My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes

by Courtney Milan, Lauren Royal, Grace Burrowes, Christi Caldwell, Jess Michaels, Erica Ridley, Delilah Marvelle

  If she’d truly wanted a husband, she could’ve set about making herself into the sort of woman who would be more likely to attract a suitor. She might’ve been married off years ago.

  But she didn’t want to pretend to be someone she was not. She curled her hands into fists and slammed them down against the blankets. It wasn’t fair to have to become someone else, just to hold the interest of another person.

  She swallowed thickly. Was that what she had done to Xavier?

  Before they’d exchanged their first word, she’d already decided what sort of person he was. Romantic, dashing. A hero. She’d painted him with broad, fanciful strokes and never bothered to look at the details.

  He hadn’t deceived her. She was the one who’d drawn conclusions on no more basis than her own imagination. Her chin slumped.

  She’d forced him into the role of someone he’d never claimed to be. What right did she have to be disappointed in him for not living up to a standard she’d imposed on him against his will?

  Her chest grew tight as she considered it from his perspective. She’d spent four-and-twenty years hating the people who judged—and dismissed—her for her labels, rather than bother to get to know her as a person.

  She was not only a bluestocking. She was also a person. A very headstrong, very foolish, very ruined person. She let out a ragged breath.

  When she’d focused on Xavier as the object of her desire, perhaps she’d done so more cynically than she’d realized. More selfishly. In order to experience a night of secret passions, she needed a man who fit specific criteria. Handsome enough to arouse her interest. Virile enough to share it. Honorable enough to be trusted with the secret.

  She needed the perfect man. So she’d forced him into the part.

  But he wasn’t a perfect man. No one knew that better than Xavier. What he didn’t realize was that he was no longer the man he’d been, the man he’d despised. He didn’t need to try to be better. He’d already changed.

  The question was… could she?

  She’d come to Chelmsford believing herself a wallflower who would never find love. Hoping one night of passion would sustain her during the next forty years of spinsterhood. But why did she have to settle for that? Why couldn’t she be a bluestocking and a lover and a wife?

  Insight she could’ve used weeks ago. Her eyes stung. It was too late. By lying with Captain Grey, she’d thrown away her best chance at landing a proper, Society-approved gentleman… But when had she ever wanted one of those?

  She squinted up at the dark canopy and tried to be honest. What was she truly looking for in a man?

  She’d wanted handsome. Xavier had that in spades. She’d wanted virile. Last night had proved her fantasies were only the beginning.

  She’d also wanted honorable. Her fingers slowly unclenched. Captain Grey was not the pristine, sparkling war hero she’d painted him to be, but did that make him any less honorable? She’d forced herself into his house, his life, and his bed, and he’d been the one fighting to keep her honor intact every step of the way. Did that make him less perfect, or more so?

  She loved him, she realized dully. She loved him, and it no longer mattered. He had chosen to walk away.

  Xavier would never be hers.

  She hauled herself to her feet and trudged over to the basin of water. Sun streamed through the cracks between the shutters. The faint crunch of carriage wheels rumbled in the distance. She stumbled at the sound. No more snow. Her limbs were sluggish with a mixture of disappointment and relief.

  The adventure was over. Time to go home.

  She dressed herself as best she could and got all her belongings stuffed back into her trunk. All she needed was Egui—and a ride to the inn—and she and the cat would be on their way back to London. This was the last she’d see of Captain Grey.

  Good. She didn’t need another man in her life who didn’t want her in his. That’s what Egui was for.

  New carriage wheels sounded from outside the window, then rolled to a stop. Someone was here!

  She flung open the bedchamber door and raced to drag her luggage out of the room before anyone caught her in the master chamber.

  Xavier strode into the room and took the trunk from her hands without a word. She followed him out to the corridor, but he edged her back inside.

  “Let me at least fasten your stays first,” he muttered crossly.

