About a Rogue EPB

by Linden, Caroline

“You look like a goddess tonight.” His voice was a drug, more potent than wine. His words made her muscles tighten and a pulse of desire almost made her fall over. “Dark and beautiful . . . bold and wanting . . . mistress of the night in black satin and pearls.”

  “So—so you aren’t as struck by me every other day?” she managed to gasp.

  He laughed, deep and knowing. “I want you when you wear that old blue dress with scorch marks on the skirt, with alum on your sleeve and ink on your fingers. When you’ve got that little crease between your brows that you get when you’re working on a troublesome glaze. I would want you in a nun’s habit or a milkmaid’s apron. It’s you, not the dress.”

  “Good.” Her voice had gone raspy. “It’s Lady Carswell’s dress, I have to give it back . . .”

  “Then I should make the most of this chance.” He rose up on his knees, his hand still moving beneath her skirts, tormenting her, and touched his lips to the swell of her breast. Bianca let her head fall back, unabashedly letting him kiss her there. The bench was a low one, and his mouth was right at the level of her breasts, and his kiss was so enthrallingly soft . . .

  “Breathe,” he whispered, and she realized she’d stopped. With a gasp she filled her lungs, and he hooked one finger inside the bodice and tugged, exposing her nipple. He made a low, primal noise of pleasure in his throat, and sucked it between his teeth, his palm spread on her back to hold her in place.

  She whimpered. He pushed a long finger inside her. Her whole body clenched around it, and this time he was the one who moaned. He withdrew it, then pushed back inside, sliding his thumb back into position and stroking harder.

  The sudden sounds of laughter almost made her faint in fright. “Max,” she wheezed, groping for his arm. “Stop!”

  His dark eyes gleamed at her. With his free hand he pulled the hood of his domino over his head and ducked down, his face in her lap. Bianca’s panicked gaze jumped over his figure, and she realized his cloak blended into the black of her gown to render him invisible, at least in the weak moonlight.

  But he didn’t withdraw his hand. On the contrary, she felt his lips on her inner thigh.

  Bianca sat bolt upright, holding the edge of the bench in a death grip.

  A couple came down the walk, arm in arm and laughing. From their staggering steps, Bianca guessed they were quite drunk. The man saw her, muttered a good-natured curse, and raised one hand. The woman ducked her head into his shoulder, giggling, and they stumbled away, veering into the trees.

  Max’s mouth was at the crease at the top of her thigh. His tongue swirled over her skin.

  “They’ve gone,” she panted even as her knees closed around him.

  He pulled her closer, until she was almost falling off the bench, and she felt the heat of his breath on her throbbing center. And then it was his mouth, his tongue, flicking hard and wet over her.

  All thought of being silent and discreet fled her mind. She raised her hips, astonished at herself, at Max, at the brazen, reckless way they were both behaving. He might be used to it, but she was not, and yet it was her own voice, whispering frantic encouragement as he drove his fingers inside her and his mouth suckled, deep and hard pulls that made her shake.

  He flung back his cloak and raised his head. His mouth gleamed in the moonlight. “Come for me,” he said gutturally, gripping the small of her back while his fingers thrust deep inside her and his thumb teased her beyond all bearing.

  She bit her lips to keep from screaming. Tears sprang into her eyes. With both hands she squeezed his wrist until her fingers went numb, and then she came.

  She knew what it was; Marslip wasn’t devoid of naughty books, and she had plenty of married cousins. In smug whispers and blushing detail, they had told her and Cathy what to expect in the marriage bed. None of them had adequately described this ecstasy, though, this otherworldly lightness and moment of joy so sharp and wild, she thought she might cry or burst into hysterical laughter.

  When her shudders subsided, she sagged against him, trying to catch her breath. Max pressed his lips to her forehead, smoothing down her petticoats and skirt. He held her easily, until she had recovered enough to sit upright again.

  “That was the most glorious sight I have ever seen in Vauxhall, or anywhere else,” he said in that low, intimate growl that always sent shivers through her.

