What a Rogue Desires

by Caroline Linden

  “Here go.” David handed him the empty wine bottle and stripped off his gloves. One of them turned inside out, and he dropped it on the floor. “Bring another bottle, would you?”

  Bannet took the bottle. “Yes, sir. Will you take madam her dinner now?”

  Madam. David swayed on his feet, remembering. He should tell Bannet to take Vivian her dinner. Lord knew he wasn’t fit company for anyone tonight. “All right,” he grumbled, stumping up the stairs.

  Vivian heard the scrape in the lock and shoved the little book of poetry under the mattress. At last, David was here. She was hungry, but she was also looking forward to his visit. Her spirits lifted in anticipation. She scrambled to her feet, but the door didn’t swing open as usual. Instead there was a muffled curse, some more scraping, and then a hard rattle of the latch.

  She drew back a step, instinctively wiping any expression from her face. She knew those sounds. He was drunk, he was, and while Vivian had no idea what to expect, her experiences with Flynn warned her it wouldn’t be good.

  The door swung open, so hard it banged against the wall. David stood in the doorway, the tray in his unsteady hands. His eyes wandered around the room until he found her. “Dinner, m’dear,” he mumbled, then stepped into the room. He closed the door by kicking it with his boot heel, and Vivian flinched as it slammed shut. He winced, hobbling across the room to set down the tray with a loud clank. “Eat up,” he told her, and collapsed into the chair with a grimace.

  She stayed where she was. “You’re cup-shot.”

  He produced another bottle from the pocket of his greatcoat, which he still wore. “Yes, I am.” He twisted out the cork and tipped it over a glass. “And getting more so every moment, love.”

  He didn’t look like a dangerous drunk, like Flynn. He looked rather like a sad drunk, his head hanging forward as he watched the wine pour into the glass. Cautiously she moved forward. “Why?”

  “Because I am a pathetic louse of a man,” he replied, and tossed back half his glass. He waved one hand. “Come, eat. I shan’t add to my sins by starving you.”

  “Why are you getting drunk and drunker?” She ignored his invitation to eat.

  “I prefer it to being sober.”

  Vivian threw him a suspicious look. Since she’d never yet seen him drunk, that didn’t sound true. “Why’s that?”

  He swirled the wine around his glass. “It helps one to forget, my dear.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “And what do you have to forget? Did your last fancy meal turn your stomach?”

  His shoulders lifted with a sigh. “It’s nothing you would understand. Don’t let it trouble you.”

  Vivian stared at him for a moment. She ought to let him stew in whatever misery he’d undoubtedly brought on himself. She had no reason to feel any pity for him, and she didn’t. Really, she didn’t. It was pure idle curiosity that made her want to know why he was sitting here, drinking himself senseless, staring at the fire with no trace of the daring energy and damnable charm she’d always seen before. He looked…empty. “I suppose that’s because you’re a fancy gentleman and have troubles no one like me could ever imagine. The cook burned your dinner, or the tailor sewed your drawers too small.”

  He twisted in his chair until he was peering up at her from beneath his tousled hair. “You wish me to bare my black soul, do you? I didn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities, but if you insist…” He braced one foot against the table leg and pushed himself upright in the chair. “This spring, I let myself become a tool in the hands of a murderous traitor. Shocking, isn’t it? I know you will doubt I, a model of propriety and elegance, could have stumbled so badly, but it’s true. And now I am an object of scorn to London society. Men I have known since I was a boy are wagering about what shame I shall bring on my family next.” He slumped again, his voice weary. “I am a fool, and a laughingstock.”

  Vivian said nothing. She sensed there was more to it than folks making sport of him, but didn’t know what. As far as she had seen, he was far from an object of mockery. She had never seen him anything less than completely assured and recklessly confident, and could hardly believe he was truly laid so low by others’ opinions of him. Surely not; the man had laughed outright when she insulted him and called him the vilest names she knew, and now he was undone by gossips’ talk of him? Vivian supposed no one would enjoy such a thing, but she knew it wasn’t the end of the world. She also didn’t think he had ever done anything truly evil, at least not by her accounting. She’d punched him on a broken rib, and he’d not so much as raised his hand to her. Flynn would have knocked her senseless for the same action.

