Not Quite A Rogue (Ladies Who Dare Book 1)

by Tanya Wilde

  “I do not know what . . .”

  Then she saw it—the truth—flash in his eyes. He had seen straight through her disguise as well. “If you . . . You knew even back on St. James Street, didn’t you?”

  He nodded.

  That meant . . .

  That meant that the Earl of Avondale had kissed her, Ophelia. Not Sir Othello Roseton.

  The revelation flipped her world upside down.

  “You kissed me!” she accused in a hissed whisper. “Why did you do that?”

  He shrugged. “I could not resist.”

  “To kiss me or make sport of me?”

  “Honestly?” Avondale asked, leaning back in his chair. “A bit of both.”

  Ophelia did not know how to respond to that. Or feel, for that matter. She surged to her feet, intending to get away from Avondale and return home before he ruined her, if that was his plan.

  Avondale rose as well, snatching her by the wrist. “Please, do not leave. I mean you no harm. Finish your ale.”

  “What is your intention here?” Ophelia asked, slowly sinking back into her chair. She did not fully trust Avondale.

  “To drink our ale, nothing more.”

  Ophelia studied the earl for a full minute, uncertain what to do. The last thing she wanted was to cause a scene. Not to say anything about the fact that she had made a complete fool of herself, acting like a man when he knew full well she was a woman.

  How humiliating. How shameless.

  “Please.”

  Ophelia sighed and helped herself to a doubly large swig. Then another.

  “Thank you,” Avondale said.

  “What gave me away?” Ophelia asked. “As far as I can tell, no one else suspected me to be a woman.”

  “Except for Rochester and Nash.”

  “They do not count.”

  He seemed to consider her, then said, “I found it near impossible to drag my eyes from your shapely curves—all woman. And no man should have such soft, creamy skin.”

  “You noticed my curves?” Dear Lord, what was she to make of that? A blush stole over her cheeks.

  “Don’t forget your skin, and if I think back, your walk had been much too sensual. That had been the first sign to look a bit closer at your appearance.”

  Her mind strayed back to the kiss they had shared on St. James. She’d been so shocked to discover that Avondale preferred men, mostly because she liked him. She had liked the kiss. Her lips tingled at the memory.

  “When you appeared at White’s, clearly following me, I thought you . . .” she motioned with her hands, uncertain how to express her thoughts.

  “That Sir Othello Roseton interested me?” He suddenly grinned. “Did that thought trouble you?”

  “Of course it did. Not.”

  His lips stretched and stretched as he waggled his brows. “You find me impossibly handsome, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Ophelia hissed, and then jerked back in her chair as his question sank in. “I mean no! But I do find you impossible.”

  He laughed. “So it’s between a yes and a no, then. A solid maybe.”

  Ophelia snorted. The man truly was impossible.

  “What do you hope to achieve, Avondale?”

  “Achieve?” he asked, an amused smile tugging his lips. “I’m merely drinking ale with a friend.”

  There was that word again. The one he had used at Ascot. “Do friends kiss each other?” she challenged.

  “They tease each other.”

  “Not with kissing,” she groused. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

  He shrugged. “Do I regret catching you mid-mischief? I do not. I am incredibly curious about what you are up to.”

  “Ah. I heard you were the mischievous sort too.”

  “You did?” His brows furrowed. “Ah yes, the Radley Ball. You were gossiping about me.”

  Ophelia blushed. “I cannot recall.”

  His lips quirked.

  A moment passed as they stared at one another. Ophelia’s mind spun. “You said you were not pursuing me. Twice now, you’ve mentioned friends. Tell me what you aim to achieve with friendship?”

  “Must I aim to achieve anything?”

  “You are an earl, so yes.”

  “The simplest of questions are often the hardest to answer.” He rubbed his hand along his neck.

  “Do try.”

  “I suppose before my father’s death, you could say my aim was simply to enjoy my life and commit to harmless fun now and then. These days it’s mostly to do with my inherited responsibility. You, Sir Othello, are quite diverting in that respect, keeping me from my duties.”

