Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  He’d known it was there, but had blatantly ignored the prick of his conscience. Now it shrieked at him like a banshee out of a mistral wind.

  She opened her eyes, silently questioning his hesitation, and the screeching intensified as she gazed up at him so expectantly.

  Christ, he couldn’t do this to her.

  She trusted him, respected him, saw only the good and honorable in him... and he... he couldn’t fail her.

  Sweat slid from his brow as he reined in his lust—a near impossible feat, for he was nearly over the edge.

  Still, he hung on, mentally haranguing himself out of his lascivious designs.

  Damn... he’d asked that she meet with him here today for this very purpose... and she had come to him willingly.

  And yet she was an innocent, and she would be the one to pay if he accepted what she would give him.

  Curse him, he wanted to hurl caution to the wind; he hurt so badly.

  And she needed him—he could see the passion in her luminous green eyes.

  He clenched his jaw, resolved.

  She needed the release he knew he could give her. Nay, he needed to give it to her, by damn.

  He intended to give it to her.

  He stroked her body, gently but insistently, and felt her respond with abandon. Her face screwed in the most erotic expression he had ever had the pleasure of spying, her eyes closed, her jaw clenched.

  “I-I love you!” she gasped.

  The unexpected declaration lashed him as soundly as a physical blow. Pleasure so keen it was pain shot through him, and yet he wanted her to say it again, and again... and again.

  Working feverishly to bring the declaration to her lips once more, pleasuring her, he swore to deny himself, and suffer as he watched the rosy flush of sexual rapture blossom upon her cheeks. Her bottom lip caught firmly between her teeth and she concentrated so intently upon the pleasure that she drew the tiniest trace of ruby red blood. Leaning forward, he lapped the salty droplet away, healing her mouth with his kiss.

  He couldn’t help himself; he kissed her eyes, then her nose, her mouth... losing himself.

  Again his conscience shrieked at him.

  She trusted him to keep her safe—safe from his lechery. He would loathe himself did he rob her of her virginity, her virtue. He would despise himself beyond bearing if he hurt her. His finger slipped within her body once more, as though to be certain, but the filmy barrier remained to taunt him.

  He grimaced, shuddering.

  Bloody damn, but he couldn’t do it... Still, he could not leave her wanting either. Struggling with the needs of his own body, he worked to give her the release she required now, taking pains not to damage her maidenhead in the process. He’d brought her past the point of return, and it would be his penance to go without for himself.

  “Oh, my God!” she cried, unaware that she had, and then her body shuddered in release.

  Christian, aching as he was, watched the emotions that played across her face, and felt strangely triumphant in that instant.

  Jessie lay unmoving for the longest while, her eyes closed tightly against the brightness of the day.

  A hand moved out of her skirts—Christian’s, she acknowledged with growing mortification.

  She flushed as strong fingers smoothed down her garments, repairing them. Desperately she tried to understand what had transpired between them, but shame washed over her, warming every inch of her body.

  Something was wrong.

  She sensed it.

  She could scarcely bear to open her eyes and face him now. What must he think of her? Was she defiled? If not precisely defiled, what then was she?

  If she was now disgraced, what could she do? Never would she think to lay the blame upon Christian’s shoulders, for she had silently invited him—nay, pleaded for him—to take whatever he would.

  Dear God, would he depart from her life now that he’d taken the only thing of value she’d had to offer?

  Eliza had said he would.

  She felt sick with dread. Confusion.

  “Jess?”

  Her eyes flew open to meet his. He was looking at her strangely. Was it pity she spied in his gaze? Disgust?

  Her voice failed her.

  She choked on her emotions. Did she really wish to know what he was thinking? His expression was such a peculiar one. Why had he come into her life? she wondered. Before she could stop herself, she asked him, “Why did you come, my lord?”

  For an instant, Christian was taken aback by the innocent question.

  The look in her eyes told him she had no inkling what it seemed she was asking. A rueful smile curved his lips, for he hadn’t, didn’t she know.

