The Rogue Prince

by Margo Maguire

“Please don’t.” He placed his hand over hers. “I’m new to your city and I thought perhaps you might have time to show me some of the sights.”

  Maggie felt a sudden fluttering of butterfly wings in her stomach and hoped he had not spoken out of pity. He could not possibly be indicating an interest in pursuing something with her. Something dark and sensual, and entirely improper. Julian was the one who’d engaged in—

  No. As a widow, Maggie was as free as a woman could be. And she was going to enjoy the attentions of this man for as long as they lasted, even if it was for one afternoon.

  “What…Er, d-do you have anything in mind?”

  She swallowed nervously, suddenly aware of how absurd it was for a weepy, country viscountess to be entertaining the kind of thoughts she was having about this striking man.

  “None at all. What do you recommend?”

  Maggie believed he must be allowing her to dictate their terms. She could choose to move quickly, or slowly, or not at all, depending upon her own preference. “London is not really my home,” she said. “I’ve only just come into Town to take care of some business. But there used to be a gallery in St. Alban’s Street—with wonderful drawings. And there are Lord Elgin’s marble works, newly arrived in Town.”

  “I would very much enjoy visiting either one with you.”

  The prince rose and went to Maggie’s chair. She felt a moment of indecision, then stood, determined to pursue a path she’d never once considered before. If this breathless sense of anticipation occurred every time Julian had met his paramours, Maggie could almost understand how he’d been drawn into his illicit affairs.

  As the prince helped her with her chair, his hand lingered on her shoulder a fraction of a second longer than necessary, causing rivers of sensation to course through her.

  If she had the slightest misgivings about going with him, she squelched them as they left the tea shop. They stepped into the street together and his carriage pulled up at his signal. The driver jumped down and opened the door, and Maggie climbed in.

  It had not occurred to Thomas that Maggie might be a widow, and the thought that she might avail herself of his attentions appealed to him more than it should. Yet he could not devote his complete attention to his business. There had to be some relief from the intensity and focus of his mission in London.

  She wore the same subtle fragrance of roses that he hadn’t been able to put from his mind since their encounter in Hanover Square. It wasn’t just her scent that drew him, but a lush potency that was purely female—her full mouth and delicate hands drew him like a horse to clover. Now that he was with her again, it was no stretch of the imagination for Thomas to think of her lying naked, her body round and soft with promise, wearing nothing but her lovely scent, in his bed.

  Thoughts of tasting her flooded his mind, and Tom forced himself to rein in his erotic fantasies. She was upset and skittish, and probably did not understand the depth of his desire for her.

  She would soon know.

  The sorrow in her eyes touched some primal nerve in him, long since buried. Someone or something had hurt her, and he felt an entirely irrational desire to make certain it never happened again.

  “No need to be nervous,” he said, taking the seat beside her. He’d made a point of learning everything there was to know about high society, so he knew it was not quite proper to take her into his carriage alone. And yet she had not protested. It boded well for his intentions.

  He turned toward her and took her hand, which was lying in her lap. “I promise not to ravish you.”

  “Oh, but I—”

  “As much as I might want to.”

  With her deepening color and sharp intake of breath, Tom saw an innocence in her, and knew she’d never engaged in any kind of seduction. She’d likely followed the usual course for women of her class, and married at a young age to a man she hardly knew. And now he was dead.

  It raised all kinds of possibilities for the way he might proceed.

  He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “Tell me what is special about the St. Alban’s gallery.”

  Her thick, dark lashes closed over her exceptional eyes, as though savoring the moment, and Thomas felt a distinct tightening in his groin. She would be pure voluptuous pleasure in his bed.

  He removed her glove. Keeping her hand in his, he lowered his head slightly, as though he might kiss her. He wanted to, desperately. As the pleasing scent of roses filled his senses, he could almost taste her.