  “I am distracting you?” Ophelia wanted to laugh. He was the most distracting man in the world.

  “This is the second time I have accidentally run into you. Both times you were up to mischief.”

  “Racing horses is not mischief.”

  “Except if you are doing it under your father’s name.”

  Ophelia chuckled. “Very well, what about the Radley Ball? Was that not a coincidence as well?”

  “No.”

  Ophelia’s eyes widened at his admission. “You purposefully sought me out?”

  “Not exactly.” He shrugged. “I heard your laughter while you were dancing with Rochester. Before I knew what I was about, I was at the refreshment table overhearing your conversation.”

  “That is quite the confession.” Her heart pounded from its impact. She took a swallow of beer to cool her skin.

  “Has no one ever told you that your laughter is captivating?”

  Heat crawled into her cheeks, answering for her.

  His brows shot together. “That is a shame. You are deserving of that compliment daily.”

  Ophelia had to change the subject. Lud, any more compliments from Avondale, and she might drown in those crystals of sincerity gazing back at her. She cleared her throat.

  “No more mischief for you, then?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that.” His eyes crinkled at the sides. “I’m sitting in a tavern with none other than the Lady Ophelia who’s dressed as a lad. If that does not count for mischief, then I don’t know what does.”

  “Shhh!” She glanced over her shoulder. “Someone might overhear you!”

  “Settle down. No one heard.”

  Ophelia huffed.

  “Is it true you refused nineteen offers of marriage?”

  “Utter hogwash,” Ophelia remarked, the corner of her lips lifting. She leaned forward. “I’ve declined twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one?”

  She nodded. “But do not let that number enter the gossip stream, I beg you.”

  “It shan’t ever leave my lips.”

  Ophelia nodded, bemused. She still did not know quite what to make of Avondale. He was not in pursuit of her. They could not even be called friends. And yet she was at ease in his company. Not to dwell on his disclosure about her laughter that had sent such a powerful spark through her pulse that Ophelia still reeled.

  “What about you, Roseton?” Avondale asked, lowering his voice. “Prancing around London dressed as a man. What do you aim to achieve?”

  Ophelia suddenly understood what he had meant by the simplest question being the hardest to answer.

  She shrugged. “I am more than my dowry. But on the marriage mart, in society altogether, I—my person—is never truly taken into consideration. I can’t ever seem to get out of its shadow.” She took a sip of ale. “I wish to be more than my dowry.”

  “That’s not too much to ask,” Avondale said.

  “It’s more than you can fathom.” She tugged at the collar of her coat. “Men have it so much easier.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  Ophelia nodded. “The responsibility must weight heavy on your entitled shoulders.” Her eyes dropped to the length of those shoulders. They were deliciously broad. Eye-catching, really.

  “You shouldn’t be looking at me like that, not when y
ou are dressed as a man.”

  Ophelia flushed. “Says the man who dragged me into an alleyway.”

  ***

  Harry had done that.

  He had dragged her into an alley and kissed her. And he’d do it again. And again. And again.

  At first, the kiss had been for a bit of sport, to tease her, but staring into her green eyes, being mesmerized by their quality, Harry was quite sure the joke was on him.

  She was right about one thing: she was more than her dowry. So much more. It surely hadn’t been her dowry that had led him to her in the first place but rather her laughter. A fact that would not matter if she learned the truth about his list.

  Instead of responding to her comment, he countered with one of his own. “Why did you sneak into White’s?”

  Of course, he knew she had snuck into the club to swipe the betting book. But Harry wanted Lady Ophelia to confess to him on her own. He wanted her to trust him enough to tell him the truth, even though he did not bloody deserve an ounce of that trust. An irrational desire.

  “Curiosity.”

  Harry stared at her. “Is that all?”

  “Of course.”

  “You risked your reputation simply to satisfy your curiosity over an infamous club?”

