A Rogue’s Pleasure (21 page)

“Those are wedding vows, milord. You had best save them for your bride.”

Her voice was cold, but a fierce yearning fired her eyes. She cared for him. He knew it. And he wasn't going to let her walk out of his life. Not without a fight.

“Dammit, Chelsea, Phoebe means nothing to me. I scarcely know her. Our marriage is a contract between two families, not two people.”

She jerked away from him. “Anthony, I don't want to hear—”

He laid a finger over the juncture of her soft, open lips. “But you're going to.” He drew a shuddering breath, steeling himself. If spilling his soul was what it took to convince her, then so be it. “I understand what it means to lose people you care about. I lost my two best friends in the war. Steven took sick just after Barrosa. In the end, 'twas the malaria, not the French, that got him.” His fingers clenched the reins. What he was about to admit was tantamount to pulling the stitches from a barely healed wound. “And later at Albuera, after I'd been hit, my other friend Peter…Well, the bloody fool unseated the French cavalryman who was charging me…and got himself trampled into the bargain.”

Her eyes softened. “Oh, Anthony.” She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. “You mustn't torture yourself. You would have done the same had you been in his place.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “Would I? I'm not so sure. Even now I can't help wondering…If I hadn't pushed Cole to advance—hell, if I hadn't persuaded Peter and Steven to join up in the first place…Why should I be the one to survive when better men—” His voice cracked, but he'd come too far now to turn back. He bit back the shame and forged on. “And then I met you. For the first time in more than two years…no, in my whole life, I felt—” he hesitated, searching, “—whole. As if my surviving, Peter's sacrifice, might be to some purpose after all.” He lifted her slight hand and pressed the palm to his mouth, heedless of the tear trailing his cheek. “Now that
I've found you, I can't bear to lose you. I
won't
lose you.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Be my lover, Chelsea. I'll steal away as often as possible to be with you and, in those stolen moments, we'll know greater happiness than most lawfully wedded couples find together in a lifetime.”

“Oh, Anthony.” The clip-clop of approaching horses' hooves striking the cobbles nearly drowned Chelsea's choked sob. “If I've learned anything from tonight, it's that nothing good ever comes of stealing.”

 

They passed a strolling lamplighter, torch in hand, but otherwise Mount Street was as dark and desolate as Anthony's soul. But he wasn't ready to concede defeat. Not hardly.

They dismounted. When he turned to tether the horse, Chelsea flew across the street.

He caught up with her at the town house entrance. Vaulting to the top step, he said, “I only want to see you safely inside.”

“I'd rather you didn't.” A lantern hung beside her door. Standing inside the feeble pool of light, she rifled through her reticule for the door key.

Metal rang against the flagging, and then glanced off the step.

“Blast.” She fell to her knees.

Anthony came down beside her. “Allow me.” Feeling in the dark, he found the key in the bushes.
“Voilà.”
Brushing soil from his hands, he got to his feet and helped her up.

“Thank you.” She held out her palm.

He hesitated.
You really are a rogue, Montrose.
He wasn't proud, but he was resolved.

He pocketed the key. “The price is one kiss.”

One kiss.
What he was about to do was wrong, but he closed his mind to the niggling self-reproach. Chelsea Bellamy might not yet realize it, but she needed him almost as much as he needed her. And he was willing to call on every dirty trick in his rake's repertoire to prove it to her.

“Oh, Anthony, for pity's sake.” A tear splashed her cheek. He reached out and brushed it away with his thumb just as another took its place. Seeing her like this tore at his heart, but he told himself he must be ruthless for both their sakes.

He lifted her chin on the edge of his hand. “One kiss, and then I'll leave.”

He kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, each of her satiny cheeks. When he moved over her soft mouth, his lips butterfly light, she turned her face away.

“I must go inside,” she said, one hand balanced lightly on his chest. “Jack will be waiting up.”

