Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  His initial response, the gut emotion that had caused him to blurt the question in the first place, was that he was weary of being infamous. It wasn’t that he wished to be respectable in the sense of “staid” or “proper” or “boring.” He wished to be respectable as in respected. For his voice to have weight in Parliament, for his presence at soirées and dinner parties to be seen as overtures of friendship, not reconnaissance for his next assignation.

  But being seen as something more than the Lord of Pleasure wasn’t a special ability. It would be an inversion of his world. Nothing short of a magic wand could reset the closed minds of everyone in London.

  “Music,” he said instead. It was just as true, and perhaps slightly more possible. “Since the moment you put the thought into my head, I cannot stop wishing I did play an instrument.”

  “Then you should,” she answered simply. “Can you not hire an instructor?”

  Not without word of his musical endeavor leaking to the scandal columns. His jaw tightened in frustration. Much as he might like, he would never learn to play the harp. The pianoforte perhaps, a violin if he wished, but the instrument of the angels? He would be a laughingstock. The caricaturists would drown in seas of gold. His lip curled at the thought. No. He would honor his parents’ memory, not make a mockery of it.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Play fair. I shan’t pour more wine until you answer the question. If you could wake up with any quality you don’t have today, what would it be?”

  “I would be bolder,” she said without hesitation. “Even without the mask.”

  He sat up in surprise. “Bolder in what way? What do you want that you’re not going after?”

  Her whispered response was almost too soft to hear. “Everything.”

  Chapter 8

  Breathless, Camellia gazed up into Lord X’s fathomless black mask. She could not see his eyes. Even his brow was hidden. There was no way to know what expression he wore. Nothing to go on except the words he spoke. Yet there could be no other answer to his query.

  Bolder. She had longed to be bolder, yearned to be someone else since the moment she realized it was too late to change her personality. Dahlia was forceful, Bryony was fearless, but Camellia watched from the shadows. Looking out for her sisters. Being a good girl. A proper young lady. Minding every one of high society’s interminable rules as if the price for bending them was death. Perhaps the cost of denying her own desires was just as dear.

  She was tired of being perfect. The only way to never break a rule, to avoid disappointing anyone’s expectations, was to never do anything at all. That wasn’t life at all.

  Yet who was at fault? If she was nothing more substantial than a music box, nothing but a dutiful automaton respectable enough to possess an Almack’s voucher and too terrified to use it, then it was because she had let herself be programmed that way.

  She wanted to change. Needed to. Perhaps it wouldn’t be for the better, but it would be more authentic—she would be more herself—if once in a while she did what she wanted, instead of molding to the wishes of everyone around her.

  “Bolder,” she repeated. “I want to be bolder. It’s the one thing about my life I would alter.”

  “I can grant you that wish.” He pushed his goblet away and sprang to his feet. “Be fearless here. Tonight. With me.”

  He held out his hand.

  Simultaneously hopeful and nervous, she placed her fingers in his.

  “Whatever it is that you want, you need only be bold enough to ask.” He pulled her to him.

  Her heart pounded so loudly, she feared he could feel it through his layers of shirt and waistcoat.

  “What do you want?” he asked softly. “Be bold. Let me give it to you.”

  What did she want, here, with him? She closed her eyes and let the night be her guide.

  Now that they were no longer nestled on a woolen blanket, the breeze was cool against her bare upper arms… but not overly so. The warmth from Lord X’s body heated her whether they were lying prone or standing chest-to-chest beneath the moonlight.

  The scent of his breath so close to her lips was as sweet as the wine they had shared. The sounds of the night—if indeed there were any other than the thundering of her heart—were eclipsed by the siren call of the orchestra, whose seductive waltz spilled out through the open doorways and up from the balcony overlooking the garden to kiss their feet, even out here on the roof.

  She opened her eyes. There was only one answer. One thing among the many she’d never done that he alone could give her. Without scandal. Tonight.

  “I want to waltz,” she admitted hesitantly. “But…”

  He shook his head. “With me, you never have to justify yourself or your desires. I will never say no.”

  Her breath caught at his words. “Why?”

  “Because I want to be the reason for the sparkles in your eyes.” His husky voice was intoxicating. “You want to waltz? We waltz.”

  He took her hand and turned toward the stairs.

  She held her ground.

  He looked over his shoulder. Though the expression behind his mask was a mystery, every inch of his posture asked a silent question.

  “Here,” she said. Boldly. “I want to waltz here. Where it’s just you and me and the stars.”

  He stepped forward and took her into his arms without another word.

  At first, she thought he might kiss her. Her heart thumped. She was pressed tight against him, her lips tilted up toward the sensual line of his mouth.

  And then he took her hand in his and swung her in time to the music.

  Her pulse thrilled at his touch. Never had a moment been so magical as dancing across a rooftop in the arms of a dashing stranger. The wind whipped through her hair, tugging tendrils free from her careful chignon, fluttering the ruby silk of her skirt about her legs.

  None of that mattered. All she cared about was the hand holding hers. The warmth of his fingers against the small of her back. The strength in his arms, his body, as he whirled her from one stunning night view of London to another.