  “Why else would I?”

  “Why else, indeed,” Harry remarked, his gaze drawing to the barmaid who appeared at their table.

  “Can I get ye gentlemen anything else? Perhaps some meat pies?”

  Harry arched a brow at Ophelia, who shook her head, and the maid bounced off again.

  “Why didn’t you out me in White’s?” Lady Ophelia asked. “Or do you still plan on doing so at a later time?”

  “I’m not in the habit of ruining young ladies for a spot of fun.”

  She released a sigh of relief. “Had you been a fortune hunter, you’d have made a pretty coin. I’d have been ruined and desperate for a match.”

  Harry barely stifled his wince. He was a fortune hunter. Of sorts. Just not one she was in danger from. Nevertheless, he said, “Which ought to have made you think twice before committing to this stunt. Lucky for you, I will not ruin a woman to trap her into marriage.”

  “I was rather comfortable with my disguise,” she admitted, pursing her lips. “It seems I find myself in your debt.”

  The irony of her words would shock her, Harry was sure. As would his thoughts at that moment. His attention dropped to her lips. He would have enjoyed nothing more than to draw her close and kiss her senseless again. But this time, he’d remove the wig to explore the luscious locks beneath.

  She kissed him back.

  The full magnitude of that only occurred to him now. She might not have known he knew who she was, but she had bloody well known exactly who he was. And she had returned his kiss.

  His smile widened like a cat’s. “Save a dance for me.”

  “A dance?”

  Harry nodded. “One waltz. I know you are ferociously busy fending off all sorts of nefarious characters.”

  She laughed. “I might almost be persuaded to fill my entire card with your name.”

  Harry winked at her. “Do not say such things, Othello, for I might become a man with ideas.”

  She groaned. “Please, no. I have my hands full as it is.”

  Harry just bet she did—what with the betting book somewhere on her person.

  She suddenly smiled. “I must admit, I am starting to enjoy myself.”

  “Were you not earlier?”

  “When we arrived,” she confessed, “my nerves almost got the better of me.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She nodded. “Then I thought that since Rochester and Nash sent me off with you, they must believe you harmless.”

  “I ought to be offended at that,” Harry grumbled. In some ways, they were right. In other ways, however, so utterly wrong. “The three of you are close?”

  “The best of friends,” she confirmed.

  “How did you become such fast friends, if I may ask?” When her brows creased, he added, “It is not every day a man and a woman become exemplary friends without an understanding.”

  “Rochester’s family has neighbored mine since before I was born. Naturally, we became good friends.” She took a sip of ale. “I only met Nash later.”

  Harry felt a deep satisfaction that she had not corrected his statement. So, there was no understanding between her and Rochester, then. The rumors were merely that—rumors. Could it be that Rochester was acting as a matchmaker?

  “Your friends did not seem overly concerned about your welfare or that you are dressed up as a man.”

  “Oh, they will be hounding me for every little detail later and will supply me with an earful of their opinion, I am certain. As for their prank in sending me with you to a tavern, Rochester will know my wrath. Nevertheless, he must think highly of you.”

  Only because Rochester did not know about Harry’s penniless state. Had he known, he’d never have pushed them together—Harry was sure. At present, the man must think of him as a respectable match for Lady Ophelia. And Harry found he never wanted to disappoint the woman before him.

  She was brave, fascinating, and spirited. He already knew that if he had to choose any woman—rich or not—he’d choose her. But that did not alter the reality of his situation. His father’s art had to be found. The title weighed on him like a ton of bricks. And Harry was still in mourning.

  Worst of all, that bloody list.

  She might have returned his kiss in the alleyway, but that would change if she learned the truth. If Harry remained penniless, and if Lady Ophelia learned of his financial state, she would not choose him back. She would always wonder whether their encounters had been a ploy.

  Harry took a slow slip of ale. It seemed disappointment was inevitable.