  “I mean to say... I know that my father—”

  “I’d as soon not discuss your father,” he snapped. His jaw working, and then he said, softening the angry sting of his words, “If you don’t mind... not now.”

  “O-Of course,” she whispered and closed her eyes.

  Seeing her anguished expression, the way she turned from him, Christian felt his gut twist.

  After a moment, her long lashes fluttered open, and she turned to him. He wanted so much to reach out and wipe the corners of her eyes with his thumb—before the regrets could come. He didn’t think he could bear it if she cried. If possible, her eyes became greener, brighter, in the wash of unshed tears. Their gazes held, and then hers skidded away.

  He swallowed the lump that tried to strangle the words into oblivion. “I came,” he began, hating himself for being so callous with her feelings.

  She waited expectantly, her chin lifting, her eyes alight with hope as she awaited his response.

  Ah, Christ... he had the greatest desire to kiss those eyes closed once more lest she discern the fateful emotions that warred so violently within him, to feel the silky curl of her lashes against his lips, to soothe away her troubles once and for all. She didn’t deserve the grief that lay in store for her... the heartache he was sure to give her.

  Damn her brother for an uncaring ass.

  She needed someone to protect her.

  The question was... could he be that man when he was the greatest thing she had to fear?

  “I’m—” His voice caught at her hauntingly tender expression. She went so still that he suspected she’d ceased to breathe.

  God damn him to hell, the reassuring words would not come, no matter that he desperately wanted to speak them.

  Anything he said right now would be binding. Was he ready to drag her along his life path, when his life was never more uncertain?

  “I’m not sure,” he said finally, shaking his head, gritting his teeth against the lie. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes swam with tears as he said again, softly, “I don’t know, Jessamine.”

  Bloody hell if he didn’t.

  Tossing down the last swig of his brandy, Christian poured himself another, emptying the second decanter for the night. Disgusted with himself, he set the snifter down and lifted the container, staring down into its crystalline depths as though somehow he might find the answers revealed to him amid the acrid-sweet fumes within.

  What the devil was he supposed to have said to her? I came, Jess, my love, because your whoreson brother offered me a tidy little sum to break your goddamn little heart?

  Turning the decanter, he examined the beautiful etchings, a delicate floral scrolling pattern. The extravagant bit of glass had graced Hakewell’s library for as long as he could recall.. his father’s... his father’s before him... damn them all to hell.

  Damning himself as well, he hurled the decanter at the lapping flames across the room, aiming too high; it struck the mantel with a deafening crash, shattering into a profusion of multicolored shards.

  He shouldn’t care—had trained himself not to—but the simple truth was that he was fast losing his heart to the little twit. God’s blood, but he should wed her and end the torture once and for all.

  Wed her.

  The thought wasn’t altoge
ther unappealing.

  Scowling, he resisted the urge to glimpse over his shoulder to be certain there wasn’t some demon angel perched there, whispering noble suggestions into his ear. There was nothing noble about him, and he’d be doing her a disfavor, bringing her into his life... his world... his disgusting secrets...

  Secrets that could destroy him.

  Secrets that could devastate her.

  The firelight cast the room in an eerie light, basking all it touched in deep orange-red hues. Squinting against the shadows, he slouched backward into the elaborately carved damask chair, surveying the room before him. Upon entering, he’d drawn the curtains to let in the muted afternoon light, but the sun had long since set and the night mist cast an opaque veil over the half-moon rising.

  His gaze shifted from the window to the vast shelves of books occupying the far wall. This should have been his study. His, and not Philip’s. Everything might have been different then, if only his brother had not stolen his birthright. Aye, for then he might have wed the late... great... son of a bitch’s daughter all those years ago, without the dissent he was now plagued with.

  Damn.

  Retrieving the snifter from the desktop, he swirled the amber liquid within, envisioning his life as it might have been; the anger that might have been forsaken, the loathing he might not have felt...