  The night was crisp but his embrace heated her to her core. She could no longer feel her feet flying across the roof to their private rhythm, or the whispery material of her gown fluttering against her silk stockings in the breeze.

  All she could feel were her trembling fingers tucked against his warm palm, the strength of his arm tucked about her waist, her lips curving into the widest, most unabashed smile she’d ever experienced.

  This was life!

  Every part of him was danger and romance and adventure. He transported her not just from one soaring section of the roof to another, but to an alternate world. One in which she was exactly the woman she pretended to be. Carefree and wild and bubbling with joy at the consuming, heady sensation of being truly, completely, wonderfully alive.

  Being in his arms stole her breath, yet gave her strength. He did not look through her as so many men had done throughout her life, but rather as though he could not look anywhere else. As if the sight of her in his embrace was so entrancing, so intoxicating, that he too had forgotten everything and everyone until all that remained was the two of them. Their bodies entwined in a waltz that found its music in their very souls.

  Tonight she wouldn’t run away at midnight. She would dance in his arms until dawn.

  Chapter 9

  Michael spent the entirety of the following morning with a sappy smile on his face. His especially boisterous mood was entirely due to the aftereffects of spending a few stolen hours with a mysterious, ruby-clad minx.

  This time, he hadn’t lost her until almost sunup. Nearly twice as much of her company as the last time. His heart felt light. He was ever so grateful the duke had been hosting weekly masquerades rather than fortnightly. Michael never had to go more than seven days without an unforgettable evening with Lady X.

  And yet it still wasn’t enough.

  He stared across the otherwise empty dining table in the cent
er of an equally empty supper room and wished he hadn’t taken his habitual late luncheon alone with his thoughts, but had Lady X here to accompany him. He had no idea if she liked pheasant with French sauces, and would have liked the chance to find out.

  Not that such a scenario would ever occur. For one, a request to exchange names was expressly forbidden, and Michael had no desire to fall from the Duke of Lambley’s good graces.

  For two, the ill-begotten forty-day wager was only a quarter through, and nothing would splash his name back into center stage quite like the scandal columns believing the Earl of Wainwright was playing beau.

  But the third and most important reason was that Michael loved the mystery. Their encounters were fun. He would not wish to spoil it by finding out who she was—being underwhelmed with the truth. He loved the fantasy. Loved not knowing what to expect. Such an opportunity was not something he was often afforded in his real life, and so far the experience was more exciting than he could have hoped.

  What would it be like to see her outside of the masquerades?

  If Lady X were here, she might surprise him by asking to do some utterly mundane activity in a completely new way. Dance on tabletops. Take tea in a tree. Or she might shock him with more absurdities from her Punch and Judy family. Perhaps her brothers were professional boxers. Perhaps her sisters were fencing masters.

  Rather than regale him with tales of her family, Lady X might chastise him for sitting by himself in an empty dining room long after the dishes had been removed, dreaming about things that were not instead of taking action with the things that were.

  He should play an instrument. His jaw lifted with determination. As a familiar face in the caricatures, Michael had very good reasons for not hiring an instructor to teach him the harp, but those reasons were no excuse at all for why he didn’t pick one up and try to figure it out on his own. Why not start now?

  Grinning to himself, he quit the dining room and leapt up the stairs two at a time lest he lose confidence in this new plan.

  The harp room was at the east end of the main corridor. Because of an obsessive need to protect its contents, the chamber was off limits to guests. Just to be safe, so was the entire east wing of this floor. The opposite wing held the guest quarters. Since none of Michael’s guests ever stayed the night, this floor rarely got used at all. It was nothing more than wasted space.

  That would change, he decided. He would learn to play, and to do so, he would visit every day if necessary. The harp room would be full of music once more. Steeling himself against the memories, he opened the door and strode inside.

  For the first time in many years, its familiar cherubic paintings and rows of collected harps did not fill him with the bittersweet nostalgia he’d battled since his youth.

  Perhaps his annual purchase of a new harp for the collection was not him succumbing to the pain of the past, but rather a tribute to what his parents’ memories might bring to the future. His heart lightened.

  According to family lore, the spacious, sunny music room had once been a heavily trafficked sitting room for one of Michael’s great-grandmothers, whose worsening gout no longer allowed her to attend functions. She had combined two smaller rooms into one large chamber in order to let in more sunlight—and more people.

  Her daughter was the one who had commissioned the cherubs. She and Michael’s grandfather had just returned from a trip to Rome, where the wondrousness of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel had made a lasting impression. That influence was even how Michael’s mother had decided upon his name.

  She was the first to bring music into the airy, painted room. Michael had little doubt that his mother’s choice of harp as instrument was inspired by her surroundings. The beloved specimens she had once played were old and worn, though the servants were under strict orders to treat each specimen as if it were brand new.

  The other harps varied in size and quality. One was a small ivory harp Michael had won over a Faro table at the Cloven Hoof. Others he’d picked up at various music shops during his Grand Tour or later holidays. His journeys to far flung havens of music had become something of an annual pilgrimage. The visit to the music box factory in Switzerland had been a serendipitous perquisite to just such a trip.

