What a Rogue Desires (11 page)

“Better?” he asked, his eyes alight with devilish amusement. “May I assist you in any other way? More chocolate, perhaps?”

“Aye,” Vivian gasped, clutching at anything that would make him move away from her. Instead, he leaned closer, and Vivian retreated, digging her toes into the carpet in a vain effort to push herself even further backward.

“Tell me your name,” he said softly. His face was on level with hers, and Vivian couldn’t see anything else.

“Why do you want to know?”

He cocked his head, those piercing dark eyes fixed on hers. “Because I like you, Vivian,” he said slowly. “Believe me or not, I do.”

“I’m not a trinket you can keep just because you like me!”

The corner of his mouth went up, and his gaze turned lazy, speculative and seductive. “No, you’re not,” he said in a low voice. “By God, you are not.”

She flushed. He sounded rather more appreciative of that fact than she’d intended. He sounded as though he would like to explore just what she was, with great thoroughness. She jerked her head away, fixing her gaze on the door. “Aye,” she said flatly. “Then go away and leave me in peace, if you’re wanting to be so gentlemanly all of a sudden.”

“Ah, but you’ve not finished your chocolate.” He reached back to the table and picked up the little cup. Steam no longer rose from the surface, but it still smelled wonderful. He held the little cup up between them. “All I want is your name, Vivian,” he coaxed.

Vivian drew a strangled breath; she felt closed in by his presence. Up close he even smelled rich, and overpoweringly male. She could see the pulse in his neck where his cravat had been pulled loose, a strong steady beat that made her own heart beat faster. The bloody knave had to be one of the handsomest rogues she’d ever laid eyes on, for all that he was a black-hearted devil, she thought in helpless fury.

“Beecham,” she said at last, hating her voice for being so scratchy and quavering. He’d think she was swooning in a passion for him! “Vivian Beecham. Take your ruddy chocolate and leave me alone.” She was determined not to look at him, but when he didn’t move, she lost her patience and shot him a poisonous glare. “
Now
what?”

The heat had faded from his face. He searched her expression for a moment, then lifted one of her hands and placed the warm cup in it. “A very fine pleasure to meet you, Miss Beecham,” was all he said. Without another word, he got to his feet and left, sketching a little bow at the door.

Vivian frowned in unease. What had she done? What had he done? Mr. Reece, she remembered he was named: David Reece. David. She lifted the cup and drained it. Her eyes fell on the chocolate pot still on the table, and when she lifted it, it was promisingly heavy. She poured some more, but it wasn’t frothy, as it had been when he poured it, and it was getting cold. She put the cup aside and regarded the two trays, the half-empty dinner tray and the other one. The chocolate tray for a highway thief who wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

For the first time since he’d locked her up, Vivian wasn’t hungry anymore.

David rang for his own dinner, his mood at once euphoric and strangely thoughtful. He’d gotten Mrs. Gray to talk, and mostly she’d said just what he expected: a string of curses and slurs on his character, no more nor less than he deserved. He had a proper name for her now, though: Vivian Beecham. An oddly fanciful name for a common thief, he thought, but somehow it suited her. A face like hers was far from common.

It was that expressive face that was giving him pause. He’d seen the scorn in those fine blue eyes when he had asked about starving. He knew she must have been hungry just from looking at her, a little slip of a woman with none of the soft roundness a well-fed lady would have. But knowing it and hearing her admit it, almost defiantly, as if it were his fault in some way, were different things. Suppose she was starving when she got on the coach that day. Suppose she’d viewed his signet ring as nothing more than a month of good food. What else could a starving girl do to feed herself? She was too pretty, he supposed, to be hired in any decent household. She had the talent for Drury Lane, but perhaps not the temperament. What else was there? Seamstress work, perhaps, or selling things in the market. Selling herself in the market would bring her the most money, though, and David didn’t like that image at all. His instinct said she didn’t do that; she was uncomfortable when he moved close to her, and she never once tried to charm anything out of him.

He finished his dinner and sat with his feet stretched out to the fire while he drank his wine, the bottle nestled in the chair beside him. The nights were beginning to carry a chill of autumn, and he made a note to lay a fire in her room.

She was quite a puzzle to David. She was a thief, and by rights he ought to deliver her to the authorities. It was highly doubtful he would ever see that ring again—odds were it had already been sold and melted down—and there was almost surely nothing to gain by keeping her locked in his house. A wiser, more practical man would let her go.