  Bianca blushed. She might be blushing all over, given that she felt like she was glowing. “Thank you,” she said shyly.

  In reply he drew her close, his arms around her. She snuggled against him for a moment, until she realized he was trembling. “Max,” she whispered.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “You didn’t . . .” She blushed harder. “You didn’t come, did you?”

  His laugh was wheezy. “You can tell, can you?”

  She sat up, nervous but determined. “Is it as wonderful for a man?”

  He just smiled, tight and fierce. Of course it was.

  “I want to please you,” she said. “It’s only fair.”

  He jerked backward, almost falling over. “No. Not here. I’ll make love to you in a bed, properly, not up against a tree—” He stopped, his face frozen.

  So he’d done it up against a tree, probably here in Vauxhall, perhaps with one of those women they’d met earlier. Bianca pushed aside the spike of jealousy; that was all in the past. She focused on the pertinent issue, namely that he had pleasured her and she wanted to do the same for him. Fair was fair, of course, but she also felt a driving desire to see how he felt under her hands. She wanted to touch him. “There must be some way . . .”

  He swallowed. His eyes closed. “Well—yes . . . there is . . .” Slowly he unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled it apart. He opened his eyes and looked right at her as he sat back on his heels and reached for the fall of his breeches.

  She moved to the edge of the bench. “Should I—?”

  “No,” he growled. “You . . . watch. If you touch me, I’ll perish on the spot.” He peeled aside the front of his breeches, staring at her as if in a trance, and untied his drawers.

  Bianca leaned forward to see better as he took himself in hand. Lady Dalway had taken her to an art gallery, where she and Lady Carswell had openly admired the naked figures in the paintings and sculpture. Bianca had studied them more analytically, having never seen a man completely unclothed before. And Max . . .

  . . . was not what she had seen in the gallery. His erection was longer, broader, rising rigidly from his groin. He sank back, knees spread wide, and wrapped his fist around himself, boldly displaying himself to her. Slowly he slid his fist down, then released and pushed into his hand from the top.

  “My fingers are still wet from you,” he said in a low voice. “From your pleasure.” Another stroke of his fist.

  “Is that why . . . I was wet?” She ought to be fainting of embarrassment to be discussing this, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his hand as he raised it for another stroke.

  “Yes.” His voice broke, and his knuckles whitened. “To make it easier when our bodies become one. To make it exquisitely satisfying for both of us.”

  She imagined his straining erection sliding into her instead of between his fingers. She felt hot and flustered all over again. “It’s much larger than your fingers . . .”

  “And how much pleasure did they bring you?” He let out his breath in a hiss at the end of the next stroke.

  More than she’d imagined. She watched his strokes grow rough, his grip tighter. “Max,” she whispered urgently, “I want to touch you. Please.”

  He inhaled sharply, and bowed his head. His fingers went still, squeezing his shaft, and liquid spurted over his hand. He threw back his head, his face taut, and let out his breath in another long shuddering sigh.

  “Next time,” he said in a ragged voice, to the sky. “Next time you shall touch me as much as you desire.”

  Next time. Of course there would be a next time. And it wouldn’t be on a bench in the public garden, no
matter how alone they were or how dark it was. Bianca was done fighting. She only nodded in agreement, and offered him her handkerchief.

  He buttoned himself back up and helped her straighten her skirts. With touching devotion, he smoothed down her hair where she couldn’t see it, and assured her the headdress was on properly. Then he offered her his arm and escorted her back to the illuminated grove, as courtly and proper as ever, as if nothing exceptional had happened.

  But it had. It had shaken her world.

  Tonight she had seen him, heard him, felt him. In London they had both come out from behind their fortifications—dropped their masks, quite literally—and it gave her a great burst of hope for the future. They could have a good marriage, cordial, cooperative . . . pleasurable. Deeply pleasurable. It wasn’t love, but it was far better than the cool standoff they’d had to date.

  And for the first time, the thought sent a rush of happiness through her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The night at Vauxhall, unfortunately, turned out to be the pinnacle of their London visit.