Anthony glanced beyond her to the darkened windows. “I rather think he's still at the Rookery.”
Where I'm supposed to relieve him, inside of an hour. God, if only I had more time.
“I'll go in with you. We'll wait for him together.”

She moved away.
“No.”
This time she sounded as though she meant it. “You've seen me to the door, you've had your one kiss, you've…” She threw her hands in the air. “This
is
goodnight.”

Anthony hesitated. A second later, inspiration struck. He lifted his right hand to the light. The torn evening glove revealed busted knuckles and an impressive smattering of dried blood. At least, he hoped she was impressed. Most of the blood was Ambrose's but, if she assumed it was his, who was he to gainsay her?

“May I come inside long enough to wash my hand?” he asked mildly.

Her jaw dropped and her eyes softened. “Of course,” she said, and quickly unlocked the door. “But then you're leaving.”

“Of course,” he replied.

Following her inside, he reminded himself that he was doing this for them both. She cared for him, he knew it. It was only her provincial morality—and her pride—that stood in the way of their mutual happiness. Once he breached her defenses, she would probably thank him.

She paused in the hall to light a candle, and then led the way through the house to the kitchen.

“Sit,” she commanded, nearly shoving him into a spindle-back chair set at one end of the pine table.

The very sturdy table. He thought of that evening less than a fortnight before when he'd nearly succeeded in having her on his dining room table. His desire, which he'd managed to keep dormant on the ride home, leapt to life.

Still swathed in his cape, she went to a cupboard, pulled down a heavy white bowl, then moved to the sink to fill it. His offers of help brought more stern orders to sit still.

“At home we always used rainwater for washing,” she said, her voice rising above the sound of the crank. “But here, the air is so filthy…”

She was doing her damnedest to behave normally, but by now he knew her too well to miss the nervous trill in her voice or the way she caught at her bottom lip with her teeth. She was unraveling before his very eyes, which signified…

I'm winning
. In another few minutes he'd have his cape off her and then the gown. Or perhaps, in the interest of time, he'd leave the gown on. Either way, this time they'd finish what they'd begun.

But his imminent victory rung hollow. Certainly he wasn't the first lover to use trickery to woo his lady. But what he was about to do was far worse. He was using Chelsea's own fine qualities—her caring, sympathetic nature—as a weapon against her. And he felt profoundly, deeply ashamed. Good God, could it be that Anthony Grenville, one of London's most notorious libertines, had grown a conscience?

He was still pondering the possibility when she returned to set the bowl of water, a clean cloth, and a dusty bottle of some spirit—whiskey, most likely—on the table.

He picked up the bottle. “Hmm, dare I hope you've changed your mind and plan on having your wicked way with me after all?”

“No, you dare not.”

Cheeks flushed, she pulled out a chair beside him and sat. Careful to avoid his gaze, she reached for his hand. Through the remnants of his glove, he felt her fingers, cold as ice. And suddenly he knew that, as much as he wanted her, he didn't want her this way.

“This isn't necessary. I'm fine.” He gripped the chair arm, starting up.

She braced a hand against his chest. “You're not going anywhere until I clean those cuts.”

Several shirt buttons had gone missing in the fight with Ambrose, and springy dark hair teased her palm. When she pulled away, her hand was shaking.

He brushed her bruised cheek with gentle fingers. “If anyone needs tending, it's you.”

She winced. His touch was light, but the contusion had begun to throb.

And her cheek wasn't the only place she throbbed. Liquid warmth pooled in her lower
belly, trickling downward to the feminine core that Anthony once had manipulated so skillfully. Now that the danger was past, she realized she wanted him to touch her there again as well as everywhere else.

Powerful, conflicting emotions wrenched her but somehow she found herself smiling. “We're quite a pair, aren't we?”

He grinned back. “Quite.”

By now she knew that their easy camaraderie was deceptive; at any moment, passion could flare between them like flint striking steel. Determined to avoid being singed by the flame, she concentrated on easing off his glove.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.”

