The Rogue Prince

by Margo Maguire

  “The music is about to start,” Kimbridge said. “Please do me the honor of sitting with me, Lady Blackmore.”

  “You are too late, Kimbridge,” Tom said, having gone far past amusement with the bloody rascal and on to frank irritation. “I’ve already asked the lady to join me.”

  Maggie slipped her hand through the crook of Kimbridge’s elbow and stared straight into the other man’s eyes. “I would be most pleased to have you accompany us, Mr. Kimbridge.”

  Chapter 8

  Maggie avoided Victoria’s questioning eyes. How could she explain the situation with Thomas to her very proper friend? Victoria would be scandalized.

  And Maggie hardly understood it herself.

  “Thank you, Lady Blackmore,” said Mr. Kimbridge, taking her hand again and kissing it dramatically. “I’ve been hoping to see you ever since I heard you were in Town.”

  “Oh?” Maggie doubted that very much. Kimbridge hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her until Shefford had told him how easily she could be duped. If her brother had his way, she would become a doormat all over again.

  She did not care to be anywhere near Mr. Kimbridge and his dreadful fawning. She’d heard enough of his conversation with Shefford to know she wanted naught to do with him. Under any circumstances. And yet Thomas’s presence and his proprietary assumptions had jarred the ill-advised invitation from her lips.

  She hoped Mr. Kimbridge’s presence would discourage Thomas from thinking he had any further chance with her. Perhaps if he was aware of another admirer, he would withdraw his attentions. She could not go through another night feeling as though she might crawl out of her skin for lack of his kiss, of his intimate touch.

  General Foveaux and his wife went away to take their seats, and Lord Ranfield came back to join Victoria, who seemed to have stopped trying to figure out what was going on between Maggie and Thomas. Still, she stayed close, claiming the available pair of seats that were directly behind the one Maggie had chosen for herself.

  “My lady, may I say you are looking particularly lovely this evening,” Mr. Kimbridge said.

  “Thank you,” she replied, though she took no pleasure in his words or his whiskey-laden scent. She added his tendency to over-imbibe to the list of his faults.

  “I trust you are finding London to your liking.”

  “Not particularly, Mr. Kimbridge,” she replied. Thomas stood so close that she could smell his subtle, appealing scent, and Maggie fought the urge to close her eyes and inhale deeply of him. “I am most anxious to return to Cambridgeshire.”

  “Ah, yes. Blackmore Manor.” Kimbridge frowned as though he just realized exactly what she’d said. “But you must find it terribly dull in the country.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Kimbridge. It’s peaceful and quiet there. I very much prefer it to Town.”

  “I believe I visited there once,” said Kimbridge.

  Maggie recalled the visit, and the fact that she had not cared for him much. He’d drunk too much even then, had laughed too loudly with an oddly forced conviviality, and had played a vile game of tossing her little son into the air and catching him. Julian had not put a stop to the dangerous sport in spite of Maggie’s entreaties.

  She always wished that Julian remain at home with their family in Cambridgeshire, but since he seldom came home alone, Maggie never did mind his leaving when it meant that he took his dreadful friends away with him.

  “I hope you enjoyed your visit out to Delamere House today,” said Thomas.

  “Yes, of course,” Maggie replied tersely. “You have a very fine estate.”

  “I believe the children were entertained.”

  Maggie tipped her head slightly, but could not bring herself to look at him. She feared she might very well be lost if she did. “They enjoyed the pony ride. Even Lily, who is not very daring at all.”

  She wished she had not used that word—daring—and tried to ignore the frisson of awareness in her lower back and the tightness in her chest. She was no more daring than her little daughter.

  And yet, even Lily had climbed readily into Thomas’s arms.

  “I hope they’ll come back one day soon.”

  Her eyes flew up to his face then, and his expression confused her. Nothing about this affair was clear, and she feared her emotions would not settle down until she put some distance between them.