  “Yes, Captain Crotchety.” She lifted her chin. What did he have to be cross about? He was finally getting his wish. She was going home.

  “It’s my servants,” he said, his voice gruff. “They’ll be inside at any moment. Egui’s in the parlor. I’ll bring your luggage.” He finished buttoning her gown and tapped her lightly. “Go.”

  She made it to the parlor just as two loud, ruddy-faced individuals tumbled through the door. If she had to guess, the housekeeper and a stable boy. Mother and son, by the looks of it, and both equally shocked by her presence.

  Their congenial laughter died at once. She squirmed under their frank interest.

  Xavier walked around the corner with her trunk, his expression and manner as placid as if he were snowbound with bluestockings once or twice a week. “Please summon the hack driver before he leaves. I have his next fare.”

  The young boy rushed back out into the cold.

  The housekeeper had turned her eyes to her employer, as if by carefully avoiding locking gazes with the unknown woman in their midst, the situation would cease being awkward for all of them.

  It wasn’t working. Jane was mortified.

  The stable boy returned with the driver. “There ’e is, sir.”

  “Thank you, Timmy.” He nodded to both servants. “You are excused. There’s tea in the kitchen. We will reconvene in an hour.”

  At those words, the twosome had no choice but to disappear into the servants’ quarters and give their master privacy.

  Xavier placed her luggage before the driver and handed him a coin. “Please see the lady safely home—”

  “To the Dog & Whistle,” she interrupted quickly. “I can find a new hack from there.”

  “As the lady pleases.” He inclined his head to the driver. “To the Dog & Whistle.”

  “Straight away.” The driver picked up her trunk and began hauling it out to his hack.

  All that was left was Egui and herself.

  She picked up the wicker basket and took one last, long look at Xavier. Her voice trembled. “If I thought there was anything between us…”

  “There’s not.” His voice was flat.

  She sighed. “I know.”

  He held open the door. Icy wind rushed in.

  “I don’t judge you for what you did before.” Her chest ached as she looked at him. “I judge you for what you’re doing now.”

  His eyes darkened. “What, pray tell, am I doing now?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” She stepped out into the cold. “Like you always do.”

  He caught her arm. “I warned you, Miss Downing. I’m no hero.”

  She held fast to the basket to keep from reaching for him one last time.

  He held himself so still, his body fairly thrummed with intensity. She tried to smile, to pretend it was all right. He dropped her arm as if it had scalded him.

  “Safe travels,” he said curtly. “I doubt we’ll meet again.”

  Her smile cracked. “Even heroes make mistakes.”

  He stepped back into his cottage, and the door closed tight behind him.

  Chapter 18

  That night, Xavier couldn’t sleep.

  Or the next. Or the night after that. Nothing out of the ordinary for a monster like him, other than a new character having cropped up in his nightmares.

  Now, when he stared at the prisoners as the weight of a thousand keys rooted him in place, a soft female voice floated through the darkness.

  I don’t blame you for that. I blame you for what you’re doing now.

  What am I doing now?

  Absolutely nothi
ng.

  He awoke bathed in sweat and spent the rest of the night glaring up at his shadowed canopy, his heart galloping wildly.

  The snow was gone. So was Jane.

  He wished he had them both back.

  Or, at least, her admiration. Her blind faith in him as a genuinely good person. He would never experience that again. He slammed his fist against the bedpost. Destroying her illusions about him had destroyed him, too.

  If only he could be the man she’d believed him to be. The man he’d always hoped he would become.

  A man worth believing in.

  He would never be that. With a sneer, he pushed out of bed and stalked over to the window. Although still tightly shuttered, dawn was sneaking through the cracks. The sun relentlessly rose, and so must he. No matter how he felt about it.

  He turned toward the basin to splash water on his face. It didn’t make him feel better. Nothing had, since Jane left. Everything had only felt worse. His shoulders tightened.

  Was she right? Had he changed, just by wishing to?