He hadn't exaggerated; his right hand really was a mess. The cloth was embedded in the broken flesh and, when she finally tugged the glove free, a generous measure of skinned knuckles went with it. She bent to dip the cloth into the water, and his breath fanned the side of her face. Resisting the urge to press the cloth to her burning cheeks, she gently sponged the fibers from his torn flesh.

Sitting alone with him in her dark, silent house, nursing him in her rustic kitchen, she felt almost…
wifely
. Domestic intimacy was proving to be a powerful aphrodisiac, more erotic even than the elegant supper of a fortnight before. She found herself deliberately drawing out the washing of his wounds. Any excuse would serve so long as she might keep touching him. At the same time, guilt pricked her. Every moment she lingered felt like a betrayal of Robert, a mockery of every fine principle her parents had instilled. Yet when she caught his hungry stare fixed on her bosom, she couldn't seem to muster the will or decency to move away.

She pulled the cape closed and tried to cover her self-consciousness with a light laugh. “I believe you'll live.” She reached for the whiskey bottle.

He pulled back, eyeing her as she dribbled whiskey onto the cloth. “What do you intend to do with that?”

She reached for his hand. “Putting this on will help keep the wound from turning putrid.”

Her fingers closed around his wrist. Beneath her thumb, his pulse raced. Panic over being stung? She doubted it.

Even so, she teased, “What an infant you are.” Leaning forward, she dabbed the cuts, blowing on them to ease the smarting. “There, we're all done.” Laying the cloth on the tray, she wiped her damp palm on her ruined gown. “I could bandage it, but it would be better to let the cuts air overnight.”

Overnight.

He glanced down at his hand, and Chelsea realized she still held it.

Release his hand and move away. Ignore the sensual promise in his dark eyes, and the way the light plays on the indentation cleaving his square chin. Resist the urge to explore the crisp curls peaking out from his open shirt collar. Give him back his cape and show him to the door…now.

Despite the haranguing of her better self, Chelsea couldn't bring herself to move or let go. When exactly had Anthony managed to insinuate himself into her soul, becoming her touchstone in a life that grew more precarious with each passing day? When had simple physical desire become this all-consuming longing, this conviction that she would never feel this way about any other man?

In a sennight he would be someone else's husband, but he wasn't a husband yet. They had no future together, but the present suddenly bloomed, a precious gift.

Perhaps it was time to adopt a new motto.
Carpe diem
. Seize the day…or, in the present case, the night.

She lifted his hand and gently brushed the battered flesh with her lips.

Anthony's eyes flew open. He sucked in his breath.

“You could murder a man with your gentleness, do you know that?” His voice, several decibels below its usual timbre, cracked.

She chafed her cheek across the back of his hand. “I don't want to murder you, milord. I want to make love with you.”

There, she'd said it. She hadn't begged as he'd once told her she must, but surely she'd come close enough? She searched his face—the furrowed forehead, the eyes stark with need, the tightly drawn mouth, the muscle jumping in the square jaw.

Finally he asked, “Are you certain? In the morning, this night and all its horrors will be only a memory. You may have regrets.”

Yes, there would be regrets, she was sure of it. But there would also be glorious memories of love and laughter to warm the cold, lonely nights ahead.

She mustered her trembling lips into a wobbly smile. “In that case, we had better make a memory to last a lifetime.”

Anthony's arms went about her. He leapt up, bringing her with him. Cradling her head between his hands, he murmured, “We shan't need memories when we have a lifetime of days and nights ahead of us.”

Behind the closed door of her bedchamber, Chelsea stepped out of the last of her clothing. Anthony's mouth went dry. Naked except for her stockings, she was all moon-pale skin and wide, wary eyes—and more enticing than the most expensive of courtesans.

He swallowed hard. “You're beautiful, Lady Robin.”

A mortified blush spread from her face to the tops of her apple-shaped breasts. She crossed one arm over them; the other hand shielded the russet triangle between her milk-white thighs.

