Undeniable Rogue (The Rogues Club Book One)

by Annette Blair

  “Please Mr....I do not know your name.”

  Gideon turned, read her bewilderment, and resigned himself to revealing his identity. “You may call me Gideon.”

  When she made no sign of recognition, he began to hope for a reprieve. He bowed. “Gideon St. Goddard, at your service.”

  “Mr. St. Goddard.” She curtseyed, inasmuch as she could, and bestowed upon him a genuine smile of delight. When the deepest dimples that ever felled man tugged at his cold rogue’s heart, Gideon feared there would be no reprieve for him. None.

  “Ah Mrs. Chalmer,” Sabrina said as they turned as one to the woman who had just entered the kitchen. “Mr. St. Goddard, here, will be staying with us for a while. Please have your husband put him in with the others.”

  The others?

  Mrs. Chalmer’s brows arched. But when Gideon shook his head, imperceptibly, her way, his wizened old cook set her mouth, narrowed her eyes, and led him wordlessly up the stairs.

  * * *

  Sabrina Whitcomb had never felt more gauche or nonplussed in her four and twenty years of life. Never had she come face to face with such a vital and disarming specimen of manhood.

  True, his dark shadow of a beard, his intense emerald eyes, gave a first stark impression. True, he regarded her like a hawk sighting prey.

  Yes, that thick hair flowing away from his face, like waves in a midnight wind, had only served to enhance the image, and he had frightened her.

  But despite all that, she had also been fascinated by his every unexpected facet. His demeanor had seemed at differing moments to shift from beggar to baron; scamp to sorcerer; champion to charmer.

  Here was a man who might protect her from all comers, even from the likes of the vile creature, she was afraid still searched for her. Not that Homer Lowick would ever find her in as safe and unlikely a location as Stanthorpe Place, a blessing for which she had Hawksworth to thank.

  But Gideon St. Goddard was another matter entirely. Good Lord, that such a bold, capable one should arrive at her door the day before her wedding to another. Which made no account, because the man was penniless, she must remember, a situation she could no longer tolerate, for herself or her children.

  Hawksworth had kept his promise with his last breath. For that reason, first, if not for her vow to herself, she must remain true to Stanthorpe. Forget that his assessing regard turned her to pudding, that his verdant eyes made him appear, almost, to smile, even when he did not. Never mind a mouth shaped to reveal an inborn cheerfulness that inevitably tugged at her own smile.

  And when St. Goddard had finally bestowed his first true smile upon her, full and deadly, before following Mrs. Chalmer up the stairs, the sculpted grooves in his cheeks had deepened, revealing a rogue undeniable, handsome as sin and rife with promise.

  Well, Sabrina thought, kneading her dough to India Rubber, palpitations over a charming rogue did not belong in the breast of a woman engaged to another. Especially not one past the blush of youth and due to give birth at any moment.

  The doddering old Duke of Stanthorpe would do very well for her, thank you very much. With his money, he would be as able to protect her as well as any broad-shouldered pauper.

  Tonight, after dinner, tomorrow at the latest, she would tell the handsome St. Goddard that he must leave Stanthorpe Place at once.

  She had no room in her life for a seductive lady-killer.

  More’s the pity.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sabrina Whitcomb’s sunset-deep violet eyes and generous spirit played in Gideon’s mind throughout his bath and shave, so much so that he once called his valet Sabrina, a slip he would not live down any day soon.

  And since Chalmer had had the good sense to show him to his own apartments—where he dressed as befitted his bride’s current impoverished impression of him—he did not even wonder about the others until he met them at dinner.

  The first of Sabrina’s boarders, a sixty-nine year old rag lady, had lost just enough of her sight to ruin her living. And her hearing, he discovered at dinner, was not much better. During Sabrina’s journey to Stanthorpe Place, she had found Miss Minchip wandering outside a posting inn and took her along.

  When Gideon heard the story, he formed a mental image of his intended as a child, all big bright eyes and dark curls, bringing home a kitten in her pocket and telling her mother that it followed her.