But David had never been particularly wise or practical. It was true what he had told her: he did like her. The range of emotion that showed on her face made him want to laugh, from her fiery outrage at him to her sly satisfaction when she thought she’d bested him to her rapturous pleasure when he offered her a taste of the chocolate. David wanted to see that last expression again, and not over a cup of chocolate.

He poured the last of the wine into his glass. He would deal with the question of letting her go later. For now, he was too pleased at finally getting her to speak to him to contemplate her leaving. Tomorrow he’d get her to smile, and the day after, to laugh. He wanted to see her laugh, with her head thrown back and her eyes alight with it. Her skin flushed with it. Her chest heaving. Her hands pressed to her bosom, pulling at the fastenings of her dress. His mouth, pressed to the beating pulse at the base of her throat…

David slid a little lower in his chair and smiled in tipsy contemplation. No, he most certainly wasn’t ready to let go of Vivian Beecham yet.

From that night on, he came to visit her more often. Every evening, in fact, and often he stayed and talked to her for hours. Some nights he seemed bent on teasing her until Vivian wanted to scream and throw things at him, which appeared to amuse him to no end. Some nights he asked her opinions of things she had never considered a man would think important, and listened to her with every appearance of attention. Some nights he told her stories about his youth and family in which his role was less than noble. She was hard put not to laugh when he told her about the time he cut all the roses in the garden and was chased into the lake by an irate gardener. She did laugh when he related how his younger sister, at the time a small child, smeared his face with her mother’s rouge in retaliation for his eating the last of the currant buns. “I’d no idea they were promised to her,” he protested with a wounded air as Vivian laughed. “And I was utterly famished.”

“You wicked knave,” she said, picturing him with streaks of red across his face, and finding it very entertaining and strangely endearing.

“My dear, if you think that’s wicked, I shall have to spare you the rest of my life history.”

“Aye, that’s wicked, I say, eating the last of someone’s currant buns. I expect the rest is a mere trifle next to it.”

He chuckled. “If only the rest of my family were so understanding! Celia eventually forgave me for the currant buns, but not until I apologized on my knees and promised to let her have my custard at dinner.”

Vivian laughed, too, finding with some surprise that she wasn’t angry with him anymore, either. True, he had locked her up; but she had never been so pampered in her life. Not only fine food and a fine bed, but hot baths, chocolate, and amusing conversation, all things she could become accustomed to in no time. She didn’t know if he was aware that his servant smuggled books out of his library for her, but Vivian somehow didn’t think he would mind. He no longer tried to tease the whereabouts of his ring out of her, and at times Vivian even forgot why she was in his house in the first place. She didn’t quite know what he was about, bringing her sweets and spending hours charming her, but she was not immune to it. She was beginning to like the bloody rogue, damn him.

She still thought about how she would escape, of course. There was still Simon to consider, as well as the fact that Vivian trusted no one, let alone the too-charming David Reece. But she thought about escape far less often, and about David far more often. It was perhaps weak and disloyal of her, but she couldn’t help it. Her antipathy was waning, and she was no longer certain that was wrong. The truth of the matter was, David was
nice
to her—nicer than anyone had been in a long time. It was hard to hate him under those circumstances, no matter what his motive.

He was nice to her,
and
he made her laugh regularly. She knew he was striving to amuse her, and she initially tried not to let him, but he kept at it until she succumbed. She couldn’t guess why he cared to make her laugh, but he did. She also found it was hard to hate someone who lifted her spirits so much. The harder she tried to resist his good humor, the more droll he grew, until she would collapse in helpless laughter. It simply wasn’t fair, she thought in frustration. Her life before seemed completely dour and grim, and now she found herself anticipating his arrival every day with something very near pleasure. She never knew quite what to expect from him, but he managed not to disappoint her once.

“Congratulate me,” he demanded one night upon bursting into her room, throwing his arms wide. “I’ve gone and done a brilliant thing today.” Without waiting for her reply, he swept an elegant bow and caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for a courtly kiss. “Never let anyone say I haven’t got any genius, because today, I proved I have.” He strode back across the room and flung open the door, shouting for his servant to bring another chair. Then he swung around to face her again. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve decided to dine with you tonight.”

Vivian clutched her kissed hand to her stomach and watched in confusion as the creaky old servant dragged in another chair and shoved it up to the table. Brilliant? Genius? What on earth was he talking of? The servant carried in a tray, staggering under the weight of it, and David took it from him. “Go on, then, Bannet,” he declared. “Take yourself off for the evening, and have a glass of port as well.”