“Please don't do that.” He drew her hands down to her sides. “I want to look at you. I
need
to look at you.”

He brushed back the loose copper curls cascading over her front. Rose-tipped breasts pricked his palm. She shivered and so did he.

She raised shy eyes to his. “Shall I at least take off my stockings?”

“I think not.” His gaze riveted on her garters, black bands of lace tied above her dimpled knees. “You have beautiful legs, even longer and shapelier than I'd imagined, and I have a very good imagination.” Indeed, the thought of them wrapped around his torso stoked the fire in his belly.

She worried her hands, looking anything but pleased by the compliment. Given their other passionate interludes, he was unprepared for this maidenly modesty, this reticence. She seemed almost…virginal. Enchanted, he found himself grappling with feelings that were fundamentally at odds. He wanted to ravish her and protect her all at once.

“Shouldn't we blow out the candle?”

He chuckled. “I'm not an owl, milady.”

She hesitated, and then laughed. The tinkling sound was a siren's call to sea. Cast adrift in the depths of her turquoise gaze, Anthony cupped her face between his palms and prepared to drown. She winced.

“Sorry.” He brushed her bruised cheek with his knuckles. Not thinking of the angry mark, he said, “I'd never hurt you, Chelsea.”

She looked down. “Perhaps we shouldn't make promises we can't keep.”

His gaze fell to the faint bruise budding on her upper arm, the one
he
'd made when he'd gripped her to keep her from going back to Ambrose. After everything that had happened, he'd nearly forgotten the episode. Obviously she remembered it only too well.

“Earlier tonight, in the garden, I didn't mean to hurt you.” He lifted her chin on the edge of his hand. “I'm not really such a brute.”

Silence.

“I don't want you to be afraid of me. You aren't, are you?”

She shook her head. “Even then, when you were angrier than I've ever seen you, I trusted that you wouldn't really hurt me.”

“Do you trust me now?” He inhaled, waiting.

“Y-yes.”

He lifted her chin on the edge of his hand and smiled at her. “Good, because my fingers are itching to untie those fetching but rather fragile-looking ribbons. May I?”

Her smile was tentative. She nodded. “Yes.”

Stiffly, he lowered himself onto his good knee and untied the right garter. He kissed the
side of her knee, her calf, and finally her ankle, slowly rolling the silk down, then off. At the second garter, he deliberately brushed the inside of her thigh with the back of his hand. Musk teased his nostrils. He leaned forward and angled his face upward.

“That's enough.” Breathing hard, Chelsea backed into the bedpost. “Fair is fair. Now I want to see you.”

Drunk with desire, he stumbled to his feet. He glanced down to the bulge at his trouser front and grinned.

“This is all I have to offer you. I hope you weren't expecting more.”

She swatted his shoulder. “You know perfectly well what I mean. Your shirt…I've never seen you without it.”

“That's easily remedied.” His fingers went to the top button of his waistcoat.

She slid one hand inside his open shirtfront and shook her head. “My turn.”

Wondering who was seducing who, he reined in his desire and stood motionless, suffering her to unbutton first his waistcoat, then his shirt. Both garments joined the mounting pile at their feet.

“You're the one who is beautiful,” she intoned with a sigh, soft fingers skimming his chest.

He followed her gaze. From the elbow down, his arms were tanned a Spaniard's bronze, but his upper arms and chest were lily white, his pectorals and abdomen covered with dark auburn hair.

And scars.

A saber wound, ugly and jagged, slashed across his left shoulder. That same arm bore the hole from the bullet that had passed through his bicep. He tensed, watching her face for signs of revulsion.

Instead, she pressed her lips to the milk-white ridge. She looked up, tears gathering in her eyes. “Oh, Anthony. Albuera?”

“And before.” He laid a finger over her trembling mouth. “There'll be plenty of time for you to explore the ruins later.”