  “St. Alban’s is full of p-portraits and beautiful landscapes,” she said quietly, her breath feathering his cheek. “And there used to be a number of Mr. Rowlandson’s prints on display. Perhaps they are still there.”

  She looked up at him with parted lips, more alluring than anyone he’d ever known. He’d bedded a fair number of beautiful women, but perfection had a way of playing out much too quickly. He sensed untapped layers in this woman—layers that would be an immense pleasure to peel away. Perfection was immensely overrated.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Tom said quietly.

  “Well, you wouldn’t if you’re new to England.” Her lips were barely an inch from his. “Rowlandson is an artist I admire.”

  “Then he must be very good.”

  The carriage rolled over some uneven pavement, jostling them, and she tipped her head away, perhaps realizing how close she’d come to touching his mouth with her own. She was clearly out of her element, and her reticence inflamed him as much as the raw emotions she’d already displayed in his presence. He wanted to pull her into his lap and cover her with kisses. Yet, if Tom had learned anything during all his years away, it was to exercise patience. He could wait for this woman to adjust to his advances.

  But not too long.

  They soon arrived in St. Alban’s Street and went inside the gallery, where Thomas paid the entry fee. It was a two-story building, divided into several rooms, each with tall windows to maximize the light. There were only a few patrons inside, wandering from one display to the next. Tom touched the small of Maggie’s back, and they moved together toward one of the back galleries.

  He felt a sharp pull of possessiveness, and with that fleeting touch to her lower back, craved even more. They stopped to admire the paintings on the walls, but Tom’s eyes were drawn to Maggie far more often than to the pictures. His senses were alive with her—the roses, the freckles scattered across her nose, her full, kissable lips. Even her slightly uneven gait and the intriguing scar on her chin drew him—to a lass who had not been coddled and spoiled by her aristocratic kin. She seemed to be a woman apart.

  Her clothes were nothing special, her simple, brown pelisse covering her completely from neck to wrists, and down to her ankles. And yet it fit her form so closely, he could not stop thinking about peeling it from her body, the way he would peel the soft down of a peach from its sweet, pink flesh.

  He steered her to a quiet room where there were no other visitors and walked beside her as she wandered from picture to picture, until an intricate drawing of a pub brawl suddenly caught her attention.

  “Oh look, here is Dr. Syntax,” she said, pleased at the drawing. “He is one of Mr. Rowlandson’s recurring characters.”

  Tom barely looked at the drawing, but touched a fine curl at the base of Maggie’s neck. He felt her shiver in response, but she did not move away. Bending slightly, he touched his lips to the spot.

  He felt her sigh, and when she tipped her head to give him better access, he obliged her.

  “You are so very lovely.” He turned her slightly and lifted her hand to his mouth. It was a gentle kiss, delivered to the thin kid glove she wore—nothing at all like the kisses he wanted to share with her. Now.

  Her lips parted in surprise, and her eyes grew large. He could not help but notice the pulse thrumming at the side of her neck, and sensed that she would not refuse further intimacies.

  The need to taste her, to feel her enticing, feminine body pressed against his was nearly overwhelming. He
drew her away from the gallery, searching for a private niche or an alcove where he could show her how much he wanted her. He pushed through a closed door and found a staircase in a deserted back hall. Slipping into a small nook behind the stairs, he pulled her inside and took her into his arms. “I’ve wanted to touch you from the moment I saw you.”

  Tom kissed her lips and he felt a shudder course through her. Encouraged by her response, he encircled her waist and took full possession of her mouth.

  She melted into him, returning the kiss with innocent ardor. He felt her breasts push against his chest, and the sensation was nearly Tom’s undoing. He pressed his hips against hers, then slid his tongue across the seam of her lips, desperate to be inside her. He was hard and ready, and did not think he could wait much longer.

  It felt like lightning shooting through her when his tongue touched hers. Julian had never kissed her like this, had never seduced her with his mouth and the low pressure of his manhood against her pelvis. He’d never called her lovely.