  David seemed determined to pity himself tonight, though, and Vivian couldn’t abide that. Particularly not when he had so little grounds. Her eyes went to his leg, the one he favored, now stretched out in front of him. “What did you do to get a limp?” she asked on impulse.

  For a moment his face stiffened, then he sighed, pressing his fist, knuckles first, into his thigh as if to rub away the ache. “I broke my leg in a carriage accident,” he said. “Racing a mate of mine. I hit a hole in the road. Flew thirty feet through the air, to hear Percy tell it, then rolled down a hill and into a bush. If I hadn’t been thoroughly pickled, there’s no telling what else might have broken.” Bitterness laced his tone. “That was months ago, and I still limp like an old woman.”

  That, Vivian could understand. Being lame could indeed ruin a man’s life and livelihood, although she rather doubted the slight limp impaired him too much. “I’m sorry,” she said. He waved one hand, his eyes dark and melancholy.

  “You had nothing to do with it.”

  “Nay, but I can still be sorry you have a limp, can’t I?” she retorted. He lifted one hand in a motion of indifference, still staring into his glass. She crossed the room to stand in front of him. “And you’ll feel sorry for yourself forever because of it, will you,” she said. “A fine figure you are. It’s not enough you have a warm house and a man to black your boots. You’ve food in your belly and a fire to warm your toes. You have clothes and clothes and clothes; you keep your own carriage, ye daft fool! There’s folks who would fall on their knees in thanks to have any of those things, and all you can patter on about is people talking about you and a limp that cuts your fine stride. You can’t even take a bit of sympathy, but keep to your gloom about it.” She flipped one hand at him in disgust. “You’re naught but a spoiled lad.”

  He didn’t stir. “You’re right. I am. Do you think I don’t know it?” He took a big gulp of wine, and drops of red spattered his cravat. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “It’s the sad story of my entire life,” he muttered. “Poor David. Without his name and family, he’d be nothing. Offended by something David does? His mother will apologize. Fleeced at card by David? His brother will pay. Don’t take anything about David seriously, he’s just a spoiled lad.” His voice had grown harsh and savage at the end.

  “Aye, spoiled indeed,” Vivian said sharply. “Ye have a family that looks after you, even when you’re in trouble and up to no good? Rotten luck, that.”

  David let his head fall back against the hard wood of the chair. He knew how fortunate he was. That wasn’t what he was lamenting. It was his wasted life he mourned, a life he was only just beginning to realize he had lost. Yesterday he had felt on top of the world, ready and able to take on anything that presented itself. Now…he rather wished his brother would return from Italy early and spare him the further humiliation of running Exeter so badly that gentlemen were betting on how destitute Marcus would be when he returned. David indulged in a moment’s fantasy of just leaving it all; he could pack a valise and be gone by morning, off to his hunting lodge or one of the more distant Exeter properties where no one would require anything of him. He was sick of being responsible and honest. He didn’t want to give a damn anymore.

  “Well, I expect the only choice you have is to give it up,” Vivian said, startling him out of his thoughts. “Will you
run off and hide from all the fools who have naught better to do with themselves than mock another person? Go on, they won’t laugh at you for it. They won’t turn their noses in the air and say they knew all along you would turn tail. No, not at all. You’ll really be showing them what you’re made of.”

  “Thank you for that wise and caring counsel. The remaining shreds of my pride are in cinders at your feet.” He gave her a sour look.

  She rolled her eyes and made an impatient noise. “What else did you expect? Pity for how terrible you’ve had it?” David filled his glass again and said nothing. “Well, if you think I’ll feel sorry for you, you’ve had too much to drink.”

