A Rebel Without a Rogue

by Bliss Bennet

  Theo must be in a truly bad way, to fob off his own duties onto another family member like this. Especially one as aged and anxiety-prone as Great-Aunt Allyne.

  Kit caught his aunt’s heavily veined hands in his, stilling their anxious fluttering. “You need not take everything upon yourself, ma’am. Go, meet with the housekeeper, and tend to your charities. I’ll speak with Acheson and leave you a note detailing his instructions, one you can share with the nurse.”

  “Oh, Christian! Are you certain? What a dear boy you are! But pray, do not let your uncle hear the word ‘nurse’ pass your lips. He’ll put a bullet in anyone so presumptuous as to play that role toward him, he assures me.”

  Kit smiled to cover his worry as he helped his aunt into her cloak and set her and her footman on their way to Pennington House. After a quick glance up the staircase, he made his way into the small drawing room that fronted the house, searching for a newspaper or book with which to pass the time until he could speak with the physician out of his uncle’s hearing. But all he could find were improving volumes aimed at the education of young ladies. Intended for his unruly sister? Or perhaps for the downtrodden women he’d seen at the Guardian Society? He smiled in truth at the haughty disdain with which Fianna Cameron would likely greet the improving words of a Dr. Fordyce or a Hannah More.

  The thud of the door knocker jerked him free of the enticing but unwelcome image. Had Theo come after all?

  Unwilling to wait for the hapless Peg to pull herself away from the laundry, Kit strode into the front hall, repressing the urge to ring a peal over his dilatory brother.

  But when he pulled open the door, it was not Theo who stood on the step, hat in apologetic hand.

  It was Fianna Cameron.

  Fianna willed herself to stillness, though her every nerve thrummed at the sight of the man who stood before her, blocking her entry to the small, neat house she’d walked several weary hours to reach. No one would mistake Kit Pennington for a footman, even if he’d been dressed for the part. Not with that assured air, those clear blue eyes staring down at her without the least hint of deference or shame. After she’d banished him from her mind during those dark, solitary nights in the Guardian Society dormitory, how dare he suddenly appear where he was least wanted? Damn her body for urging her to throw herself against his comforting bulk. And damn it a second time for pressing her to flee like a coward in the face of such unwonted longing.

  Before raising the knocker, she’d donned her own deferential mask, readying herself to play the role of remorseful fallen woman, overcome with gratitude at the kindness of charitable Mrs. Allyne. That mask had won her the regard of Kit’s pious aunt, not to mention an invitation of employment in her home, and after only two encounters at the Guardian Society. If Mrs. Allyne had been the one to answer the summons of the plain iron ring of a door knocker, Fianna would have known precisely how to act.

  But deference would hardly fool a man to whom she’d shown far more cunning disguises. Especially a man to whom she found herself so inexplicably, dangerously drawn. She had to gain the upper hand here, and quickly, before he recognized the power he might wield over her.

  Lowering her eyes, then, in a semblance of sensual appreciation, she drew her gaze slowly down Kit Pennington’s person, then back up again, pausing on the places most likely to raise a flush in the inexperienced.

  “Never say you are the invalid whom Mrs. Allyne wishes me to nurse?” she asked, pitching her voice sultry and low. “Have you done yourself an injury since we last met, Christopher Pennington?”

  “My name isn’t Christo—” he began, then stopped, frowning.

  “Oh, do you insist that everyone call you Kit? Afraid of not measuring up to the lofty example of your patron saint, are you? Or were you named in honor of a relative, perhaps, one whom you’ve taken into dislike?”

  While her insolent gaze had left him unruffled, this verbal barb had his eyes widening. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down the front steps, the door banging closed behind them.

  The valise she held in her other hand struck painfully against her side. She stifled a cry and tried to pull free, but his grasp bound her tight. Struggling not to trip on the uneven cobblestones, she swore under her breath as he pulled her into the alley that ran beside the house.

  “You met my aunt at the Guardian Society?” he asked.