“Yes, sir.” The man bowed slightly, then left the room. David turned to her again, grinning broadly, and produced a bottle of wine.

“A celebration of sorts,” he said, uncorking it and filling two glasses. “It’s a near miracle when I amaze myself, so the occasion must be observed in some fashion. A toast.” He raised his glass.

Vivian took the glass he handed her. “What did you do?”

“Don’t sound so suspicious.” He shook his head in reproach.

“And why shouldn’t I?” She sniffed the wine in the glass. “Have you got another woman locked up now?”

He lowered his glass, looking genuinely shocked. “No. Of course not. That was an exceptional circumstance…” He flipped one hand, and cleared his throat. “No, indeed, it is something much better than that. I have bought Dashing Dancer.” He extended his arms again and bowed, as an actor might after giving a brilliant performance. Vivian waited, but he said nothing more, simply stood there expectantly.

“What dashing dancer?” she asked.

“What Dashing Dancer?” he repeated. “The
only
Dashing Dancer. The finest colt ever to run the Ascot. He lost out to an inferior horse because his rider was an absolute incompetent, but that horse has blood that will sire a legion of champions. My brother’s been after him for a year, but old Camden wouldn’t sell. And now, he has—to me.”

“You bought a horse?” she said cautiously. “That’s how you amaze yourself?”

He threw up his hand in exasperation. “It
is
amazing! I might have known a woman wouldn’t grasp the significance.”

Vivian cocked her head. “Did you get him on the cheap, then?”

He laughed. “Most certainly not.”

“Then no, I don’t grasp the significance.”

David sighed loudly. “My brother has wanted that horse for his stables for a long time,” he explained. “A very long time. He’s made at least two offers for the horse, both of which were refused. Very few people refuse my brother anything, ever. And now I have succeeded where he failed. It is quite possible I have never in my life been able to say that before now.”

“Oh,” said Vivian. “All right. Congratulations to you.”

He peered at her a moment longer in disbelief, then threw back his head and laughed. “I was well pleased by it at least, if you are not. Come, shall we dine?”

“I don’t mean to make light of it,” said Vivian as he pulled out a chair.

“No, no. I suppose in the sweep of life, it’s nothing.” He smiled wryly. “It was merely the achievement of finally, at long last, besting my brother. We’re twins, you see. He is the good one, I am the wicked one.”

A twin. Lord help the women of London, with two such men about. “He’s all good, and you’re all wicked?” She said it with a grin, intending to tease him. But he considered it, then nodded.

“Yes, I believe most people would say that’s so.”

Vivian frowned. “No one is all good.”

“I notice you don’t dispute one can be all wicked.” He bowed slightly. “Won’t you be seated?”

Oh Lord. He was holding out the chair for
her
. Vivian walked around the table and sat, reduced to shy silence by the gesture. He took the other chair and poured more wine, though she’d taken but a sip of hers. She stole a glance at him in the candlelight as he busied himself arranging the rest of the table, clearing away the trays and covers. For a fine gentleman, he seemed well able to take care of himself. She’d always supposed such folk were unable and unwilling to do aught for themselves, but had twenty servants lined up to do everything. So far, David had tended to her as devotedly as a man to his bride.

The unwitting thought made her eyes grow wide and her heart hammer at the very idiocy of the idea. Lord, what was she thinking now? The wine and the kiss on her hand must have made her lightheaded. Just because they were sitting here in some semblance of intimacy was no reason for her to get ideas. She knew very well what sort of relationship a man of his station would have with a girl of her station.

“I suppose one can be all wicked,” she said, trying to regain her senses. “It’s just harder to be all good.”

“Do you think? I wouldn’t know about it,” he said. “Being all wicked is so much more fun.”

“But you envy your brother,” she pointed out. David paused, his wine glass in midair.

“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully. “At times. But usually, no.”

“You must, if you’re so pleased to have gotten something he could not.”

“Most of what he has, I would happily do without. It is rare that our interests align, but in this one case, they did. I believe it is quite natural for one brother to revel in a triumph over the other.”

“Aye,” Vivian conceded that point. “So now you’ve got the horse, what do you propose to do with him?”

“I shall offer him for sale to my brother,” he said promptly. “For an outrageous sum, of course.”

“You’ve a rogue’s soul,” she said with a helpless smile. “If you hadn’t been born so rich, you’d have been a pirate.”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Aye,” she insisted. “I can see it clear, you with a cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other, always on the run from the navy with a load of rum and stolen jewels.”