  But it would not be possible yet, not while Kimbridge flanked her on the left and Thomas on her right. She sat down between them, refusing to allow Thomas’s proximity to reduce her to a raging puddle of need. He had made it abundantly clear that he’d reconsidered his proposition. And yet—

  “If you enjoy the country,” Thomas said quietly, “you would enjoy Sabedoria.”

  His voice sent shivers of longing through her, even though his words were not an invitation for her to go away with him. It was just another sensual trap, one she was unwilling to fall into again. She managed a courteous, distant reply. “It is pastoral, then?”

  “Very. Plenty of open land, and our cities are not as crowded or as noisy as London.”

  Kimbridge leaned forward and spoke to Thomas. “But your country is upside down, is it not?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Thomas said.

  “As I understand it, Sabedoria is at the bottom of the world.”

  “Some would say this part of the world is the bottom,” Thomas replied in a wry tone. “But yes, Sabedoria is very far south.”

  “I’m not much given to travel,” said Kimbridge. “Don’t like ships.”

  “Weak stomach?”

  “Of course not!”

  Maggie suppressed a smile at Mr. Kimbridge’s indignation. Perhaps his stomach tolerated rough seas, but the wind might disturb his thickly pomaded hair, and the itinerary would certainly interfere with his schedule of foolish entertainments. Gambling and womanizing, no doubt, just like Julian.

  Lord Ranfield leaned forward and spoke to Thomas. “How long a journey is it to sail to England from your country?”

  “Six months.”

  “Oh my,” said Victoria. “I cannot imagine such a long time on shipboard!”

  “You would be surprised what a person can withstand, my lady,” Thomas said solemnly.

  “How is your climate?” Ranfield asked.

  “Warm all year,” he replied. “But we have a rainy season in spring—which would be your autumn.”

  “Really,” Victoria said, thoroughly engaged. “So everything is reversed?”

  Thomas nodded, adding nothing more.

  “How long will you be staying in England?” she asked.

  Thomas gave an engaging shrug. “We haven’t yet decided.”

  Victoria nudged her husband. “Charles, you should invite the prince to our house party this summer.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Ranfield said. “We always have a party at the end of the season at Ranfield Court. If your schedule will allow it, we’d be honored to count you among our guests.”

  “I will see what Mr. Ochoa has put on my schedule,” said Thomas. “Thank you.”

  Maggie had a sudden, vague inkling that Thomas had some reason, other than trading Sabedorian flax, for coming to England. He clearly had more wealth than any nobleman she could name, and she wondered if all of Sabedoria was so prosperous. If so, they would have no need to sell their flax to England.

  He was not hostile, and the English ministers seemed to have welcomed him gladly. So his purpose was not war, thank heavens. England had had enough of that during most of Maggie’s adult years.

  She wondered about the Sabedorian language and culture, and how Thomas had come by his name. It sounded altogether English, and yet his country was on the other side of the world. Perhaps it was an English version of a Sabedorian name.

  “Lady Blackmore,” Kimbridge said, shifting in his seat so that Maggie was forced to turn from Thomas, thereby shutting him out of the conversation. Facing him so closely, she saw that his eyes were bloodshot, reinforcing her unflatter
ing opinion of him. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a drive in the park tomorrow?”

  “A drive?” Maggie said, dubiously. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  Kimbridge smiled forcefully. “Yes. In the park.”

  She felt Thomas at her back, could almost see his arms crossing his chest as though he had any right to dictate her activities.

  “A drive would be lovely,” she said to Kimbridge, and wished she could bite her tongue the instant the words came out of her mouth. She had no desire to go on an outing with such an odious companion, but some contrary part of her had insisted upon demonstrating her disinterest in Thomas.

  The quartet took up their instruments and started tuning. “Cancel it, Maggie,” Thomas whispered near her ear, and Maggie shivered. “Meet me tomorrow. Alone.”

  The voices quieted as the music started, and Maggie could not recall ever feeling more uncomfortable than she did at that moment.

