realized she was shouting and lowered her voice. “This is precisely the sort of thing I was afraid would happen.”

  “Why?” Brook asked. “She has always been obedient. There were days I wished she would tell you to go to the devil, but she never did.”

  “How dare you!” Her voice did waver now.

  She did not want to hear this—because he was right. She was to blame. She’d held on too tightly and governed Susanna out of fear instead of love.

  “What are you not telling me?” Brook asked. Relentless. Her son pushed and prodded until he had the answer he sought.

  Dorothea sank onto the couch, and the large furnishing all but swallowed her. “Vauxhall Gardens,” she whispered.

  Brook folded his arms across his chest. She’d have no sympathy from him. Perhaps that would make it easier to say. She didn’t want sympathy, not after all these years.

  “She asked to go to Vauxhall Gardens, practically begged me to go. I told her no, but she would not let it go. That was just last night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I’d have sent men to watch the entrance and the roads.”

  Dorothea covered her face with a hand. “Because I didn’t want to consider that she might go there. I didn’t want her to make the same mistake I did.”

  “What mistake is that?”

  “I fell in love.” She looked toward the window, where the still-open draperies revealed the encroaching night. Another night with Susanna not at home. She could speak of this if she did not look at Brook. He resembled his father too closely for her comfort.

  “It was before I met your father. I met a man at Vauxhall and fell in love. He was not…acceptable.”

  It seemed strange to reduce the love of her life to two words: not acceptable. He’d been so much more than that—handsome, kind, witty, charming. Oh, she’d fallen for him the first time she’d met him. She’d given him her heart without even being asked, and she’d never been able to retrieve it.

  “My parents would never have consented to a marriage between us, but I dreamed of running away to Gretna Green with him.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Brook shift positions slightly. She’d made him uncomfortable, perhaps even surprised him. No one ever thought of her as a woman, least of all her sons. She was the Dowager Countess of Dane, and before that, Lady Dorothea, daughter of the Duke of Monmouth. She was a commodity, not a person.

  “Robert—that was his name—Robert Southey would have never eloped. He had too much honor to do such a thing, which is not to say that I didn’t beg him to reconsider. Especially after I met your father.”

  Now she darted a glance at Brook. She’d not known Erasmus Derring when he’d been a young man. He had already been close to fifty when she’d married him. He’d been married once before, and the union had not produced children. The former countess had died of consumption, and Erasmus wanted a young wife and an heir to his title.

  Her parents wanted an earl for their daughter. She’d been bought and sold, like a horse or a cow. No one had asked if she wanted to marry Erasmus Derring. No one had cared that her heart belonged to another.

  “Your marriage was not a love match.”

  She smiled slightly. Brook had a way of stating the obvious that always amused her. She straightened her shoulders. “I did my duty. That’s something your generation does not understand. Now there’s all this talk of marrying for love. Look at your brother!” She stared out the window again. “In my day, we did our duty.”

  “And you feared Susanna would not?”

  “I feared she had too much of my recklessness in her.”

  Brook’s brows lifted.

  Dorothea pointed a finger at him. “You did not know me in my youth, young man. I could be wild and heedless of consequences. If the woman your Mr. Sawyer saw was Susanna, it appears all my efforts were for naught.”

  “If it is Susanna, I will bring her home. If she’s no longer in Field Lane, then I’ll search Vauxhall. When she returns, she will need to marry immediately.”

  Dorothea nodded absently. She had already begun a list of potential husbands. None of them were exactly what she wanted for Susanna, but they were suitable matches.

  “I have one last question,” Brook said.

  She inclined her head without looking at him. The sky beyond quickly faded from indigo to black. She remembered another sky, all those years ago, ablaze with fireworks.

  “A gap of several years exists between Susanna and me, and you lost at least one child between Dane’s birth and mine.”

  Her gaze fastened on his. She should not be surprised he knew such a thing. He always knew more than she realized.

  “You had done your duty by providing an heir and a spare. If your marriage was no love match, were you then free to pursue other interests?”

  He did not flinch, even when she shot him a look that would have sent Crawford scurrying for cover. “Other interests—an interesting term for adultery. Is that what you are accusing me of, sir?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a careless gesture. “I’m merely asking a question, not accusing you of anything.”

  “I’m still your mother,” she said, rising from the sinking cushions of the couch. “And I am still the Countess of Dane. Go ask the rabble in Spitalfields or St. Giles your questions.” She swept out of the room and was just outside her private chambers when she collapsed. Edwards was beside her in a moment, of course, but Dorothea did not want her maid’s help.