  “She is one of its patronesses, is she not?” She rubbed a hand over the wrist he had so rudely clasped, but he paid no heed to her silent rebuke.

  “And she took pity on you, such a lovely creature fallen so low?”

  She raised her chin. “A kindly woman, your aunt, ready to offer what aid she can to all God’s creatures. ”

  “All God’s creatures? Then why are you the only one here? Or am I to expect the rest of the Society’s inmates to arrive on the doorstep within the hour?”

  “Only if you have a position to offer them, Mr. Pennington. But given your vaunted self-control, we know that to be unlikely, do we not?”

  A muscle along his smooth jaw clenched. “A position? Caring for the aforementioned invalid?”

  She nodded. “When Mrs. Allyne heard how I had nursed my own dear aunt during her last days, she said it was as if heaven itself had answered her prayers.”

  Caring for an invalid had certainly not been the answer to any prayer of Fianna’s. After discovering fairly early during their first encounter at the Guardian Society that Kit Pennington’s aunt was not married to the man she sought, was in fact only related to the Pennington family through marriage, she hadn’t petitioned the heavens, but cursed them. Said curses grew more wicked when her cautious attempts to draw information from Mrs. Allyne only gained her the elderly woman’s tedious laments over the overwhelming tasks with which she was burdened.

  But by the time the aunt returned a few days later, Fianna had rethought her strategy. All it had taken was a woeful sigh or two, a fond if not entirely truthful remembrance of a dearly departed aunt of her own, and a specious thanks to the Lord above for granting her the patience and skill to nurse poor Aunt into the kingdom of heaven. Too-trusting Mrs. Allyne had all but persuaded herself that offering Fianna the position of caring for her petulant relative was her own idea, rather than that of the penitent to whom she’d proposed it.

  Such a move would allow Fianna to meet with Sean again, or at least send him word. Even if she’d wished to tell him of her new residence, the Guardian Society’s matrons did not allow inmates to correspond with anyone outside its walls.

  And if she were truly lucky, she might even uncover a clue to Major Pennington’s whereabouts in the home of this distant relative.

  But not if Kit Pennington never allowed her inside.

  “So, sir, if we are quite finished, may I enter the house and discover from Mrs. Allyne something of my duties? I understand the sick boy is prone to fits of peevishness when vexed. Another brother of yours, perhaps?”

  “The boy?”

  “Yes, the boy who is to be my charge whilst your aunt makes a short journey on another relative’s behalf.”

  “The boy. . .” Kit Pennington stared for a long moment back in the direction of the house, then gave a short, sharp shake of his head. His mouth firmed with resolve as his eyes returned to hers. “Unfortunately, Miss Cameron, the boy would be more than peevish if you were to enter his room.”

  Fianna’s eyes narrowed. “Teaching them anti-popery in the nursery now, are you? Or does the young master fear that he’d be sullied beyond recall if he were touched by a lowly Irisher?”

  “No, Miss Cameron. But my aunt seems to have forgotten that the boy’s nursemaid, the one who died from the same fever from which he is struggling to recover, was Irish. And as much as he’d like to deny it, he loved her, and mourns her deeply. You’ll forgive me for believing your presence, no matter your intentions, likely to do more harm than good.”

  Fianna knew the signs of a lying man, and Kit Pennington showed them all. What cause had he to keep
her from the position Mrs. Allyne had offered? Her nationality couldn’t be the reason, not if his family had employed an Irishwoman before.

  Her eyes narrowed. All fine and well for an aunt to give charity to the downtrodden, it would seem, but to invite a fallen woman into the bosom of her home—no, no man as family proud as was Kit Pennington would allow a female of his family to risk her reputation so.

  Frowning, she crossed her arms. “And so once again I find myself without shelter or protection?”

  “I would be happy to accompany you back to the Guardian Society, and explain why you are still in need of its services.”

  “No!”

  Kit Pennington was not the only one surprised by the vehemence of her refusal. How unwise, to show this man that the constant reminders from the asylum’s inmates and staff that she was no better than a dirty Irish whore had any power to hurt her. Fianna wished for a mental knife, one sharp enough to cut out that last bit of softness within her, the one that still sought consolation against the quotidian cruelties that continued to shape her life.

