The Rogue and the Rival (15 page)
Read The Rogue and the Rival Online
Authors: Maya Rodale
“I’m partial to ignoring a situation until it goes away. And, surely, something must be said for letting go and moving on.”
“How do you do it? And I’m not trying to be accusatory, but all those women . . . and you just walk away. How do you do it?”
“I guess I just don’t think about it.”
“But how do you do that?”
“It’s easy in the world outside of the abbey. There is brandy, which helps tremendously. After a few drinks, you can’t think clearly, if at all. And if you do manage some deep thoughts, they certainly won’t be remembered in the morning.”
“Is that the only way? Because I had a sip of brandy once, and I found it revolting.”
“Well, there are card games, horse races, parties, and other people and their problems,” Phillip added.
“I miss parties. I miss dancing and dressing for a ball and wondering who I might meet that evening.”
“You had made your debut then?”
“Not officially; I haven’t been to London. But I attended local balls and soirees and the like. That’s how I met him.” There was no need to explain which
him
she spoke of. And it was oddly comforting, having spoken of it once, so that she did not have to explain again or evade any questions about that situation.
him
she spoke of. And it was oddly comforting, having spoken of it once, so that she did not have to explain again or evade any questions about that situation.
“Your family had some prominence, then.”
“Yes. My father was a viscount. I was supposed to make a good marriage. And my being the eldest made my indiscretion all the more devastating.”
“Was there a duel?”
“Yes,” Angela answered after a moment’s hesitation. This was one of those things that she really didn’t care to talk about, that she couldn’t stop thinking about. The conversation was clearly turning down a path she wasn’t sure she wanted to take but was helpless to stop.
“He didn’t shoot wide, did he?” Phillip filled in.
“His bullet never hit my father, but my father died anyway,” Angela said sadly.
“What happened?”
“My father suffered an apoplexy on the dueling field after Lucas had taken his shot. His heart gave out from the shock, or so Damien, my brother, explained. He was my father’s second.”
“That bastard should have never accepted the challenge, or he shouldn’t have fired a shot.”
“I guess I can understand,” she started. “His life was at stake, too. My father was certainly going to shoot to kill.”
“Bullocks. Duels are a matter of honor, and Frost had none to defend. He should have let your father shoot first.”
“Is that what you do when you are in duels?”
“It doesn’t matter when I fire, because I am a notoriously terrible shot,” Phillip said.
“You must be lucky to be alive then. Lucky all those husbands and fathers missed.”
“I was lucky twice. For one duel, I convinced my twin to go in my place. He took a bullet in the shoulder. And for another, I ended up shooting myself, which is fair enough. I deserved it.”
“I daresay you did,” she answered dryly.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
“Me, too,” Angela said, and they fell into silence once again, until she spoke. “You owe me now. We talked about one of my difficult subjects; now we have to talk about one of yours. It’s only fair.”
“All right,” Phillip said, and then took an eternity before saying anything more. Her curiosity grew with each breath. “The abbess said that my mother liked to play cards, too.”
“That’s all? I just told you that I, in effect, killed my own father, and all you’re going to offer up is that your mother liked cards?” She looked at him as if he were daft to even compare the two.
“First of all, you did not kill you father. He was just doing what he was supposed to do, what an honorable man would do. And trust me, not all of them do. Otherwise, I would have fought a few more duels.”
“What if I wish he hadn’t?”
“Someone fought for you, Angela.” And that was all he needed to say for her to understand. Someone had loved her. Loved her so much that he would still fight for the honor she had tossed to the wind. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless.
I’m sorry,
she offered up a silent prayer. And then she added a
thank you
to this small prayer. And she wondered what her father would think if he could see her now, alone in a dimly lit room with a man like Phillip. He would be livid. He would warn her.
I’m sorry,
she offered up a silent prayer. And then she added a
thank you
to this small prayer. And she wondered what her father would think if he could see her now, alone in a dimly lit room with a man like Phillip. He would be livid. He would warn her.
Or, would her father repeat his words of that fateful afternoon? “I don’t care what you do now,” he had said.
This time, whatever happened, there was no one to fight for her except herself.
Thinking. All there is to do here is think. Ignore, and let it go.
She changed the subject.
She changed the subject.
“So tell me the significance of the mutual love for cards,” she said.
Phillip paused, presumably thinking, before answering. “Before the abbess told me that, all I knew about my mother was her name and that she died in childbirth. So it was my fault. And I’m just like her, according to the abbess. And my father loved her and hated me.”
“You don’t know that he hated you.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t like me very much. Then again, I am difficult to like.”
“You don’t make it easy,” Angela agreed but couldn’t bring herself to confess that she had managed the feat. “But about your mother; it wasn’t your fault. It happens, and far too often. You were just an innocent baby. There was nothing you could have done differently.”
“Then maybe I wasn’t born wicked after all,” he said, and she realized that he must have always thought that he was born wicked and that there was no other way for him to be.
He stood up from his chair, having finished with supper some time ago. She wondered if that was her cue to stand as well, and leave, and end the night. But then he sat beside her on the bed.
“No, you weren’t born wicked. And I wonder if you are even so wicked as the stories say.”
“I might not be. I’d hate to disappoint you, though,” Phillip said, and she heard the amusement in his voice.
“So don’t.” She turned and looked him in the eye. His mouth curved into a grin.
“You’re trouble, you know that? Here I am, trying to be good, and I don’t think that’s what you want.”