  He would never don regimentals again. Nor would he force anyone to do or say anything against his will. But could he ever atone for the past? Did he prove anything by giving up on his future?

  His back slumped against the wall. All he could think about was Jane. How much he missed her. How badly he’d hurt her. No matter how much he’d longed to, they should never have made love.

  But wasn’t that her decision, too? He hadn’t tossed her skirts over her head in a dark alley. She’d journeyed to his door with seduction in mind. They were both to blame.

  He gazed over at the empty bed. When he remembered the night they shared, it didn’t feel like something to be ashamed of. It felt like something to celebrate. She’d thought so, too. He was almost certain of it.

  Where was she now? What would happen to her? There’d been no missives, nor mention of her in the society papers. Perhaps she was back to being a quiet little bluestocking as if no part of their interlude had ever happened. He hoped she had. He hoped she could.

  She hadn’t been interested in marriage, but nor had she exhorted him to keep their affair secret. He would die before betraying her, but she couldn’t know that. She simply trusted him.

  He paced across the room. Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked her to keep his secret, either. He simply trusted her with the darkest parts of his soul.

  Why? He hadn’t confessed his sins to his best friends. They wouldn’t understand. What made her different?

  She could certainly keep a secret. To her, past mistakes were irrelevant, except for their impact on what lessons he learned from them. After everything he’d done, then and now… she’d accepted him as he was.

  And he’d let her go.

  Imbecile. He deserved what he got. He pulled off his nightshirt and stalked over to his closet.

  His housekeeper had returned a fresh pile of laundered clothes the night before, but he’d been too tired to put them away and too prickly to let anyone else in the room long enough to help him. He wasn’t used to help yet. Wasn’t certain he ever could be.

  Distracted, he picked up the topmost shirt. His arm was halfway through the sleeve before he noticed bright pink buttons had replaced the previous linen-covered ones. The bucolic row of brightly embroidered butterflies encircling the cuff, however, was impossible to miss.

  Jane.

  He brought his wrist closer to his face and squinted at her handiwork. His eyes widened in recognition. Not Jane. Egui. This was one of the many shirts Xavier had given up for dead after that damned cat ate all the buttons and sharpened its claws on the sleeves.

  Perfectly matched thread sewed those tangled ribbons back into a working sleeve. The butterflies were either there to draw attention away from the surgery—or simply because she could. It was her brother’s cat, he remembered belatedly. Perhaps the poor bastard had bunnies and butterflies scampering up all his sleeves.

  Just like Xavier.

  A quick perusal indicated that not one, not two, but all of his undershirts and most of his cravats had been similarly “rescued” from the bin.

  He laid them out atop his bed in disbelief. One of his waistcoats was even monogrammed with his initials… as a rainbow menagerie of ducks and squirrels frolicked along the hem.

  What on earth was her fascination with woodland creatures? The fall of his best breeches even boasted a chirping robin beside each button.

  He burst into helpless laughter. Even when she wasn’t there, Jane still managed to surprise him. And to have the last laugh. He selected the worst offender and shoved his arms through the sleeves. Nothing for it. He wouldn’t be going to Town, which meant for the next several months, he would be wearing designs better suited for a nursery.

  He grinned at his sleeves. Incredible. He wished Jane were there right now so they could laugh together and he could hold her close.

  His chest ached. Foolishness. This was reality. He pulled on a pair of breeches and sat to buff his Hessians.

  Then again, why bother? There was nowhere to go. No one to stay home with. Just him and his house.

  He tied a flowery cravat about his neck and scowled at his reflection in the glass. He looked ridiculous. Jane should absolutely be there to see it.

  Zeus, he missed her.

  Restless, he strode into his library. It didn’t feel half as appealing without a fire burning and Jane sneaking chapters of Fanny Hill at the other end of the chaise longue. It wasn’t the same without her.