  Turning away from the expression of pity suffusing his face, she schooled her voice to impassive coldness. “You did not inform me that the Guardian Society would be no better than a prison, sir. How did you imagine I would find the man for whom I seek when I am not even allowed to leave its premises?”

  He took a step back, clasping his arms behind his back. “I told you I would see to it, Fianna.”

  “Since I’ve not seen hide nor hair of you since you left me there, Kit, you’ll forgive me for presuming that you have not, in fact, seen to it.”

  Lord, had he actually blushed at that reminder of the rudeness he’d shown in using her given name? If playing on his carnal instincts seemed doomed to failure, perhaps invoking his chivalrous ones would meet with greater success.

  “Am I wrong, sir?”

  “No, but—”

  “And there is no employment for me in Mrs. Allyne’s home?”

  “I am afraid not.”

  “Then I beg you excuse me,” she said, raising the small valise at her feet and dropping him a polite curtsy. “I must resume my search. If I have to find another protector in order to do so, well. . .”

  She shrugged, then turned her back and stepped toward the entrance to the alley. As if she’d ever consent to such a degradation again! The mere thought of placing her body in the hands of another fumbling nobleman sent the bile rising in her throat.

  But she had to make the threat convincing. One step, then another—

  “Miss Cameron, wait!” She tried not to shudder in relief as a restraining hand grasped her elbow. “You know no one in London—how will you find a suitable. . .”

  Fianna donned her most brittle smile before facing him again. “The word is ‘protector,’ Mr. Pennington. ‘Protector.’ A man must have coined the term, do you not agree? Alas, the irony of the appellation tends to escape those who employ it. As for suitability, well, nice manners and expeditious dispatch in the bedroom would both be more than welcome. But little beyond the pecuniary is truly required.”

  His brow furrowed again. Curse her hand for that momentary twitch, as if it would reach out to smooth the lines away. Time to twist the knife deeper, not pull it free.

  “Are you acquainted with a Mr. Davenport, sir? Or Lord Kirkland? Both of the gentlemen expressed some interest in my future plans, despite purporting to be friends of Lord Ingestrie’s.”

  “No.” The hand on her elbow tightened. “No protector. I’ll provide for you.”

  “You’ll provide for me?” He would do her such a kindness? Treat her as a friend?

  No, of course not. He thought to take Ingestrie’s place, to make her his own lightskirt. To think she’d been so naïve as to think chivalry would ever win out over lust.

  She shook her head, fighting against the rush of disappointment tightening her chest. “But what of your reputation, sir? How will you prevent rumors of a new mistress from spreading?”

  His posture stiffened. “You misunderstand me, ma’am. You will be my guest, not my mistress.”

  Why such a rejection should bite even more sharply, Fianna could not begin to fathom. Dropping the valise at her feet, she stepped closer until she sensed his body’s warmth inches from her own.

  “You think to reside in the same house, yet not long to take me to your bed? What, are you alone among men impervious to lust?”

  The color in his face heightened, but he kept his hands still at his sides. “All men are subject to lust. But not all allow it to rule them.”

  “And you, of course, are one of the latter?”

  “I am a gentleman, Miss Cameron.”

  She moved even closer, so close that the buttons of his coat pressed against her breasts. “But am I a lady?”

  Reaching up to grasp the back of his neck, she pulled his mouth to hers.

  And fell, not into the shallow puddle of an inexperienced fumbler, but a swirling maelstrom of passion.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Since leaving Fianna Cameron at the Guardian Society nearly a week earlier, Kit had prided himself on the strength of his self-control. Not once had he allowed his waking mind to dwell on the enticing possibility of her mouth upon his, no matter how often his nighttime dreams drifted in that direction. Yet as her cool, full lips pillowed against his own, he realized it might have been better if he had given due consideration to the possibility of being kissed by a woman as bewitching as a leannán sídhe. Then, he might have been able to stop himself from responding with a groan as those cool lips warmed, then opened beneath his, allowing the tiniest of teeth to nip against his soft flesh. Might have been able to keep his arms impassive by his sides rather than reaching around and pulling her small, yielding body tight against his own. Might have been able to prevent his all-too-unruly cock from rising to painfully uncomfortable attention, greedily pressing itself against the softness of her belly.