His restraint, like his heart, was fast melting. Blood pumping to his loins, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the narrow bed. Carefully, reverently, he laid her in the center, and then turned to undress. By the time he shed his boots and breeches, she'd slipped beneath the covers, the faded quilt tucked demurely beneath her chin.

“You won't need that. I promise to keep you warm.” He pulled the covers down and climbed in beside her.

Propped up on one elbow, he glided a hand down the front of her, weighing her breasts in his palm, trailing his fingers over her ribs and taut abdomen. She was drawn as taut as a bowstring, her eyes round and watchful.

He bent to sip one rosy nipple. It budded beneath his tongue. “You're nervous, aren't you?”

“No.” She hesitated. “A little.”

“'Tis only natural.” He flicked his thumb over her other nipple.

“It is?”

He nodded. “What you've been through tonight would be more than enough to blunt any woman's desires, even one as passionate as I know you to be. Fortunately I know a way to persuade your body to relax.”

“H-how?”

“If I told, it wouldn't be a secret.” At her blank look, he added, “Surely you can guess?”

She shook her head.

His palm settled over the plump mound between her silken thighs. “No?”

Could it be that Chelsea's previous lovers had taken their pleasure without ensuring hers? His chest swelled at the prospect of being able to claim first, to brand her as his in this intimate act of lovemaking.

There had been countless and occasionally nameless women over the years. He'd always taken pains to ensure that he returned satisfaction, be his bedmate a lady or a whore. But this present powerful pull to please Chelsea, to have her writhe in his arms, transcended manly pride. This time was different from any other. This time it was for love.

The realization rocked him to the core of his being, shattering all prior precepts and nullifying vows. He hadn't believed in love before, not really. Not until…now.

He looked down at Chelsea, a fierce tenderness sweeping over him.
I'll never hurt you, Chelsea. And I'll never let you go.

“Trust me.” He threaded his fingers through the thatch of dark copper curls, smiling at her sudden, sharp exclamation. He palmed her with light, circular strokes, coaxing her legs apart. Then he did what he'd dreamt about doing ever since that night in his dining room. He lay on his stomach and slid down until his head was between her raised thighs.

She lifted herself on her elbows, blinking owlishly. “Anthony, where are you going?”

Smiling, he brushed his stubbled cheek against her inner thigh, lightly grazing the tender flesh. “I've captured you at last, my little thief, and I'm determined to see, feel, and taste every luscious bit of you before this night is over.”

Her pupils dilated. “You can't mean to…that is to say, you're not going to kiss me
there?
”

She tried to lock her knees, but his shoulders were in the way. Instead, her legs ended up wrapped around his torso, pulling him even closer.

He eased her apart, and his tongue slid inside the slick cleft. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair.

“Anthony!”

Hands balled into fists at her sides, she fell back against the pillow.

The pink flesh was hot as a brazier and juicy as a ripe plum. His own flesh felt on fire, the shaft between his legs erect and blazing with desire.

Moaning, she lifted herself to meet each liquid sweep. He paused, and her frustrated whimper was like music to his soul. He'd been right. None of his predecessors had introduced her to this. Her sea-green eyes were dark and dazed with desire and her glorious hair fanned across the pillow, the damp tendrils forming a halo about her flushed face. Her pink tongue darted out to moisten her full bottom lip and the throbbing in his groin intensified.

He bent his head once more and fitted his mouth over her quivering flesh. Hips churning and fingernails clawing the covers, she perched on the precipice of her release. And she was fighting it.

“Anthony, please, no more. I can't b-bear it.”

“Yes, you can. Surrender to it, darling.”
Surrender to me
.

Her head tossed on the pillow. “I can't…Someone…Jack…If he's back, he'll hear me.”

“He won't, I promise. I won't let him. Trust me.”

He sought out the small nubbin amidst the slippery folds and gently suckled the swollen flesh.

“Oh,
Anthony
.”

He slid up the length of her and covered his mouth over hers, drinking in her keening cry. Gathering up her shuddering body, he absorbed each convulsive wave rippling through her until she stilled beneath him.

