A Rogue’s Pleasure (10 page)

A traitorous trill of excitement sliced through her anger. Only cold reserve would save her. Summoning her frostiest voice, she said, “Of course,” and handed the vase to Jack. “Put these in water, please.”

Scowling, he snatched it from her. “I don't knows as I should leave ye alone wi'—” he shifted to glare at Anthony, “—
'im
.”

“I'll be quite all right until you return. Lord Montrose did not come here to ravish me, did you, milord?”

“I believe I shall be able to hold myself in check this once.”

Jack backed into the hallway. “If the blighter tries anything, scream.”

As soon as Jack was out of earshot, she whirled on Anthony. “You followed me last night, didn't you?”

His eyes, unrepentant, met hers. “I did.”

“At one point I fancied I heard someone in the alley, but I thought it was only a large rat. Now I see that I was right.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don't care for being spied on.”

“And I don't care for being burgled and lied to, so I suppose we're even.”

Since there was no defense against the former charge, Chelsea concentrated on defending herself against the latter. “How dare you accuse me of lying.”

Anthony stood and hobbled over to the mantel. “I suppose Jack really is your butler, then?”

What was he getting at?
“Jack is more than a servant. He's family, really.”

“Family?” He stared at her. “Care to elaborate?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“The lad next door called you
Mrs
. Bellamy. I thought that perhaps…”

“That Jack was my husband?” She started to laugh but stopped when he didn't join her. Could he be serious? A look at his stiff expression told her he was. “Jack practically raised me. He's been like a second father to me, particularly since—” She paused, struggling to push the words over the lump in her throat. “Since my own father passed on.” Grief descended on her chest like a lead weight.

All at once, his features relaxed. “I see.”

A squeal outside provided her with the opportunity to turn away from him. Blinking back surreptitious tears, she crossed to the window and peered out. A cluster of ragged boys congregated around a polished crimson curricle. One lad, older and bolder than the rest, climbed up onto the velvet seat. Another followed suit, pulling on the fringed canopy.

Over her shoulder, she asked, “I suppose that perfectly vulgar vehicle is yours?”

“One of them.” He came up behind her and laid a light hand on her shoulder. Even through the stiff twill of her gown, she could feel the heat radiating from his fingertips.

She faced him. “I really should chase them off before they do any damage.”

“To the devil with the carriage. I've been up most of the night thinking about you…about
us
.”

“Us?”

He braced a hand on the windowsill and leaned into her. “You're all I can think about. All I want to think about.” His other hand cupped her cheek, his thumb moving in small, slow circles. “I hoped you might feel the same.”

A quiver of desire shot through her, settling in her belly. Her nipples tightened beneath the heavy fabric. A moment more of him touching her like this and she would melt in his arms like butter left out in summertime.

Annoyed by her body's treachery, she lashed out. “Think about you? Why should I want to? So far, in our blessedly brief acquaintance, you've shown yourself to be insufferable, conceited, deceitful…” She groped for fresh insults.

“Don't forget rakish.” He grinned. “You see, I own my faults freely. As Wellington once said, ‘Better the devil you know…'”

Only Anthony could manage to be so infuriatingly charming while she insulted him. And so blasted attractive.

“You're…impossible.” To her chagrin, she was smiling.

His hand moved to the nape of her neck, his fingers kneading away the stiffness.

“And you're beautiful, particularly when you're angry.”

She looked at him askance. “Really, Lord Montrose, given your reputation, I was expecting more originality.”

A roguish smile that might have belonged to the devil himself stole about the corners of his mouth. “Give me time, Miss Bellamy, and I shall endeavor to produce something more worthy of you.”

Time
. The word jarred her. Only nineteen days to raise Robert's ransom. Now was the worst possible time to dally with a dangerously attractive viscount, one who seemed to have no other avocation than to follow her like her proverbial shadow.

Her smile dimmed. “You came here because you have something to say. I'm listening.”

He took a deep breath. “Last night, when I said I've never wanted another woman as I want you, I meant every word.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. And between her legs.

She shook her head fiercely. “Last night was a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

He grasped her shoulders. “I don't believe that and neither do you. Last night can be the beginning of something wonderful for us both.”

His fingers flexed on her shoulders. She looked up into his face, the eyes dark and earnest.
The beginning of something wonderful
. What did he mean?

It was impossible to think with him touching her. She tried to lift his hands. “What are you saying?”

“That I think I could make you happy. That I'd like to try.” His hands went around her waist, drawing her against him.

Her stomach fluttered. This, him…it was all so perfect. Exactly how she'd envisioned her future husband proposing. But they were virtual strangers. Could it be that the night before had meant something to him beyond physical gratification?

He cupped her buttocks, crushing her into the cradle of his thighs. Even through layers of clothing, she could feel his arousal. “Last night convinced me that you and I will deal well together.”

Deal well together?
The words ripped the fabric of her romantic reverie.

She tried to step back. “What did you say?”

“We will deal well together.” He rubbed against her, his hardness probing her belly. “
Extremely
well, I should say.”

And then understanding dawned. And with it, hurt, anger—and disappointment so bitter it nearly choked her. “Are you offering me… Can it be that you want me to be your
mistress?
”

Smile lines bracketed bright, brown eyes. “You will find me a generous protector. I will keep you in style such as you've only dreamt existed. Gowns, jewels, a town house in London. Of course, you must have your own carriage and driver as well. Do you fancy a box at the theater? Then you shall have it, provided it sets across from mine. I'll want to be able to look out and see you gazing back at me.”

“Lord Montrose!”

He held up a hand. “No more titles and formality. From now on, you are to call me Anthony.”