  Mr. Oscar Waredraper, young at sixty-two, had driven his peddler’s wagon of sewing notions into the path of Sabrina’s carriage, three weeks before, and ended the collision with a sprained back.

  While Sabrina, herself, escaped harm, Waredraper got taken home as well and had been installed, it appeared, as the new seamstress. Gideon did not know if the title was a sop to his pride or if the well-mannered, older man actually performed that task for the household. Either way, like the rest, he was treated as an honored guest and joined them for dinner.

  Doggett, of that suspiciously singular name, seemed to have appeared most recently inside the house—much as Gideon had done, Sabrina chidingly pointed out. And judging by Doggett’s colorful, Spitalfields vocabulary, Gideon surmised that the man had either been a pickpocket or a fence, though at seventy-seven, he seemed harmless enough, Gideon hoped.

  After introducing Gideon as her latest boarder, and a seeker of fortune down on his luck—to Chalmer’s chuckle-cum-cough—Sabrina entertained them throughout dinner with intelligent and witty conversation. Gideon learned, through carefully sprinkled questions, that she had attended finishing school, married young and foolishly, and paid the price.

  She was generous—sharing even that which was not yet hers to share—thoughtful, captivating, and as the meal progressed, Gideon could more and more easily envision her fulfilling the role of Duchess. His. Yet despite all her genteel qualities, Sabrina radiated an amazing depth of spirit and a fire of passion that bore more than a trace of obstinacy.

  Though her clothes were not in the first stare, her poise and beauty would carry her through any social encounter. She would, he decided, appear graceful in a sack, a near thing right now, considering the size of her expected burden.

  The man who wed Sabrina Whitcomb would never be bored, Gideon decided, but neither would he rest easy. The disturbing notion actually shot a frisson of anticipation through him, to the point that he could not seem to remove his gaze from her.

  When dinner came to an end, he eschewed port and rose with the ladies. And after they were joined by the rest of the gentlemen, the others decided on a lively game of vingt-un for ha’pennies, Doggett their self-proclaimed dealer. Hmm.

  Sabrina opted for a walk in the picture gallery, in lieu of a wet garden, and Gideon, eager to know her better, offered his arm.

  Awareness sizzled between them as they strolled beneath the seemingly knowing eyes of his scapegrace ancestors, and before long Gideon felt compelled to break the silence and ease the tension. “My compliments on your home,” he said. “I find the house to be in surprisingly good order, given the short duration of your stay. I did understand from Miss Minchip, did I not, that you have resided here a mere month?”

  Sabrina nodded. “We scrubbed and polished the whole time. The others helped.” She beamed as she gazed about. “After I dismissed the housekeeper, of course.”

  She had discharged his housekeeper? Indignance rose in Gideon on the instant, and he had to struggle to keep his temper in check.

  Sabrina stopped before his grandfather’s portrait. “Hopefully,” she said. “He will be pleased with the results.”

  That turned Gideon’s ire. “He?” Unfortunately, the remnants of his annoyance laced his inquiry.

  Catching and shrugging his pique away, Sabrina indicated the man in the picture. “Behold the owner of Stanthorpe Place. The man I am pledged to marry.”

  Good God. Gideon regarded the engraved plate beneath the portrait. “Harold, Duke of Stanthorpe. But there is no date. Do you not think his clothes a trifle out of fashion?”

  Like fifty years
or more, Gideon thought.

  “Do you think so?” Sabrina tilted her head to examine his grandsire in more detail. “I am not a member of the fashionable set, so I must admit that I would not know this year’s court dress from yesteryear’s.”

  “I see.” Gideon placed his hands behind his back to resist a strong and inexplicable urge to reach for her. It seemed that her guileless naiveté, combined with the candlelight playing across her flawless features, was wont to make him forget her offering of his home to strangers. Not to mention her high-handed dismissal of his housekeeper. But he was being petty, and he knew it.

  Still his irritation rose again, and he ignored it again.

  “So, what do you think of him?” Gideon nodded toward the portrait. “As your intended, that is. If he is, indeed, the current Duke of Stanthorpe.” Why the devil was he dropping hints? Did he want to set the cat, so soon, among the pigeons?