David laughed, but deep inside himself thought,
Yes.
He could have been a pirate, if Reeces hadn’t been born to such splendor. He liked the image more than he could possibly admit out loud. “The rum, for certain. Stolen jewels? Not likely.”

“And how would you have come by the rum, then?” she shot back.

He winked at her. “A sympathetic tavern owner.”

She scoffed. “And who are tavern keepers sympathetic to, but those with money?”

He chuckled, recalling how many taverns he and his friends had been thrown out of for raucous behavior. “Not always.”

“Always,” she said. “Those with money can drink until they’re flat on their backs, snoring to wake the dead. Or start a brawl that disrupts everyone else’s rest. Or distract the serving wenches and demand the best rooms, even if other folk must be turned out of them. And those with no money are fortunate to get a place at a table in the public room and a bowl of cold soup before they’re shown the door.”

He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “You’ve dealt with some miserly tavern keepers, I see.”

“The worst.” She said it with a peculiar grimace on her face, and David wondered again what her life had been like. He had never before known a woman who would call him a pirate and have unfortunate experiences with tavern keepers. It was odd just to discuss such things with a woman. But David was discovering he liked being able to talk so freely with Vivian. Not because of her hard history, but because of his own; to hold a decent conversation with a proper young lady, David would have to omit the vast majority of his life and doings. He didn’t think he could manage more than a quarter hour of acceptable conversation with a sheltered lady of his own class, and at least half that time would no doubt be devoted to a discussion of the weather. Then he would have absolutely nothing left to say to her that wouldn’t leave her swooning in shock or gasping in outrage. Disregarding for a moment whether or not it was proper to discuss such things at all, David found it easier to talk to Vivian Beecham simply because he didn’t have to fear slipping up and saying something that would shock and repel her. In all truth, she was probably more likely to shock and horrify him, were she to share her life story. He wondered just how callous those tavern keepers had been to her.

The next day David was still feeling quite pleased with his coup. It had been a rare stroke of luck persuading Camden to sell Dashing Dancer. David still wasn’t entirely certain how he had accomplished it, but over a bottle of port at White’s, he had made the offer and to his immense surprise it had been accepted. Perhaps it was a sign that his luck had turned, or that his good intentions of reform were bearing fruit.

He didn’t have a stable worthy of Dashing Dancer, unfortunately. The horse was too old to race, although David remained convinced he would be a champion sire. He knew Marcus believed it as well and, with Blessing Hill, Marcus could put Dashing Dancer to stud immediately. David had only been slightly exaggerating when he told Vivian he meant to sell the horse to Marcus. He did; but the price he planned to ask was a number of Dashing Dancer’s offspring, so that he could establish his own stable. The only mildly respectable pursuit David had any aptitude for was fine horses, breeding them and racing them. If he were to choose something to occupy himself with, a quality stable was the best choice.

When he arrived at Exeter House, he began hunting for the stud book from Blessing Hill, already considering breeding possibilities he could suggest to Marcus. The book, though, seemed to have disappeared from its usual place. David sighed in aggravation. There would be a copy at Blessing Hill, but he didn’t want to wait while it was fetched. He sent Mr. Adams to look in his small office, and then turned to the cabinet behind the desk. Perhaps Marcus had put it away in there, with his personal papers. He opened a number of doors and drawers, until he found a slim leather-bound book that looked much like David remembered the stud book looking. “There you are,” he muttered, pulling it out and flipping it open.

A sheaf of paper slid to the floor. David stooped to pick it up, and something caught his attention: the name of the man who had attempted to kill Marcus and cause David to be the suspected murderer. For a moment David just held it, taken completely off guard. He hadn’t thought about that plot at all in several days. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to read more…But then, with a mixture of dread and interest, he began to read, the stud book forgotten.

It was a report from Mr. John Stafford of Bow Street, addressed to Marcus and dated two months past. It began by thanking the duke for his invaluable assistance, then went on to relate the confession extorted from Mr. Bentley Reece after his arrest. Bentley admitted to printing counterfeit banknotes, but not to spending them; that, Mr. Stafford wrote delicately, Bentley blamed on “other persons unknown to Bow Street.” David felt a curious numbness steal over him.
He
was the “other person.” Bentley most certainly would have named him, and the fact that Mr. Stafford didn’t mention it meant that Marcus had persuaded him to overlook it.