  “I apologize for this afternoon,” he said, as quietly as before, the instruments masking his voice.

  Maggie’s breath caught.

  She knew better than to credit his words. There had been no reason for him to include her children on their trip to his estate. If he had truly wanted to spend time alone with her, he could have done so that afternoon. He had chosen not to.

  He spoke quietly again. “I neglected to consider how many people would be present at my estate today and would take note your arrival.”

  She swallowed at the implication of his words. Turning to him then, she was sure there must be unspoken questions in her eyes.

  “I did not care to have any of my men speculating about you.”

  Maggie made no reply, feeling flattered at first, that he had considered her reputation. But then she became wary, and perhaps a little bit cynical. She’d swallowed many a tale told by her husband, and never received any serious answers to her questions about the estate, or the tenants and livestock. And she knew where that had gotten her.

  No man was ever going to make such a fool of her again.

  She turned to face forward, and focused on the quartet that was midway through Haydn’s lovely concerto, admonishing herself to pay closer attention to it. To relax and try to enjoy it, in spite of Thomas’s provocative words.

  The soft candlelight reflected all the glittering jewels in the room, and the starched white of the gentlemen’s collars. Maggie felt overly warm in Lady Sawbrooke’s music room, even with her arms and half her chest exposed in Stella’s satin evening gown.

  She found it difficult to relax, feeling entirely out of her element beside the most fascinating man in the room. A man who had acted to protect her reputation, if she could believe him.

  She ached for his touch, certain it was the only thing that could end the torture of the heavy physical awareness she felt. Her body drifted toward his, as though tugged by some unseen magnet. She felt his heat beyond their small point of contact at the shoulders, and it seared through her entire body. When he shifted slightly in order to touch her hand, she felt as though she were on fire.

  She dreaded another night of denying needs she hadn’t known she possessed.

  The concerto ended and the room erupted in applause. “I believe I’ve done us both a great disservice,” Thomas said, his words drifting softly to her ear. “I want you.”

  They were exactly the words that could incite her, and dear God, she did not even care if anyone heard him. As she clapped her hands in applause for the performance, she tried to temper her thoughts and the urgings of her body, for it was all impossible. She was a respectable woman, certainly not meant to be paramour to any man, but especially not the prince of Sabedoria.

  Maggie’s rose fragrance had not left Tom since he kissed her that afternoon at Delamere House. Her scent reminded him of the sunshine and abundant fresh air at his estate in New York. Tom had no doubt she would enjoy Thorne’s Gate far more than she cared for Julian’s holdings in Cambridgeshire.

  Significantly more than any absurd drive in the park with Kimbridge.

  The Englishman’s attentions should not matter, but Tom could not help being annoyed by the way the man gaped at her. As though she were a pastry he could not wait to taste.

  He forced himself to retreat, releasing his tight grip from his knees. Easing back slightly, he listened as the next piece of music began. It was Maggie’s decision whether or not to accompany Kimbridge, but there was no reason why Tom couldn’t ride through the park at the same time she would be there. He could ride the entire bloody day if he wished.

  He turned slightly and caught Foveaux’s glance, and the commandant made no attempt to disguise his direct stare. Tom managed not to recoil from those piercing eyes, meeting the man’s stare head-on. He allowed himself the slightest hint of a smile, remembering that he was the one with the power now, not Foveaux. Tom had a feeling the man would eventually remember why he and Nate looked familiar, in spite of their assumed names. In their days on Norfolk Island, the old commandant had never forgotten anything.

  It was only a matter of time before he figured out Tom’s true identity.

  He hoped the old commandant wouldn’t do or say anything foolish. Tom’s incredible wealth should protect him from any rash statements Foveaux might make, for who would ever believe a convict could amass the riches Tom possessed? And which of the English foreign ministers would care to admit they’d been duped?

  Even the fiction of Sabedoria was impossible to disprove. There was a tangled maze of islands northwest of Botany Bay. It was entirely possible that no European ships had ever encountered the location that Thomas had given for his island home. He was safe for the time being.