  She pushed her off and tottered to her room on her own, shutting the door firmly in Edwards’s face. Her maid spoke through it, called to her, inquired if she needed anything, but Dorothea didn’t hear a wor
d.

  She sank onto the floor, the same floor where she’d sunk all those years ago when Dane had been just learning to walk. She’d been light-headed then from the loss of blood, and she remembered looking down and seeing red streaks on her pale legs. Blood pooled on the rug—a different rug then—creating an irregular circle of red. The loss of another child, a little girl, devastated her. Brook’s birth a year later healed some of the pain, but Susanna’s birth took the last of it, all but the scars on her heart.

  Susanna had been so much more than the daughter she’d lost. She’d been the life Dorothea might have known.

  Dorothea’s heart ached, thinking of the past. Her confession to Brook brought all the memories back. She had tried so hard to forget him for so many years. Even after all this time, her heart still clenched when she thought of him. Her pulse still quickened.

  She still loved him, still could imagine his lips on her neck, her wrist, her mouth.

  She still felt like a young woman, although she was almost fifty. When she peered in the glass, she still looked young. No gray streaked her hair; few lines marred her face. But there were days she heard herself speak, and she felt ancient. She sounded so matronly, so serious, so critical. Where was the spirited girl she’d once been? Had she lost that girl when she’d lost the love of her life?

  She would always regret walking away from him, but she’d had no other choice. If she’d left, Erasmus would have taken her children.

  And now Dorothea wept because she’d had no choice, because her life had been one of sorrow and very little love. And it was her fault. How could she blame Susanna for running away when she herself had done the same thing before coming to her senses?

  “Oh, my darling,” she sobbed. “Forgive me. I wanted to protect you.”

  But there was no protection for any of them now.

  * * *

  The world spun in a swirl of color and sound and sweetness. Gideon whirled her, his strong arms always catching her just when she feared she was twirling too fast and would fall. His mouth on hers was sweet, as was the ale in her cup.

  She’d drunk too much. He’d warned her against it, but she’d been in no mood for warnings.

  The music must have slowed, because her body moved slowly, and she allowed her head to fall on Gideon’s shoulder. He had broad shoulders, strong shoulders. She wondered what they would look like if she removed his shirt.

  “Not here, Strawberry,” he said, pulling her hands away from the collar of his shirt.

  “I’m not a strawberry,” she said. At least she tried. The word strawberry was suddenly quite stuck on her lips.

  “You are to me.” He lifted her into his arms, and she emitted a little squeal as her feet left the ground and her head spun ever faster. She closed her arms around his neck, afraid she might lose her balance.

  He carried her past dancing lights and laughing people and into the cool, dark night. The breeze felt good on her heated skin, even if the angry sound of men’s voices made her shiver.

  “I have you,” he told her. “Back to Des’s.”

  “Beauty?” She almost toppled out of his arms, looking for the dog. Before he righted her, she spotted the small, white face looking up at her. “There you are.”

  He pushed a door open, and they stumbled into a darkened room. “Where are we?”

  “I told you. Des is in the dolly shop. We can stay in the flat until the drink wears off a bit.”

  His voice was deep and low, and she pressed her lips to his neck, feeling the vibration against her skin when he spoke.

  “I want to see Vauxhall,” she said. Her mouth moved against his skin, and she tasted him—slightly salty and smelling a bit of smoke from a wood fire.

  “Not like this. Give it an hour or so.” He sounded different. His voice was tight and strained, and she realized his hand on her back gripped her much tighter than was necessary. Was it possible her lips on his throat affected him?

  She tasted him with her tongue, then ran her mouth along the line of his jaw, reveling in the feel of the harsh stubble on her soft lips. When she reached his ear, she nibbled at the lobe. When he did this to her, it drove her to madness.

  “Oh no.”

  Suddenly she was on her feet. Her knees crumpled, but he caught her and pushed her into a hard chair. His hands were on either side of her, his face not far from hers. Dark hair spilled over his forehead.

  “None of that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re floor’d. You don’t know what you’re doing.” He brushed her hair back and secured it behind her ear. The gesture made her want to rub her cheek along his hand, much like a cat asking to be stroked.

  “I knew what I was doing. I was testing whether or not I could arouse you. Did I?” She reached for his trousers, and he jumped back.

  “This is not a good idea.”

  He moved away from her, and a moment later a lamp flickered to life. Now she could see his face, his green eyes dark with desire.