  Max had lain awake the rest of the night, letting each exquisite moment play again and again in his mind. He’d known that day in the sacristy that Bianca, unlike her sister, had the potential to bewitch and enthrall him, and now she’d done it. If God had seen fit to smite him in his sleep that night, Max thought he would have died a happy man, with his last vision that of Bianca on the bench, her head thrown back in abandon, her skirts around her waist, her pale shapely legs spread wide for him.

  That, he thought, was enough for one night. Gambling had taught him never to stretch his run of luck to the breaking point. Better to retire early and secure his winnings than to keep playing, become reckless and risk what he’d won. So he took his wife home, kissed her tenderly, and bade her good night. The lingering, curious look she gave him tempted him to finish what they’d started, and take her to his bed, but he reined it in. He was going to do this the right way, so that when she finally came to him, she would be utterly, completely his.

  If he’d known what was to happen in the next few days, he might not have been so sanguine about that delay.

  A letter was waiting for him when he returned home two days later. Lawrence pursued him up the stairs and closed the bedchamber door before handing it over.

  Until that moment, Max had been in uncommonly good spirits. He had several more potential orders, thanks in part to Serafina’s raving praise of the scarlet dishes, and thanks in part to his diligent schedule of calls. He’d visited every last friend and acquaintance he had in London—everyone who could afford a service from Perusia, anyway. On each call he brought a velvet-lined box with a select few pieces, and left a printed, hand-colored trade card in his wake. An old mate of his was a struggling artist and had been happy to take on the lowly commission, which resulted in Max possessing trade cards far above the usual in artistic quality.

  If there was one thing Max had learned in his lean and impoverished years, it was that people with money wanted everyone to know they had money. Rare was the miser who squirreled away his wealth and lived modestly; far more likely were people who lived a life they thought reflected their status.

  As he had expected, people wanted Perusia scarlet dinnerware.

  So he arrived home freshly buoyed by a request from the Duke of Wimbourne to wait upon him with samples the following day, eager to tell Bianca about it at dinner. They were returning to Marslip soon, and an order from Wimbourne would be the crowning achievement.

  And then Lawrence ruined it all. “Here, sir,” said the man, holding out the thin letter.

  In the blink of an eye, Max’s mood plummeted. He stared at it for a long moment. “When did it arrive?”

  “This morning, not long after you left.”

  Max nodded. He’d put Lawrence on guard for this very reason, but he had hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t be necessary. “Did Mrs. St. James see it?”

  “No, sir. I intercepted it while she was still in her closet, writing letters.”

  He inhaled and exhaled slowly, grateful for that much. Finally he took the letter. “Who delivered it?”

  Lawrence shook his head. “Didn’t see. Martha might know, but I didn’t know if you wanted me to question her, draw any attention to it.”

  Damn it. He didn’t know, either. “Quite right,” he told the valet. “Thank you.”

  Lawrence grinned in surprise. “Welcome you are, sir. Lord Percival never said thank you to me.”

  Max managed a half-hearted smile. “I hope to inveigle you into staying with me, even when he recovers from his disgrace.”

  The man winked, and then bowed. “Doing well so far, Mr. St. James.” He left, closing the door behind him.

  Max’s smile faded before the latch had caught. The letter in his hand almost seemed to buzz with ominous intent, as if it might be written in poisonous ink that would infect him just by touching it. There was no other possibility, not coming this close on the heels of the previous letter, not while he was in London, uncomfortably close to the viper’s nest.

  Gingerly he broke the seal and unfolded it.

  It was as usual. The viper wanted money, and he tried to extract it with stinging lashes of guilt, shame, and fear. There was no implicit threat, but it was there all the same. Max would have simply burned it, as he’d done the last, but for the last paragraph.

  Best regards to your bride. Such a lovely lady, in her royal garb at Vauxhall. Does she know you, Maxim? You look enamored of her, my boy. No doubt she would be very astonished to hear your secrets . . . I know you haven’t told her all about yourself . . .