  He imagined coming home to sweet Jessie, imagined her waiting, tucked prettily between the sheets—their sheets. He imagined taking her the first time, the second time, every time thereafter. His lust was rekindled just so easily, if indeed it had ever been extinguished; blazing white heat shot through his veins.

  Christ, the ways he would have her...

  What did he care what had passed before? What might have been? She still could be his... if only he might cease brooding long enough to ask for her hand in marriage.

  And she needed him.

  St. John desired her for one reason, and one reason alone... because Christian had been denied her. It hadn’t hurt matters much that she’d turned out to be such a beauty. And even if Christian wasn’t the reason... everyone knew the way St. John dealt with his women, bloody whoreson that he was. Why would a wife be treated differently? Christian felt an incredible violence stir within him, imagining St. John’s hands upon her—anyone’s hands, for that matter.

  If he were to hurt her...

  He couldn’t live with it.

  But what if Jessie’s fool brother denied him?

  Again.

  His eyes, narrowed thoughtfully, for he’d simply have to see to it that Westmoor didn’t refuse him.

  And what will you do if he doesn’t cow? a voice within taunted. Drive him to suicide as you did their father? Clamping his jaw shut, he groaned, as though to deny the nagging presence that was bent on giving him conscience.

  He was what he was.

  And if Jessie didn’t wish to wed him... well, then... so be it. He could leave despising her for it, and all would be as it was.

  Tossing down the last swallow of liquor, he shook his head, shuddering away the effects, and thrust the snifter none too gently across the mahogany desk. It slid, stopping just before plunging over the edge. It hung there, suspended, contrary to the laws of nature, more of it resting off than on. The sight of it wrung a wry smile from his lips.

  Damned if he didn’t feel as though he was going off the edge himself

  “Wake up,” demanded a frantic Hildie. “Wake up!”

  Jessie lifted the covers over her head, shielding herself from her maid’s scrutiny, moaning. “Go away. I feel sick!”

  And it was true, she did, for she’d spent long hours worrying herself that way over her appalling behavior with Christian. She’d practically thrown herself into his arms, after all. She’d ensured her own ruin yesterday, and ruined, she was.

  “Sick?” the maid said, sounding worried. She shook Jessie’s tightly bundled form.

  “Please... please, just go away!”

  Jessie felt like weeping. God’s truth, but she never wanted to show her face again!

  The maid sighed regretfully. “I would, lovey, if only I could, but ye’ve a guest downstairs to be attending. Amos said to fetch ye, will ye nill ye.”

  No, Jessie fretted silently.

  No, no, no—not Christian!

  She couldn’t face him, as yet—didn’t want to—especially with Amos there to scrutinize them together!

  A whirlwind of emotions swept through her all at once. She sat reluctantly, clutching the coverlet to her bosom. Shame descended upon her like a storm, and she worried that Hildie would discern the difference in her. Surely it would be apparent in her eyes. Her face? She felt as though her loss of innocence had somehow physically changed her.

  She felt different.

  “Lord Christian?”

  Hildie shook her head regretfully. “Nay, m’lady. ’Tain’t Lord Christian. Come, now, up and dress yourself.”

  Her brows drew together. “Who, then?”

  Since their father’s death, few had called at Westmoor. Even their closest acquaintances had ceased to visit after hearing the ugly rumors of Westmoor’s death, never mind that they were as yet unfounded.

  Hildie mumbled something under her breath, and though Jessie hadn’t heard a word of the maid’s disclosure, her sorrowful expression made Jessie’s suspicions rear. “Who is it come calling, Hildie?”

  The maid peered at her anxiously. “Lord St. John, m’lady... all the way from Charlestown.”

  Chapter 10

  Christian’s mouth felt parched. His head ached—effects of the liquor, no doubt, though perhaps in part it was also a result of the momentous decision he’d come to last night.

  God’s teeth, but he was glad for Quincy’s aid this morn, he thought, as he observed the wrestling match between man and boot.