  Sabrina gave the portrait another thorough study. “He is. And I think if he cannot be handsome, then it is better he is rich.”

  Like fingernails across slate, her words stood the hair at his nape, while the prickling of foreboding racing up his spine further threatened his equanimity.

  So much for naiveté.

  Gideon composed himself, so as not to give his agitation away. “You seek a rich husband, then? May I ask why?” Foolish question.

  An impish grin slivered her eyes to crescents and revealed the slightest glimpse of calculated intent. “For the same reason you should seek a rich wife,” she said. “Money.”

  Honest and artless, even in her cunning, Sabrina Whitcomb remained true to the paradox he had already come to expect. Still, Gideon bristled. “Considering, as you say, you are not of the fashionable set, how became you so fortunate as to end up here, pledged to marry a Peer of the Realm?”

  “The Duke of Hawksworth found Stanthorpe for me.”

  “Did he, indeed? Again, may I ask why?”

  “I think, Mr. St. Goddard, that you ask too many questions.”

  “Perhaps I do,” Gideon conceded with a hard-won smile. “Again, my apologies. Nevertheless, will you humor me and answer just one more?”

  “Why should I?” Headstrong, as he expected.

  Gideon almost wished he could warn her that her future, and that of her child, depended upon her answer. “Let us just say that I was intrigued, the moment I set eyes upon you. And I find myself wondering how it has come about that I have lost all opportunity to get to know you better, before I ever had the chance, my, ah, temporary lack of funds aside, that is.”

  “Ask, then,” said she, her voice like fluttering velvet, her regard less certain of a sudden, more vulnerable, or sorrowful, perhaps.

  “Why the Duke of Stanthorpe?”

  In due course, across her perfect features, marched embarrassment, a thought to prevarication, then resignation. Eventually, she sighed. “To be totally honest, Stanthorpe is rich and he was convenient.”

  “Convenient, by God.” Gideon bristled—he could not help himself—but he sobered posthaste, lest he waste a God-given opportunity to learn more about this siren fixed to fleece him.

  She had given him the worst possible answer, though he did not know what might have been better. Convenient indeed. “Are you telling me that you need money so badly, you would sell yourself?”

  Her expeditious, and unexpected, slap echoed forever through the long gallery. And as his cheek and his dignity stung, Gideon decided that a scheming bride’s hand print might be a fitting brand for her fool of a bridegroom at their wedding.

  A silent pall of tension hung in the air after that, and they regarded each other in stunned disbelief. Magnified night sounds—the creaks and groans of the old house—had Gideon imagining his ancestors uniting in his defense...or in hers.

  He cleared his throat. “My word choice was...unfortunate,” he said. “I suppose I owe you an apology.”

  “You suppose?” Her voice no longer velvet, but ice, Sabrina turned on her heel and walked away, but she slowed, faltered, stopped and looked back. “I have … responsibilities,” she said, by way of a tardy explanation, regret and apology nearly paling her agonized features. And like a Madonna, she stood there regarding him, soothing her babe with soft, unconscious strokes.

  Gideon recognized and ignored his ridiculous inclination to soothe both mother and babe. “In other words, you would do anything for your child. I commend and admire the sentiment, but what about caring, Sabrina?” He began to approach her with caution, intending to offer amends and what little comfort he could, but was arrested by her babe’s movement.

  “May I?” he asked, his hand hovering. And when she nodded, he placed it gently upon the site in fascination. “Amazing,” he whispered, riding a wave of unborn movement, gazing into vivid sunset eyes and feeling suddenly closer to this woman than he had to any other in his life.

  A faint stirring of alarm assailed him then, for the sentiment had come so strong, but he ignored apprehension, as he had done with his promise to wed. “Would you not rather give this little one a father who would care for it?” he asked. “Do you even know whether Stanthorpe likes children or not?”

  A spark of distress, quickly vanquished, managed to shatter her composure, as it did their fleeting connection.

  Sabrina stepped from his reach. “You speak foolishness. I know first hand that life can be got through without love, but it cannot, believe me, without money.”