She looked up at him, moisture spangling her bottom lashes. “I never imagined that it could be like this.”

But Anthony was in no state to bask in her afterglow. The need to be inside her was eclipsing all reason. Straddling her splayed hips, he lifted himself.

Her eyes shot open. “Anthony, what are you doing?”

Desire weighed heavily between his legs, and the dull, fisted ache demanded immediate attention.

His gave a ragged laugh. “Chelsea, love, this is no time to play the virgin.” He thrust into her.

Chelsea's sob ricocheted inside his head, breaking the sensual spell.

Anthony froze. He looked down at her pale, stricken face and knew that his worst nightmare had come to pass.

He had just debauched a virgin.

 

Anthony braced a palm on either side of her and slowly withdrew. Judging by his harsh, frozen features and the bunched muscles of his neck and shoulders, the retreat had siphoned every smidgen of his self-control.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he demanded, voice sharp as honed steel.

Chelsea gnawed her bottom lip. “I'd rather hoped you wouldn't notice.”

He leaned back against the headboard and raked a hand through his sweat-slick hair. “Not notice. Christ, Chelsea, blood doesn't lie.”

He hadn't bothered to cover himself. Following his downward gaze, Chelsea saw the scarlet flecks on his penis.

And the anger in his eyes.

She swallowed against the thickness strangling her. When the moment of truth arrived, she'd promised herself that she'd be sophisticated, stoic even. Instead, she'd made a complete hash of things, and Anthony was glaring at her as though he despised her. And, to make matters worse, she was about to cry in front of him.

Hoping to spare herself that humiliation, she turned onto her side and gave him her back. “You seemed so sure I wasn't. I didn't want to disappoint you.”

The bed creaked. He must have gotten up.

“I just assumed…Christ, Chelsea, what was I supposed to think?”

Footfalls on the floorboards announced his passage across the room. Clearly he intended on dressing—and leaving—immediately.

Humiliated, she hugged the pillow tight and buried her face in its comforting white lumpiness. “There's no need to explain. It was a perfectly logical assumption under the circumstances. I suppose any woman who becomes a highwayman, then a housebreaker, all within a fortnight would be considered fair game by most men.”

From across the room, he growled, “I'm not most men. And stop being so damned reasonable.”

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled, not quite certain why she was apologizing. Not that it mattered. She might as well apologize for her whole miserable life.

She heard the swish of water lopping into a basin. He must be at the washstand. Of course, he would want to expunge all traces of her before he left. Misery engulfed her. She lay listening for the chamber door, the first creak to open, and the second to close. Why didn't he just leave so she could vent the sobs welling inside her?

She started when she felt his hand on her shoulder.

“You're crying.” It wasn't a question.

“No, I'm not.” Using a corner of the pillowcase, she dabbed her wet cheeks.

“I beg to differ.” The mattress groaned as he sat down beside her. “Chelsea, turn over and look at me.”

She sniffed. “No.”

“Please.”

She rolled onto her back, holding the sheet up with both hands. Earlier he'd made her feel beautiful, desirable; now she felt ugly and ashamed.

Still, she forced herself to look at him. He was bare-chested, but he'd put on his trousers. The lightweight fabric outlined the hard ridge of his sex.

“I'm sorry I hurt you. Believe me when I say, I had no idea you were a virgin.”

She twisted a corner of the sheet in her hand. “If you'd known, would it have made a difference?”

“Yes…I mean, no.” He drew a heavy breath. “I would have gone slowly, taken care not to hurt you…at least, not nearly so much.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. “Christ, I wouldn't have breached you like some rutting animal.”

And suddenly she understood. He wasn't angry with her but with himself. Self-loathing gave way to relief, then to a rush of tenderness.

She reached up and touched his hard cheek. “It's not your fault. You mustn't blame yourself.” She summoned a cheerful smile. “At least it was over quickly.”