  White-haired Quincy had come to him along with Rose Park—a shabby, run-down estate and a dilapidated old man. Fitting pair. Still and all, Christian felt a certain attachment to the decrepit old fool, as he did to Rose Park. Knowing no one else would have hired him in his advanced days, Christian had kept him on. It seemed old age made Quincy an unwanted relic to be discarded as useless, and Christian felt a certain empathy for his plight.

  He winced as the boot was shoved onto his foot, at long last, with more force than was credible for the old man. And then his brows collided as Quincy suddenly gave an offensive snort. He watched incredulously as the old man lifted his thin upper lip, spraying spittle through his teeth. The repulsive sprinkling landed squarely upon Christian’s right boot.

  Christian reconsidered his employment at once. “God’s teeth, man! What the devil do you think you’re doing!”

  “Buffing your shoes, m’lord.”

  Using his faded sleeve, Quincy proceeded to buff the spittle from the tip of Christian’s boot.

  Christian groaned.

  “’Tain’t nothin’ quite the likes o’ good spit, to tidy a man’s leather.”

  Christian grunted in response, too distracted by other matters to protest further. “If you must do so in future,” he added, “do it when I’m not about to witness it.”

  Quincy chortled, and Christian grimaced, pressing his hand to his forehead to still the hammering in his brain. And raking his fingers through his hair, he willed himself to bloody blue blazes—perchance there he would be somewhat less tormented!

  “Ye goin’ to Westmoor this morn, m’lord?”

  Christian eyed the old man with an arched brow. “Aye,” he relented.

  “To see the li’l miss?”

  God’s blood, but the old man was bold. He frowned as Quincy grunted knowingly.

  “That’s quite enough polishing for the one boot,” Christian announced.

  Quincy peered up from his handiwork, nodding with pleasure. “Certainly, m’lord,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, and then left off with the polishing to retrieve the boot that was still lying upon the wooden floor. He rose to his knees, extending it
for Christian’s foot. Christian proffered it, bracing himself for the impact of Quincy’s weight. Grunting, the old man shoved, but the boot proved more stubborn than he, and Quincy thrust again, harder this time. Caught unexpectedly, Christian was propelled backward over the bed. In the blink of an eye, Quincy leapt upon the mattress with him and stood above him, battering the upturned sole of his boot, threatening it physical harm. For a long moment, Christian could only stare, his expression screwing in disbelief. And then he came to his senses. “Enough already. Get off!” Then, more forcefully when Quincy made no move to obey, “Get the devil off my bed! I’ll put the damned thing on myself,” he groused.

  Quincy ignored him still, shoving more forcefully, and the boot rewarded him by popping into place at last. That done, he lifted a sleeve and spat upon it.

  Christian rolled from the bed, coming to his feet at once. “Damn it! ’Tis not my boots in need of acceptance, but my bloody proposal! Stay clear of me with that spittle-sodden sleeve!”

  “But, m’lord!” Quincy objected. And then his eyes bulged. “Proposal, you say, m’lord? Well, now! Ye can’t go with one boot shiny as a copper and the other dustier’n me gran’s attic—specially not today. ’Tain’t right,” he objected. “What would the little miss say?”

  Christian glared at him. And then, shaking his head with mute disgust, he slid into the nearest chair. What would she say, indeed? If Jessie didn’t agree...

  Christ, he loathed the thought of making a fool of himself over some slip of a girl.

  Quincy stared expectantly, and he sighed wearily, proffering his boot. “Do it,” he said sullenly. “But do it quickly.”

  Grinning, Quincy at once dropped to his knees, snorted, and spat, then set about the task of buffing with quiet determination. “You won’t be sorry, m’lord!”

  Damned if he wasn’t already, Christian thought morosely.

  Lord St. John was a balding, self-loving bore, with more hair than wit—though he didn’t have much of that!

  Jessie thought if she heard once more about how influential he was, she was going to rip out his three remaining hairs, one by one.