  She was right, of course. And what the bloody devil was ailing him? Why talk her out of marrying his more desirable persona—that of the Duke, rather than the pauper—when, if he would but be honest with himself, he would take her any way he could have her.

  Did he? Did he want this siren of a goddess at any cost? As in, purchasing her, fidelity and all, the way he purchased his servants? Or, as in...love at first sight?

  Gideon stopped himself from scoffing outwardly. Either way, he was an idiot deserving of nothing but her scorn. Gad, but he was more like his grandmother than he expected, except that he did not even know the meaning of love.

  He did not think he could do love.

  He could do like, definitely lust. He could even throw in courtesy and respect to make things comfortable. But love?

  For the life of him, Gideon did not understand what was ailing him. From whence had come this perverse need to believe a woman he had known for less than a day would take him as a pauper?

  What he should do, is ride to Drury Lane tonight, find a willing wench, purge Sabrina Whitcomb from his blood, forthwith, and cancel his ill-advised wedding.

  Pertinent notion notwithstanding, he wanted nothing more than to continue doggedly in pursuit of a woman he felt duped into marrying, a woman he wished would want him as much as he wanted her.

  Tomorrow, Bedlam and a straightjacket.

  Tonight, pursuit.

  “Let us examine the possibility of like and attraction or lust between us,” Gideon suggested, his voice a croaking rasp. He stepped a hair’s breadth nearer, and promptly fell into the shimmering violet depths of her eyes, once more.

  Minutes—or hours—later, when he recovered, barely, he fought good sense and grazed her cheek with the back of a hand.

  Sabrina swallowed, she trembled, but she did not seem able to turn away, and neither did he. In that moment, Gideon fancied that they were adjoined by some hot, invisible current flowing from one to the other of them and back, like heat lightening, sizzling without sound. “Though I have no right,” he whispered, awed and encouraged by the openness in her countenance. “I felt those things. I felt them the minute I saw you.”

  Like a doe in lantern light, Sabrina stilled.

  Silently denying his statement? Or rejecting a similar admission?

  “Frivolous sensibilities have no place in my life,” she said, after another tension-fraught span and with no conviction. Then she moved again from his reach. “I am engaged to marry another. And what you felt this afternoon was hunger.”

  “Y
es,” he said, taking now one step forward for each of hers back.

  When the wall stopped her retreat, Gideon placed tentative hands on her shoulders, and when she made no attempt to shrug him away, he slid his hand upward to cup her face and contemplate her full, ripe lips.

  “As you say,” he whispered. “Hunger, pure and simple.”

  While he waited for a subtle invitation to touch her lips with his own, Sabrina stood still as stone, cold, hard and unyielding. Yet he caught her inner struggle in the pulse at her throat and in her fists clenched tight and trembling against his chest.

  Only when he flattened her hands over his hastening heart did she begin to thaw. But she pulled away, nevertheless, breathing as if she could not get enough air, leaving him disconnected and floundering.

  “No wonder you have had no luck making your fortune,” she said, soothing her unkissed lips with her tongue and bringing his body to erect and rigid attention. “You believe in fairy stories.”

  No one had ever accused him of that before. “I was not speaking of happily ever after, my dear Sabrina, but of physical hunger.” Was he, really? “Women are the romantics in this world, not the men,” he said for his own benefit.

  “Not me,” she responded with a rueful laugh. “I cannot afford to be. I am sick unto death of poverty. I must keep food in my children’s bellies, clothes on their backs and a roof over their heads.”

  She could have no idea how much he respected her resourcefulness and determination, but he was mightily frustrated that she resisted the attraction sparking nearly to flame between them.

  “Children?” he asked, only now absorbing her words. “Plural? Do you think, perhaps, you will have twins then? You certainly seem bi—er capable enough, though I am no expert.”

  Her eyes widened to saucers. “Not a—I hope not.”

  For his sanity and to keep from kissing her, after all, Gideon placed her hand on his arm and started them strolling again. “When is he due?”

  “Two weeks.”