  Foveaux was not, however. Mark Saret had the connections to investigate the state of the general’s finances and from there, they could figure a way to do him a vast amount of damage. It was an opportunity Tom could not let alone, for the bastard deserved nothing less for his treatment of the convicts on Norfolk Island.

  Tom looked away from Foveaux and turned to the far more pleasant occupation of observing Maggie. Her lips were full and pink, her skin as smooth as alabaster except for the light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. He knew how sweet her skin tasted and remembered how those alluring freckles blanketed her shoulders.

  He meant to taste them again.

  She kept her hands properly folded in her lap, her ivory gloves shielding every inch of her skin from her fingertips to a few inches above her elbows. Tom would never have believed the sight of a woman’s bare hands could be erotic, but when he remembered Maggie placing one of hers on his full erection, he reacted with an immediate tightness in his groin. He suppressed a groan at his reaction and turned his thoughts to something—anything—that was less arousing.

  She did not seem to be enjoying the music, and Tom hoped it was Kimbridge’s presence that caused her unease. She’d been rash in agreeing to accompany the man to the park, obviously piqued by her afternoon at Delamere. He received her message quite clearly.

  He did not think she meant anything by it, beyond the frustration they’d both experienced earlier in the day. He’d wanted her badly. But he’d accomplished what he’d needed—getting Shefford to the estate without a direct invitation. Of his own accord, Shefford had traveled to Delamere House, and had posed his astounding wager.

  Tom and Nate hadn’t had to do anything but appear reluctant and slightly naïve. It was all part of the plan.

  As Foveaux was not. But causing the commandant some pain was an opportunity Tom could not ignore.

  He still felt the man’s scrutiny again, and was aware that Foveaux was not the only one observing him. Tom and his men were a puzzle to many, which was exactly the way Thomas wanted to keep it. It was the reason they’d devised foreign-sounding surnames for themselves, and concocted their absurd explanation for the way they’d learned English. They wanted nothing to cue anyone to their true backgrounds.

  The farce had to go on as planned, though To
m found himself putting Maggie’s part in all of it to the back of his mind. He didn’t know exactly how every one of his machinations would unwind, only that he had more than enough threads in play to succeed.

  Or fail, spectacularly.

  If all went as planned, Tom would eventually pull those threads, each one separately, or all together, and destroy the marquess. The horse race was only the final thread, the one that would drag down Shefford and all his friends, for Tom wouldn’t be satisfied until the bastard’s good name and all his friendships were destroyed.

  In the meantime, they had to keep the charade going. Edward Ochoa was scheduled to meet with the British foreign ministry office the following day, ostensibly negotiating trade treaties. Nate was meeting with Lords Liverpool and Tenterden to establish governmental ties, while Saret had instituted negotiations to buy the bank in which Shefford owned shares. Thatcham’s Bank was going to fail at a crucial moment. It did not matter how much money Tom lost in the process. There was always more. Substantially more.

  So far, Tom could not have asked for better results. Even his encounter with Commandant Foveaux had provided some degree of satisfaction. The man had been required to bow and pay homage to Thomas Thorne, one of his former convicts. Nothing could have been more fitting.

  Tom would have Mark Saret do some digging into Foveaux’s finances, just as he’d done with Shefford. Taking away his home and his personal fortune was the only strategy Tom could think of to destroy the old bastard. He was not aware of anything he could do that would result in the man being stripped of his rank or his attachment to the New South Wales Corps.

  But Tom intended to give it his full consideration, right after he made sure Maggie understood that Kimbridge was not even vaguely suitable.

  She moved slightly, and Thomas saw that Kimbridge had shifted, spreading his legs wide to allow his thigh to press against hers. She did not seem to enjoy that slight contact, in spite of her agreement to ride with him on the morrow. She was trapped between them, and Tom was pleased to note that, while she tried to remain perfectly neutral, she tilted slightly in his direction.