  “I never asked you to feel pity for me.” David drank some more. He had had too much to drink, not that it was her concern. He was definitely drunk, so why didn’t he feel happier? David was a jolly drunk; he knew it, and counted on it. Why was the wine failing him now when he needed it the most? “It’s the last thing I would expect from you, of all people.” He heaved himself to his feet, adjusting his balance with care born of long practice. He put the bottle to his lips and finished the wine, doing away with the trouble of pouring it into a glass. Everyone saw him as a drunk, he might as well be one. Tonight he’d willingly trade away all his good intentions for a respite from his humiliations.

  She didn’t say anything as he made his way to the door. The operation of the knob seemed to elude him; his fingers closed on it, but he couldn’t seem to turn it right. He took a deep breath and let it out, concentrating on his grip, and finally the latch clicked.

  “I don’t pity you,” said Vivian suddenly. David paused on the threshold. “Not because I think they’re right to bam you so; ’tis cruel and mean-spirited, of course. And not because you’ve had some troubles of late. ’Tis no worse than other folk endure, though, and you know it. Don’t pity yourself and it won’t matter much what other people do.”

  “Did you ever think it’s not pity, but guilt?” He gave a half-hearted shrug. “I know what I’ve done. Should I not feel the weight of remorse? Should I not suffer the consequences of my actions?”

  “I expect none of us can hope to escape the consequences of our actions for long,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean all of them are warranted. The punishment don’t always right the crime, aye?”

  He looked at her, a hardened thief with the face of a angel. She knew what she spoke of. “I agree,” he said quietly. “But in my case, my dear…I am very much afraid this punishment is exactly what I deserve.” She made no answer, and he let himself out of the room in silence.

  Chapter Eleven

  By the next morning, the drink had worn off, along with most of David’s melancholy.

  Vivian’s words of the night before had run round and round his brain during the night. No one should feel sorry for him. He didn’t deserve pity, and that included from himself. After all, if he did give up and take himself off to some distant Exeter estate, he would be admitting defeat, admitting all the slurs about his character were absolutely true. Perhaps they had once been true, but no longer. He was determined to prove it. While David didn’t care a farthing for the good opinion of the hypocritical rogues at White’s last evening, he refused to let them think they had cowed him and chased him out of town. He would stay, just to prove them wrong and to make them lose every single wager on the books. He would turn a profit for Marcus; he’d already landed Dashing Dancer, which was triumph enough in its own right. He would show them how a Reece responded to a challenge. And to that end, he intended to go out tonight and have a grand time. He planned to take Vivian with him.

  To hell with Trevenham and Grentham and all the rest. Vivian had more compassion and kindness in her than any of them had. In the proper gown, with some jewels at her neck and in her hair, those alleged gentlemen would be eating out of her hand—the same gentlemen who wouldn’t speak to her if they knew her background.

  The sharp-tongued little harpy had somehow won his respect. He had become accustomed to coming home to her every night. He loved to provoke her to see how she would fairly ignite with indignation and fury, and he loved to tease her until it was all she could do to keep from laughing. If he had met her under different circumstances…

  If only…

  David had made a fool of himself many times over a woman. He had been stupid and he had been indiscreet, but never had he lost his head and gone silly over a woman. He never thought he would. And yet, he suspected he would have been in very great danger of losing his head over Vivian Beecham had she been a lady of his own class.

  Of course, then she wouldn’t have been herself. She would have been a proper lady, not someone David would have ever spoken to and not someone who would have been interested in speaking to him. She likely would have been married already to a better man than David. As it was, he was terribly torn between thinking he ought to let her go and wanting to keep her with him forever.

  He just didn’t know what to make of her. She was still every bit as intriguing to him as she always had been. Her background led him to entertain fantasies of seducing her with luxuries, like the chocolate. He closed his eyes and saw again her expression as she sipped. Yes, he definitely wanted to ply her with luxury. What would her face look like as he rolled silk stockings on her legs, he wondered?