“It’s too hard to be good,” she said with a sigh. It was supposed to be a deliberately overdramatic sigh, but it was all too real. For the most part it was not too hard to be good; it was easy to care for the people in her life, to say her prayers, be honest and kind, and all those sorts of virtues. But when it came to battling her desire for not just any very bad man but the one beside her on the bed, it was just too damned hard.
Oh, she knew all too well the consequences. She could anticipate the heartache, the guilt, and the pangs of regret. But just as there was no one to fight for her now, there was also no one who would get hurt by her actions—other than herself. And the thing was, she thought, she knew she could handle it. She had done it once. She could do it again.
It was too hard to be good, and frankly, with Phillip so close beside her, and the memory of his kiss still on her lips, being good seemed like a difficult, painful battle with very little reward.
“Being good is certainly not as pleasurable as being wicked,” he remarked.
“I might agree,” she said cautiously.
“Or you might need to be convinced?” Phillip asked.
“Perhaps,” she whispered just before his lips brushed against hers. His lips lingered against hers. For a second, it was enough. Just for a second, and then it wasn’t enough. She parted her lips and took it further.
There was another rumble of thunder. Louder. Closer. The wind picked up, and the rain began, slapping against the windowpanes.
This kiss was slow. As if they had all night. As if they had forever. It was all she had ever wanted and all she had ever needed. That is, until it wasn’t. Until she wanted more and needed more.
“Take down your hair,” Phillip said in a momentary break in the kiss. She started removing the pins, one by one, letting them fall on the bed and onto the floor. She couldn’t help but laugh, trying to kiss and undo her hair at the same time. In the candlelight, she saw him grin. And then he uncoiled the braid that rested on her head like a halo. She certainly should not be wearing a halo for this. No, she was no angel.
Her hair fell around her face, and Phillip brushed it aside. “You’re beautiful,” he stated, sinking his fingers into her hair and pulling her to him. And then her mouth found his, and there were no words for a while.
There was nothing in the world but his mouth against hers. His lips were soft and firm against her own. His tongue tangling with hers, teasing, taunting, and indulgent all at once. He nibbled upon her lower lip. She sucked his tongue. The kiss deepened once more. The clink of tooth against tooth as they both threw caution to the wind and forgot to be gentle. This was a greedy kiss, both of them taking and demanding just what they had been needing.
Both of them giving everything they had to give. And though neither of them had much to offer, somehow it was exactly what was needed.
There was a sigh.
There was a murmur.
And Angela knew with utter certainty that she would not be taking her orders—not as long as Phillip and his kiss existed in the world.
There was another rumble of thunder. It was not nearly as loud or as powerful as the beating of her heart. Placing her hand on his chest, she could feel his heart pounding under her palm. So he felt the same way, she thought with wicked delight. She slid her hands under the fabric so that she could feel his skin. His chest had become familiar to her already, with its fading bruises and broken ribs and muscles covering them. But it was different now: stronger and hot to the touch.
Phillip had not tired of kissing her, but beyond her mouth was the rest of her, begging to be explored. So he feathered kisses along her throat. It was too short a distance from her mouth to the hem of her gown, barring him from the rest of her.
The dress had to go.
“Take this damned thing off,” he growled. She arched one eyebrow and flashed him a coy smile.
“Please.” He whispered the word. It sounded like the prayer that it was.
Those few seconds it took her to remove one more barrier between them were so heavy with anticipation, Phillip thought he might be crushed by it. And then there was a flutter of fabric falling to the floor and a flash of lightning.
He sucked in his breath, and at the same moment she uttered a sigh of what sounded like relief.
She was not nude, but her chemise was so transparent that she might as well have been. Nothing was hidden to him now. He drank in the sight. To look at her was more intoxicating than a monthlong drinking binge of the finest brandy in the world. And it was just as mind melting, if not more. Not one thought remained in his head. But he was overwhelmed by the urge to touch. To taste.
God, if it didn’t take every ounce of control he had not to throw himself on her and devour her.
He managed not to. The distraction of her fingers undoing the buttons on his shirt one by one gave him a reason to pause. Made him feel like she was undoing him and his self-control.
Her fingers fumbled with the last button; they brushed against the waistband of his breeches, and it was just too much. He couldn’t be still anymore. He pushed her honey blonde locks out of the way, cradled her cheeks in his hands, and leaned in to taste her again.
Angela leaned back, taking Phillip with her. And there was nothing, she thought, like the weight of a man on top of her. Made a girl feel protected and vulnerable all at once. But she didn’t dwell on the thought, because Phillip was kissing her neck again—God, that felt amazing—and each little kiss was a little bit lower than the last. She sensed a method to this madness: after each fleeting imprint of his lips on her skin, he paused, giving her a chance to tell him to stop. But there were no protests on her lips, just quiet sighs begging him to continue, almost lost in the sound of the rain pouring outside. Almost.
Phillip cupped one breast in his hand, and she arched her back. He closed his mouth around the center of the other. Angela moaned in pleasure, and the sound was nearly lost in another rumble of thunder.
He placed a hand just above her knee, grasping, inching his way up her thigh, and shoving aside the fabric of her chemise. Sliding along her stocking, pausing at the garter, and going farther. With his fingers, he began to stroke her at that magical place between her legs.
What was he doing? Angela wondered. Didn’t he know this wasn’t how it was done? It felt impossibly amazing, though, this strange thing. Lucas had never touched her there with his hands. With something else, yes. That much she knew. But what was Phillip doing, stroking her, sliding one finger inside of her?
Oh, God. She arched her back. She couldn’t ask him, because he was kissing her now, thoroughly and hungrily. She wouldn’t ask him, because she didn’t care what he was doing, as long as he did not stop.
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