  Chapter 11

  Ophelia slammed the door of her chamber shut and sagged against it. Dear heavens! Today Avondale had kissed her. Flirted with her. Teased her. All the while knowing she was Lady Ophelia Thornton. Her heart still pounded from the knowledge.

  She let out a shaky breath. He hadn’t become a belligerent male and dragged her back to her father upon finding her on St. James Street. He hadn’t even blinked an eye at her behavior. What sort of gentleman didn’t blink an eye when a lady behaved recklessly?

  Ophelia narrowed her eyes.

  The kind that wanted something.

  What exactly did Avondale want? Past experience indicated that men only wanted two things from a woman they pursued.

  Their body.

  Their fortune.

  Whether by means of marriage or seduction, those two desires never changed. Yet Avondale had claimed he was not pursuing her. Today, again, he had mentioned the word friends. And they had met by happenstance both times. So really, there was no need to question his motives. What needed to be examined was her sanity. She had kissed Avondale back. She had accompanied him to a tavern. She had enjoyed every minute of today.

  Ophelia yanked the wig from her head and dropped it to the floor. She tugged at her cravat. Her thoughts returned to the Radley Ball. That night she had been the focus of Avondale’s attentions. She had drawn him to her with her laughter. Gah! At the mere thought of his confession, heat spread through her belly.

  He had watched her that night. Approached the refreshment table where she and Rochester had been in conversation. He had wiped cream from her lips. Lord, if those were the actions of Avondale not in pursuit, Ophelia shivered to think how devastating the impact would be if he was indeed intent on courtship.

  And the kiss.

  Her toes still curled at the memory, even though the kiss had been making sport of her.

  Gah, the man was confusing!

  Ophelia started to shrug out of her jacket. Her mother would succumb to the vapors if she happened upon her dressed as a man. She didn’t even want to consider her parents’ reaction should they learn Ophelia had stolen White’s betting book.

  The bo
ok.

  Zeus and Jupiter!

  Ophelia had forgotten entirely that she had stolen that infernal book. She straightened and patted her waist, brows puckering when she came up empty-handed. She certainly hadn’t dreamed the entire episode. The thick cover had burned into her flesh the whole time she’d stood, guilty as sin, in White’s.

  Panic rose.

  Mentally, Ophelia retraced her steps. The book had been tucked into the band of her breeches as she left White’s. She recalled brushing her arm against its hardness to assure herself it hadn’t magically disappeared. In Avondale’s carriage, she had felt the weight of every page more keenly, certain he saw straight through her act. Even in the tavern, the book had burned holes into her flesh; she had been sure that any moment someone would point a finger at her and cry foul.

  She thought harder, reaching back into her mind for a moment when she hadn’t felt the solid weight of the book or the burn of her guilt. A moment she might have been distracted. Ophelia’s brows furrowed.

  She had insisted Avondale drop her back on St. James Street, afraid that someone might spot her exiting Avondale’s carriage close to her home and become curious. A man minding his own business while sauntering down the busy street should not draw much attention. It’d be easier to sneak back home. Had she felt the book walking home?

  Ophelia scowled.

  She couldn’t recall. Had been too distracted by the unrepentant grin coating Avondale’s face and the heated looks he kept shooting her—like the blast of cannonball fire—during the carriage ride. Most distracting, that.

  Ophelia’s lips pressed together as she went over those final moments before she jumped from his carriage. How his strong, steady hand had rested on her back to support her . . . how the moment she turned to salute him, his lips curved sinfully as he shut the door in her face.

  That damn Avondale!

  Rapscallion!

  She had been so distracted by his touch, by the sensations his hand had provoked—not to mention that she’d still carried a buzz from the ale—that she hadn’t even noticed those dexterous fingers had pinched her book! But that would mean . . . it would mean he had known all along that she’d looted the book from the club.

  Had that been his true purpose all along? He was a member of White’s, after all. It was in his interest to preserve that blasted book. The damn man had played her for a fool!