  It was out of character for him to think things like that. David was generally more interested in rolling the stockings off a woman’s legs. Of course, it was entirely possible to make love to a woman while she was wearing stockings. And David would be more than willing to do it, if he thought Vivian wanted him to.

  He was becoming consumed by that question: did she want him to seduce her? Or rather—since David was fairly certain he knew the answer to that question—would she allow him to seduce her? God knew he wanted to. If he hadn’t taken her prisoner, he already would have done his best to do so. By locking her up, though, he had put himself in her debt. It didn’t seem fair that he try to seduce her when she was under duress.

  That thought brought a smile to his face. Vivian, under duress. He had never known a woman who bore up under duress as she did. She could be as frosty cold as any duchess David knew, and as hot with fury as any fishwife. But it was her demeanor last night that had impressed him most. He needed someone, he supposed, to be brutally honest with him. The only other women David knew with any degree of familiarity were his stepmother, his sister, and his sister-in-law. The first would have gone on crusade to expose the hypocrisy of Evans, Trevenham, and the like, in defense of the family’s name; the second would have comforted him and declared she would never speak to any of those men or their families again; and the last would have reminded him that all gossip was wicked and he shouldn’t listen. Only Vivian told him to keep on as he was, with the additional instruction to stop bemoaning his lot in life, because it could be far, far worse, and to prove his detractors all wrong, because they were wrong.

  He rather liked that about her.

  The door creaked open, interrupting his contemplation. “Sir, some callers are arrived,” said Bannet.

  “Eh? Who?” demanded David in surprise.

  “Mr. Percy, sir, and some companions.” Bannet held out the little tray, but David was already on his feet.

  “Show them in, Bannet.”

  Bannet nodded and left the room, but he could hardly have gotten halfway down the hall before David’s friends burst through the door.

  “And what’s more, I’ll take that bet,” Edward Percy was saying with a laugh. “I do like taking your money, Brixton.”

  “So often it used to be yours,” retorted Hal Brixton irritably. “I shall never take a wager of yours again. Ah, Reece!”

  “Good morning to you.” David waved one hand in invitation to be seated. “What brings you here so early in the morning?”

  “Loyalty,” said the third man, Anthony Hamilton.

  “Our friendship of twenty years,” said Percy.

  “That, and you owe me one hundred twenty pounds
,” said Brixton.

  “I hope you don’t want it now,” said David.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” said Hamilton. “We are here in a show of support, old man. Brixton can afford the loss.”

  “Mighty free of you to say so,” grumbled Brixton, before Hamilton shot him a hard look. “But of course I can. Think nothing of it, Reece.”

  David glanced from one to the other. “Seen the books at White’s, I suppose.”

  “Beastly buggers,” said Percy.

  “Small-minded hypocrites,” said Hamilton.

  “Er—well, we saw them weeks ago,” said Brixton. “We heard you saw them last night.”

  David flipped his hand. “Pay it no mind. Let them wager themselves into penury. I hope you all took Evans up on his wager that I’ll leave Marcus destitute. I’ve never seen easier money.”

  “You’re not angry?” exclaimed Brixton. “Why, we only called this morning to prevent you meeting Trevenham.”

  “If I had called out Trev, or he had called me out, we would have concluded our business long before now,” said David dryly. “If you mean to stop a duel, I do believe you’ll have to rise before dawn.”

  Hamilton cleared his throat. “No one thought it would come to that. Brixton is running his mouth. We’re simply here to make it clear we had no part in the gossip, or the wagers.”

  “What gossip?” asked David, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve not been out to hear much of late.”

  “Oh, nothing of import. The usual suggestion of scandal without any facts to support it,” murmured Hamilton.

  “They say you’ve sold Exeter House bare,” said Percy, without the least trace of discretion or tact. “They say your family has left London to avoid the scandal. They say you’re to be arrested at any moment by Bow Street and sent to Newgate for thieving, counterfeiting, and treason.”