  The ability to think escaped Maggie, and she let herself be caught up in the enticement of this man’s arms, his mouth, his obvious arousal. He cradled her face in the palms of his hands, then touched her shoulders, and moved farther down. When he cupped her breast and slid a finger over her taut nipple through the layers of her clothing, she thought she might melt in his arms.

  “Leave here with me.” His voice was a purely male rasp that reached deep inside her core and stoked the intense storm that was stirring within her. She felt breathless and wobbly, and yet more powerful than she’d ever felt before.

  “Yes,” she said, hardly aware that she had spoken, but she wanted to taste more of what he offered, wanted to experience more of the sensations he wrought so easily in her.

  He released her breast, slipping his hands around her and kissing her hard, sucking her tongue into his mouth while he ground himself against her. Maggie thought her knees would buckle with the excruciating pleasure of his touch.

  Dear God, was this what she’d missed during all the years of her marriage?

  “Come on,” he said, breaking away abruptly. He took a few deep breaths, then stepped away from their private little alcove. Maggie tried to appear perfectly proper and composed, and she assumed he did, too. He quickly led the way back through the gallery and outside, signaling to his carriage. In less than a minute, they were inside the conveyance and it started to move.

  The prince pulled her into his arms again, but Maggie held him in check, her hands against his chest, suddenly uncertain. As much as she wanted more, she was a staid and settled country widow, with no knowledge or experience of such wanton conduct. She ought to demand that he take her back to Hanover Square.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she said breathlessly, her body betraying her better judgment.

  He was already unfastening the buttons at her throat and pressing his mouth to her bare skin, moving lower and lower until her pelisse was gone and her bodice fully open.

  “Thomas. Tom,” he said harshly.

  She should put a stop to his seduction now, but reason flew in every direction when he pushed her chemise down, baring her breasts to his gaze. To his touch. And then to his mouth.

  Maggie shuddered with the most exquisite sensations she’d ever known. She let her head fall back as he licked and sucked her breasts, feeling a desperate pull of pleasure deep inside. She slipped her fingers through his hair, and bit her lip to keep from crying out. Julian had never failed to leave her unfulfilled and vaguely aching, yet she could not believe the same would happen with Thomas.

  He kissed her mouth, keeping one hand on her breasts, stroking, teasing her nipples with a light, feathering touch.

  Maggie’s breath caught when she felt his other hand at her ankle, sliding it under her skirts. The rough surface of his fingertips glided against her calf, then teased the back of her knee, climbing higher as her pulse pounded in her throat. She should grab his hand and stop him, but every cell in her body craved his touch, cried out for the completion he could provide.

  Maggie nearly came off her seat when he reached her feminine folds. He touched her gently at first, then opened her and slid a finger inside, even as his tongue speared her mouth.

  She did not recognize the whimper that came from the back of her throat, but clearly it was she who’d made the sound. Pure, carnal sensation thrummed through her, enlivening a part of her that had been unfulfilled all through her marriage.

  Julian had never done such a thing to her. His habit had been to press a few dry kisses to her mouth, then lift her gown and shove himself inside her. The process had been vaguely pleasant until he entered her, and then it became uncomfortable. Even hurtful. Maggie had come to dread their marital encounters.

  Clearly, there was more to intimate relations than her husband had ever shown her. There could be tender caresses that perhaps only a lover would share. Not a spouse.

  “Open for me, sweet,” Thomas said, looking into her eyes, while his fingers continued their intimate caress. Maggie should have felt mortified, but the passion in his gaze held hers. “Ah, that’s it.”

  And suddenly, she felt the breath sucked out of her lungs, and a burst of savage pleasure overtook her. Her womb contracted, and her internal muscles quivered in utter bliss. She felt as though she were coming apart, and only the strength of Thomas’s arms kept her intact.

  “Yes. Come for me, love.”