  His heart was cold. He touched his flint to paper and lit the hearth. Nothing would make him warm again. He threw himself down onto the cushions and closed his eyes. It didn’t help.

  All he could think about was her reciting the Odyssey, and how she’d forgotten the Trojan horse because she’d—

  God’s teeth, there wasn’t any part of his house that didn’t make him think of Jane. The bed where they’d made love. The dining table where they’d drank and gambled. Even his cursed nightstand with the basin of water she’d used to bathe his skin. It was hopeless.

  He wished he had memories of her all over England. She’d said she loved the violin. He wished he could take her to hear all of her favorite orchestras and arrange private concerts at home for the two of them. He wanted to spend every evening brushing out her hair while she read aloud to him from one of the books in their library. Even if it was eighteenth-century erotica.

  Lord help him. He rubbed his face and stared at the ceiling. He was in love with her. His shoulders tensed as he considered his next move.

  Now what?

  He sat up and peered over the back of the chaise longue at all the books they had yet to read. At the house that could be a home. He was ashamed of taking her as his lover, but he wasn’t ashamed of her. The real question was whether she’d give him another chance. He shot to his feet.

  Their relationship didn’t have to be secret. If she was willing, he’d like to make it permanent. To make her his. Forever.

  He should never have let her walk away.

  Even heroes made mistakes.

  His hands went clammy. What could he do about it? He didn’t even know where she lived. He could ask Grace or Oliver, but not without providing some sort of explanation.

  And then there was Jane’s brother to contend with. Xavier could scarcely barge in the front door and demand access to the man’s sister. Xavier had no wish to duel with Isaac Downing. The rotter was likely to bring Egui as his second.

  He needed to meet her on neutral ground. Talk to her. Beg her. Find her. If only he—

  The play. She was going to be at the Theatre Royal in less than a sennight. She’d told him so herself. His lungs tightened.

  He’d have to be there, too.

  Chapter 19

  Jane stepped out of the carriage onto blustery Bow Street and took her brother’s arm. They were running late, but at least she wasn’t alone.

  She ducked her head against the brutal wind and hurried into the Theatre Royal
. Grace and her family would already be up in Ravenwood’s private box, eagerly awaiting the opening chords of Cymon. Jane couldn’t cry off.

  A part of her wished Xavier could be there. Another part of her dreaded the idea of confronting him face-to-face—and being unable to do more than curtsey and inquire about the weather.

  Both were ridiculous worries, of course. He was in Chelmsford, not London. And there he planned to stay.

  She held fast to her brother’s arm as they strode across the empty lobby. The greatest advantage to arriving late was missing out on the usual crush of fashionable well-wishers, all of whom consistently met her for the first time.

  Her throat clogged. She was tired of being nobody. Of being dismissed upon sight and just as quickly forgotten. Why was she incapable of forgetting past encounters? Try as she might to forget Xavier, every stolen moment was burned indelibly upon her soul. He would be part of her, forever.

  She pressed her lips together in a tight line. There was one definitive advantage to the rampant Janenesia afflicting the ton. Any other woman in all of England would have been accosted by friends and neighbors and old finishing school acquaintances every step of the illicit journey.

  Not Jane. She had even been forgotten in the back of a hackney carriage during her return journey. She’d fallen asleep, and the driver had simply kept driving. If it weren’t for Egui clawing out of his basket, who knew where they might have ended up?

  Isaac had returned home a few days later, exhausted from his journey but delighted to see his sister and his cat.

  Egui, of course, had been the perfect picture of feline docility. Jane did her best to portray the same image. No mad dashes to Essex here. No forbidden nights in the arms of an ex-soldier. No trampled heart, shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Just Jane. Lost in a book. Boring as ever.

  She hadn’t ventured out of the house since returning home. It wouldn’t have been seemly without her brother’s chaperonage, but even once he’d returned, she hadn’t felt like socializing. What was the point? None of those men were the one she wanted.