  Might not have forgotten the suspicion that had flashed through his brain when she’d called him—

  “Christopher.” Her whispering lips traced a path up his jaw to the lobe of his far-too-sensitive ear.

  Yes, there, she’d said it again, just as she had on the front steps—not his given name, but his uncle’s. His uncle, who’d been a major when he’d served with distinction in Ireland during the Rebellion of 1798. A conflict about which he would never speak. A conflict in which this woman had shown inordinate, angry interest.

  Could the man whom she sought be his uncle?

  He pulled away from her, searching for the truth in her face.

  Fey green eyes, sharp as the needles on a pine, stared up at him, enticing him to set aside all suspicion, to tumble back into their drugging depths.

  His uncle had been right to warn against the terrible power of the leannán sídhe. For even now, with doubt teasing at the corners of his brain, every fiber in his body urged him to crush her back within his arms and never let go, to bind this fairy mistress so that she might never offer the balm of her cool lips to another.

  If it had only been a matter of himself, he might even have done it.

  But if she meant to ruin the good name of his uncle—

  Should he summon the watch? He had no real evidence that she wished to harm Uncle Christopher, only the surety of his intuition. Many a London constable would be all too happy to throw a lowly Irishwoman into gaol on little else than the word of a viscount’s son. But Kit’s sense of justice would not allow it.

  No, first, he needed to find out more. Not only if his uncle was truly the man for whom she sought, but why she was in search of him. Her words had led him to assume she sought her natural father who’d abandoned her, an assumption she hadn’t denied. But what if she had a more malevolent reason for her pursuit?

  Bloody, bloody hell. What if she’d been the one who’d shot him at the Crown and Anchor? Not intending to harm him at all, but mistaking him for his uncle?

  “Mr. Pennington. Kit.” He felt her
shrug beneath his hands. “You’re hurting me.”

  He looked down, confused. When had his fingers curled so cruelly about her arms?

  He released her, but then caught her back again, his arms pulling her tight to his chest. One palm cradled her head close against his shoulder, keeping her from watching his face as a tangle of suspicions whirled through his brain.

  To ferret out the secrets of such a guarded woman, he’d have to keep her close to hand. Not as close as his uncle’s bedchamber, of course. But perhaps as close as his own? That’s what she’d assumed when he’d told her he’d provide for her, that he meant for her to be his mistress, wasn’t it?

  The thought of having her beneath him sent a shiver, part fear, part desire, racing down his spine. But it would be sheer madness to actually take up with a woman he suspected might be intent on harm. If he extended the offer to be her new protector, but did not immediately partake of her charms, how long would he be able to keep her from suspecting his true motives?

  And if word got out that he’d invited a woman to take up residence, rumors about him would once again run rife through the ton. He could just hear Dulcie and his cronies now, trading tales about the youngest Pennington’s new paramour. Or perhaps they’d even say he’d made up with the one who had shot him. . .

  Would such rumors damage his political aspirations beyond repair? Not if he could keep her presence a secret from the gossips. And from Uncle Christopher. And Theo.

  But even if word did spread, Kit would sacrifice more than a seat in Parliament to ensure his uncle’s safety. Nothing was more important than family. Nothing.

  He clenched his hands against Fianna’s back, steeling himself for the task ahead, then stepped away from the enticing creature in his arms.

  “It seems I’m not as much of a gentleman as I might wish, at least where you are concerned, my dear,” he murmured, looking down as if abashed. His body might be only too happy to cooperate in such a deception, but it would all be for naught if his expression gave his doubts away. He reached out and took her hands in his. “Will you let me take care of you, Fianna?”