  His favorite of all the items in his collection was not even a playable instrument. It was a slender, thumb-size harp made of solid gold. His father had commissioned it as a necklace bauble for his wife on the tenth anniversary of their marriage—two short years before their lives were over.

  Michael’s mother had adored that tiny harp above all things, and had declared her husband had given her a gift of music she could keep with her at all times. His heart warmed. That was a woman who would appreciate her son plucking at strings to carry on the tradition.

  Smiling, he crossed over to the mirrored glass dome where he kept the golden harp. He froze.

  It wasn’t there.

  He stared blindly, his chest tight with fear. He launched himself about the clean, tidy room, peering behind curtains and flinging chair cushions and all but tearing his hair from his head.

  It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere.

  His mother’s favorite harp had been stolen.

  He tried to control his breathing. Who would do such a thing? Every muscle shook with anger.

  Immediately, his mind flashed back to the soirée that polite manners had not allowed him to cancel. What a disaster. After the guests had gone, his butler had informed him of a tussle that had taken place in one of the card rooms on the ground floor.

  Apparently, one of the guests had implied to another guest that Michael had sampled his wife’s wares, and the man flew into a jealous rage before the footmen could break up the fight.

  Michael could not imagine any man in such a condition evading dozens of footmen to sneak up an unused staircase to steal a bauble from an old necklace… but who else could have done so?

  His shoulders slumped. Anyone, he realized. Anyone at all.

  It wasn’t that the public held any specific dislike for him. If anything, the scandal columns only increased his popularity. But with every new caricature, the rumors grew ever greater. Being invited to his residence was an achievement. Being welcomed into private quarters, an honor.

  For some, sneaking in without Lord Wainwright or his staff being the wiser would be the ultimate victory. Certainly deserving of a trophy.

  After all, the harp room was supposed to be one of the infamous rake’s many dens of iniquity. If someone wished to prove they’d dared cross its threshold, what better proof than a tiny gold harp that fit so easily in the palm of one’s hand?

  A tiny gold harp that meant more to Michael than any other possession in his entire earldom.

  And now it was gone.

  Sadness flooded his veins but could not dispel the rage.

  Limbs jerking, he stalked from the music room in the foulest mood he’d experienced in years. It was too late. The harp was gone. Anger was useless. Michael would have to get past it. Or at the very least, distract himself before he threw a punch at a wall.

  Heart thudding, he hurried down the stairs, putting as much distance between himself and the music room as possible. He couldn’t bear to be within its celestial walls at the moment. Couldn’t withstand the accusing stares of painted cherubs.

  His throat was thick with grief. He needed to get out of these walls, go somewhere to clear his head. But where? Somewhere with lots of people and plenty of distractions.

  Not the Cloven Hoof. Drinking would keep him focused on his frustration rather than let him forget it. Besides, he had the cursed wager to consider. He wasn’t going to compound the loss of an irreplaceable memento with the loss of his friends’ respect.

  Which left what? A respectable gathering, he supposed. He curled his lip in self-deprecation. Did he get invited to respectable gatherings?

  There must be something. He crossed to the mantel and flipped impatiently through the tray of cards and invitations on top. The ma
jority were from the type of individual who most certainly would get Michael’s name back onto the scandal columns, but… What was this? He scanned the next invitation with interest.

  The Grenville soirée was tonight.

  Although he had heard the siblings’ talent was impressive, he had never been to one of their musicales. Michael had always felt on display in such environments, even if he wasn’t anywhere near the stage. For much the same reason, he rarely attended the theater. Far too many opera glasses pointed in his direction.

  A single soirée, on the other hand, was casual and fluid. He was not required to arrive at a certain time, sit in an assigned seat amongst starry-eyed debutantes, or stay until the hosts declared it suitable to leave. A casual soirée meant he could mingle if and how he chose, and leave whenever he pleased. The perfect distraction.

  His tense shoulders loosened in relief. Quickly, he slid a few similar invitations into his waistcoat pocket. That was what he would do. Repay the calls of those who had attended his rout. The staid, proper sector, anyway. It might be more tedious than his usual fare, but then again… it might not.

  Although more than respectable by society’s standards, the Grenvilles were unquestionably odd ducks, and to date far more entertaining than Michael would ever have imagined.

  Perhaps they were just what he needed to diffuse the fury boiling in his veins at having been robbed by someone he’d trusted in his house. Someone who would never be invited back—if only Michael knew who it was.

  His simmering anger and grief had not diminished by the time his coach arrived at the Grenville estate, but he managed to tuck it below the surface and affect a mien a few degrees less surly than he felt inside.

  Before the butler could show him from the anteroom to the main parlor, additional guests arrived at the door. While they handed off their hats and coats, Michael wandered over to a quartet of portraits evenly spaced upon the wall.

  The visages represented all four of the younger Grenvilles, if he wasn’t mistaken. A handsome lot. The painted profiles appeared a few years old, but the faces were easily recognizable. Though he wished the frames held nameplates. He had always been horrid with names.