  “Why not?” The more he protested, the better idea it seemed. “Are you afraid you will lose your control if I touch you? Could I do that to you? Make you forget to act like a gentleman?”

  His throat worked, and she knew she had that power. This afternoon he had played her body until she was all but mad with need for him. Now she wanted him to need her.

  “I told you,” he said, his hands on the table behind him. “I’m no gentleman.”

  “Prove it.” She put her hands on his hips, and stroked them down over his thighs, close to the growing bulge in his trousers.

  He clasped her wrists. “Unless you want me to take you on this table, you should stop.”

  “Will I like it?” she asked, gesturing to the table. “Being taken on a table?”

  “You’d like it.”

  She rose, and he steadied her with the hands that still gripped her wrists. But when she twisted her hands, he released her. She reached for her dress, withdrew one of the pins and then another, until the bodice fell forward.

  His gaze was on her chest, and she saw his tongue wet his lips. She couldn’t remember where Brenna had secured the other pins and tapes, but the gown was large enough that she could slip it off. She let the garment pool at her feet and stood before him in the thin linen of her chemise with only her petticoat still providing some modesty.

  “There’s no fire,” she said. “I’m cold.”

  “Then you should stop removing your clothing.”

  She stepped out of her boots and placed her bare feet on the floor. She’d told Brenna to burn her stockings. They’d been beyond repair. Now she untied her petticoat and stepped out of it.

  “Do you want me to stop?” she asked.

  “Hell no.” His voice was rough and gravelly. She might have been scared if she didn’t know him, if she didn’t trust him.

  “I’ve been imagining you naked all afternoon.”

  She tugged on the string of her chemise, loosening it and letting it fall. “I hope I live up to your expectations.”

  He took an audible breath. When he exhaled, the breath quavered, and he looked at her so intently, her skin was hot from his gaze alone. She knew she should be embarrassed. She would have been if she hadn’t been fortified by drink. As it was, she liked him looking at her. The heavy warmth settled low in her belly, and she ached for him to touch her.

  Even more, she needed to touch him. She twisted her fingers into his shirt and yanked it up and out of his waistband. Obligingly, he dealt with the fastenings and lifted his arms so she might remove the garment. His chest was a marvel to her—lean and golden in the lamplight. She’d always thought men’s chests had hair, but his was smooth, the muscles shifting when he breathed. He was breathing heavily as he wound a hand around her bare waist and yanked her against him.

  He was so warm and solid. Her hard nipples bru
shed against his skin, and she enjoyed the friction so much she did it again. He blew out a breath and cupped her bottom, pressing her into his hard member. A slow gush of pleasure infused her, and she looked into his beautiful eyes and touched her mouth to his.

  She’d wanted to think she’d been in control until that point, but she realized then she’d never had any sway. She was completely in his hands and at his mercy. He took her mouth with a fierceness that thrilled her, his hands rough on her bottom then sliding up to cup her breasts.

  “You are so soft,” he said against her mouth. “I didn’t think a woman could be so soft.”

  “And you are hard.” She’d managed to wriggle a hand between them and brushed it over his erection.

  He inhaled sharply, but he didn’t stop her. Instead, he kissed her again, allowed her to loosen the fall on his trousers. The warm, hard length of his erection sprang into her hands, and she touched it gingerly. His tongue stroked hers, and she realized he was kissing her as he wanted to be touched. She ran her hand up and down the length of him, following his guidance.

  Suddenly, he lifted her onto the table. The wood was smooth and warm beneath her bottom, and she moaned when he kicked her legs open and pressed himself between them. He was so deliciously hard against her softness. She pressed back, rubbing herself wantonly against him.

  “I have never,” he gritted out, “wanted a woman”—his breath was labored—“this much.”

  “I can feel that.” She moved her hips, and he groaned. “I want you.”

  “You want a climax,” he said.

  She protested, but he pulled back and yanked her thighs forward so she was balanced on the edge of the table. He bent over her, kissing her until she lay back and he could have her as he wanted. His hands were everywhere, on her breasts, her belly, in her hair. And his lips…

  “I don’t think I can ever get enough of you,” he said, his gaze on her face.

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she pulled him down for another kiss and tried to wrap her legs around his waist. He pushed her thighs back down, and kissed his way between them.

  Yes, this was what she wanted, she thought as he lapped and suckled and made her cry out again and again. This was what she wanted, she thought as her hips pistoned and she shouted with pleasure.