  Maggie could not have stopped the flow of feelings, even if she’d tried. She clamped her legs around his hand as the wild sensations flashed through her like a flood over a dam, and held on to his shoulders as though she would fall away into nothingness if she let go.

  She went limp in his arms and spoke so quietly that Tom couldn’t quite hear the words she whispered. Nor did he know if he was going to be able to walk once they reached his newly purchased house just north of Town. He tried to compose himself as he smoothed down her skirts, but his arousal continued to rage, the evidence of which was painfully obvious.

  He let his hands drift to her breasts, his thumbs caressing their pebbled peaks while he tortured himself with the promise of an intensely carnal interlude with her in his bed. He leaned his forehead against hers as her breathing returned to some semblance of normal.

  His own was still out of control.

  “Are you going to…” she started dubiously, though Tom did not doubt she could feel him hard and ready against her hip. “Do you need to…”

  “Bed you now?” he replied with some difficulty. “Not here in the carriage. We’ll soon arrive at the house.”

  Tom pressed his hand against her mound as the last few shudders of her orgasm took her. Her breath caught, and her eyes were glazed. He could hardly suppress his need to be inside her.

  “House?” she whispered, her eyes shooting open, her gaze suddenly clear.

  “Yes. I bought a house yesterday. It’s not far.” Thank God. Because he didn’t think he could wait much longer. He was ready to explode.

  Her face went pale and she started to pull the edges of her bodice together. “Oh, but—I didn’t think…I cannot—”

  He kissed the side of her neck.

  “We will be completely alone,” he whispered, moving her hands away from the plump, feminine flesh she was attempting to cover. “There will be no servants there yet, besides Oliver. My coachman. But he—”

  “It’s not that. I…I’ve never…”

  “Of course you haven’t.” He circled one of her pretty, pink nipples with his tongue, aware that she was as innocent as a virgin. She might have borne a child, but her husband had obviously never made love to her, for it was clear she’d just experienced her first orgasm.

  He took her hand and placed it upon the placket of his trews. She pressed her hand against his hard length, sliding it up and then down, shivering, her nipples tightening even more than before. She seemed to forget her objections, losing herself in his kiss, but then breaking away suddenly.


  “Thomas…”

  She removed her hand from his swollen member and pressed it to her chest, and a mounting wave of pure frustration came over him.

  “I’m not…” She closed her eyes and tried to gather herself. “I have an appointment this afternoon that I must keep.”

  She looked into his eyes, her disappointment and confusion clear. “But tomorrow. I will meet you anywhere you wish. Tomorrow.”

  Chapter 3

  Maggie saw one of her stepbrother’s footmen standing at the front door when she exited Thomas’s carriage at the far end of the square. She did not want to face Shefford now, not with her obvious flush and disheveled appearance, for he would surely grasp that something had happened.

  And she did not want to share any part of it with him.

  What she’d just experienced was far beyond anything she’d thought possible, and she shuddered with an eager anticipation of her tryst with Thomas upon the morrow. She refused to feel any guilt at all.

  Somehow, she managed to keep her legs working after entering the house. She walked quietly to the stairs, anxious to get to her own bedchamber, hoping to avoid Shefford and whatever reason he had for coming for her so early. Her stepbrother could just bide his time until they had to leave for their meeting with Julian’s solicitor.

  The house was quiet, but for the sound of voices in the drawing room, and as Maggie crept past the closed door, she heard Shefford’s voice, in discussion with another man. She kept walking until his words stopped her cold.

  “She never bothered Julian,” he said. “Can’t imagine she’ll be a problem for you, either, Kimbridge.”

  “If only the old dog didn’t insist,” said Shefford’s companion. “Then I wouldn’t have to look for a wife just yet. Or ever.”

  “If I understood you correctly,” Shefford said, “your father told you to get a respectable wife, or there would be no allowance.”

  Maggie tried very hard not to jump to any conclusions, but then Shefford spoke again.