  Curse you, Max thought in violent fury. His fingers gripped the page so hard they cramped. He longed to tear the letter into shreds, to soak them in oil and set them on fire, and hope that the blaze consumed the soul of the man who wrote it.

  He breathed deeply, forcing his mind to cool. It bore no postmark; the letter had been hand delivered, which meant it had come from London. Did that mean the author had returned to town, or had he sent it to one of his spies in London? He had always had a coven of shady characters willing to abet him.

  And one of them had seen Bianca with him in Vauxhall.

  With a sudden oath he strode across the room and flung open the door. He called for Lawrence as he rushed down the stairs, taking his hat and cloak at the door from Martha, who came running at his shout.

  Lawrence all but fell down the stairs in his haste. “Yes, sir?”

  “I must go out,” said Max, mindful of Martha at the rear of the hall. “Urgently.” He jerked his head as he flung his cloak around his shoulders.

  Obediently Lawrence followed. This time, as he stepped outside, Max scanned the street swiftly. Everything looked as it should be, but it had been a long time since he’d laid eyes on his nemesis.

  “When is Mrs. St. James expected home?” he asked the valet.

  “I’m not sure, sir. Well before dinner.”

  Max looked at him.

  “Around four o’clock, I would suppose,” said the servant hastily. “That’s when she usually returns.”

  Max nodded once. “She’s gone to the shop in Cheapside? Or did she have plans with Lady Dalway?”

  “The shop, sir.”

  Damn. He wouldn’t have worried as much if she were sitting in some elegant drawing room or millinery shop with Serafina and other ladies. Max nodded again. “I want you to go there and escort her home. Not until she’s ready, but make certain she arrives home safely.”

  “Won’t Mr. Cooke be there, sir?”

  Max didn’t trust his wife’s safety to any letting agent. Cooke wanted to lease her a shop, nothing more. “I don’t give a bloody damn if Cooke is there. Go, and see that she returns home without trouble.”

  He had hired Lawrence because the man was available, let go by Percy Willoughby without much warning. The man had a sharp eye for fashion, didn’t shirk his duties, and knew when to keep his mouth closed, all of which we
re essential in a manservant. But Lawrence had three other attributes Max prized: he was intelligent, he was observant, and he had a fondness for boxing. Max had seen him lay out men bigger and broader than himself with one punch.

  Max had learned the hard way how beneficial it could be to have a strong, loyal fellow at his back.

  “I have some urgent business to attend to,” he went on. “If I can, I’ll go to Cheapside myself and bring madam home. But if not, I want you there.”

  Lawrence nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll go now.”

  Max dug a few shillings out of his purse. “Find a hackney.”

  “Sir . . . What shall I tell her? She’ll be astonished to see me.”

  Max hesitated. He didn’t want to alarm Bianca, not until he could explain things to her himself. “Blame it on my eagerness to see her,” he said reluctantly. He didn’t like to lie to his wife. “Explain that she may finish her business there, but I desire her to come home as soon as she may.”

  Lawrence nodded and darted back into the house for his cap and coat. Max strode off, south, toward the river, too tightly wound to ride or take a carriage.

  He found his man in Whitehall, near the Privy Gardens. William Leake was lounging against a lamppost, looking dissolute and drunk. At the sight of Max, he unfolded himself from his slump and ambled off toward the nearest tavern, where they met at a back table.

  “Any word?” asked Max without preamble.

  Leake shook his head. “Not yet. ’Tis a sensitive question, you understand.”

  Max sighed. He knew that, all too well. “I want you to find someone else now.”

  “All right,” said Leake without hesitation. “Another lady? Or are we done looking for her?”

  Max hated to take Leake off that task. The man had made little progress, even though it had been a few months. Max had engaged him with the windfall from the Duchess of Carlyle, and had hoped Leake would succeed by now. “No, not done. I’m never done until I find her. But now I need to know the whereabouts of a man.”

  “Gentleman?” Leake rested his elbows on the table, his gaze moving restlessly about the tavern.