“Anthony, I'm—”

“Speechless, yes, of course you are.” He beamed at her. “After the ramshackle life you've led, it must seem too good to be true, but I assure you, 'tis not.” He brushed his lips against hers.

“But first, you are to have done with mourning. No more black. I want to see my lady in bright colors from now on…or nothing at all.” His fingers went to the jet buttons at the front of her gown. “Let me help you out of this hideous thing…now.”

“Stop.” She batted his hands and backed away, bumping against the window seat.

He was little better than Squire Dumfreys with his talk of gowns and jewels. Worse because Anthony had made her want him. The night before he'd changed her from a child into a woman. He'd used gentleness and pleasure to destroy her defenses with the single, calculated aim of making her his whore. Didn't he understand how deeply he'd hurt her, how complete was her humiliation? She searched his face. Obviously not. But he would. He would.

“Lord Montrose, I am not your lady and you, most certainly, will never be my protector.”

Anthony frowned. “What are you saying?”

“What I have been trying to tell you since you arrived. I will never consent to be your mistress.”

His frown deepened. “Do you realize what you're giving up? Most women in your position would not take it amiss to be offered
carte blanche
by a viscount.”

Such conceit. Such arrogance. What a snob he was, expecting her to be impressed by his title. “Then I suggest you offer it to one of them and leave me in peace.”

He shook his head. “I thought you would be pleased.”

“Pleased!”
Needing to put some distance between them, she brushed passed him and crossed to the fireplace. “I assure you, Lord Montrose, I find nothing remotely pleasing in your revolting suggestion.”

Hypocrite
. Even with his true colors blazing, she wasn't sure what she wanted most—to slap him or to kiss him. Summoning all of her willpower, she did neither.

Facing the chimney, she dug her fingernails into the plasterwork mantel and added, “Why, you are practically a married man.”

“That did not seem to bother you overmuch last night,” he reminded her, an edge to his voice.

The taunt amounted to salting a very large, very open wound. Emotions raw, Chelsea
pivoted to face him. “Last night, I had drunk too much wine. Today I am perfectly sober, and I tell you that I find your offer loathsome, just as I find you!”
Liar
.

He advanced on her. “Loathsome, am I?” He stopped, so close that she could see the angry muscle working in his jaw. “You did not appear to find me so very loathsome when you were clawing at my back and arching against me.”

“Kindly lower your voice.” She peered over his shoulder to the open door. Fortunately Jack was nowhere in sight. Teeth set, she whispered, “Just because I forgot myself for a moment or two last night does not mean that I will agree to be made into a plaything to gratify your beastly lust.”

“Lust went both ways,” he roared, ignoring her shushing. “Or have you forgotten that you were the better part of naked and writhing in my arms. The way you moaned and begged for my kisses gave me the distinct impression you rather enjoyed them…among other things.”

“Eh hem.”

They both swung about to the doorway.

“Yer tea's ready.” Expression murderous, Jack plunked the tray down with a bang that set the contents rattling. “I'll bide in the kitchen.” Over his shoulder, he cast Anthony a menacing scowl. “Meat cleaver wants sharpenin'.” With that, he shuffled into the hallway.

Chelsea turned on Anthony, still lounging by the mantel. In his eyes Jack was only a servant and a rough-hewn one at that. But Chelsea had not exaggerated when she'd said Jack was like a second father. Jack's good opinion had always mattered to her. Never more so than now when, thanks to Anthony, it seemed she'd lost it.

“Now see what you've done!” She stabbed a forefinger toward the door. “Leave,
now!
I never want to see your face again.”

“I'll leave, if that is your wish, but not until you've told me why you've just turned down my offer in favor of a life of crime.” His dark gaze narrowed. “This may come as a shock since you find me so
loathsome,
but it has been my experience that most women would choose to satisfy my
beastly lust
over going to the gallows any day.”

His steady gaze unnerved her. She looked away. “I prefer my independence.”

He shook his head. “I know this much. You are no common thief. As I discovered the day you overtook my carriage, you're not even terribly good at it.”

That was going too far. “Why is it men always think they are the only ones who can
do
anything?” Chelsea raised a fist and punched the air. “I had everything under control…at least until you grabbed me and I dropped the pistol, a mistake I was careful not to repeat.”

“Oh, really. I suppose then that you were aware that I had my Manton tucked into my jacket pocket the entire time? Had I not been traveling with my fiancée and her mother, I would not have submitted so tamely to your demands.”

Chelsea felt the blood leave her face.

His dark eyes blazed. “You little fool, you could have easily found yourself shot or…worse. You've not an inkling of the damage a bullet can do at close range. I've seen men, whole one minute, reduced to pulp the next.”

She thought of Robert. What deprivations, what
tortures,
he'd endured by now, God alone knew. “Enough!” She covered her hands over her ears. “I shan't listen to another word.”

“Oh, yes, you shall!” Following her, he tugged her hands downward, clasping them in his.

If his intention was to break her, he'd succeeded. Chelsea pulled away and folded into the
nearest chair. Elbows on her knees, she hid her face in her hands.

Stiffly, he went down on one knee beside her. “The day you robbed me, you weren't out simply for a lark, were you?” Gently, very gently, he drew her hands away. “Look at me.”

She obeyed. How could he be so cruel one minute and so compassionate the next? She felt herself weakening. She wanted to trust someone. She wanted—needed—to trust
him
.

Misery weighed on her. It was hard to breath but she managed to answer. “A life is hanging in the balance. My brother's life. Now please,
please,
don't ask me anything more.”

“If your brother is ill, I shall be glad to pay for a physician to…?

A traitorous tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped at it. “No, you don't understand.”

Gripping the chair arm, he got to his feet. “Then help me understand.”

His kindness mastered her in a way that his anger couldn't. She rose and retrieved the ransom note from the writing desk.