Wicked Rogue

December 12, 1818

Westbourne Hall, England

Eleanor Ainsworth had always prided herself on being practical. Pragmatic. Unflappable in the face of disappointment. But watching her friend Olivia waltz past in Lord Adrian Warble’s arms, her face luminous with happiness, Nell felt something uncomfortably close to envy twist in her chest.

She forced a smile as the recently married couple swept by, Olivia’s grey eyes sparkling with such obvious adoration that Nell had to look away. It wasn’t that she begrudged her friend such joy. Truly, she didn’t. Olivia deserved every moment of happiness after the tumultuous path that had led her to Adrian.

It was just that watching her friends—one after the other—find love and passion and choice made the weight of her own future press down with suffocating certainty.

“They make a handsome couple, do they not?” Alice, the new Countess of Richmond, and her friend, appeared at her elbow.

“Very handsome,” she agreed, proud that her voice betrayed none of her inner turmoil. But it was not so easy to fool her friend, who knew her far too well.

“Are you well?” A concerned line appeared between Alice’s brows as she watched her with more attention than Nell wanted.

She was not well. Her world was closing in around her, ready to trap her in a life she had no desire for. Soon she would be Lady Kingsleigh. The third Lady Kingsleigh, to be precise. The thought made her want to scream. Or run. Or both. Anything to escape this bleak future her father had orchestrated.

“I am,” she said, the lie coming easier now after weeks of practice. “Just a touch warm. I think I’ll take some air.”

“Warm?” Alice pulled her shawl a little tighter. “I find it rather chilly despite the crush of people. But… Shall I come with you?”

“No, no.” She mustered a smile. “Stay and enjoy the festivities. I’ll only be a moment.”

Before her friend could protest further, Nell slipped away from the ballroom. After attending enough events at Westbourne Hall the past few years, she knew the layout well enough, and she needed—desperately needed—a moment alone to compose herself before she did something foolish. Like cry in the middle of a Christmas ball.

The library beckoned like a sanctuary. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, paper, and wood smoke. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the rows of books.

She was halfway across the room when a voice from near the fireplace made her freeze.

“I’m afraid this particular hiding spot is already occupied.”

Her hand flew to her chest as Lord Anthony Dashcombe rose from a wingback chair positioned near the fire, a glass of what looked like brandy in his hand. Even in the dim lighting, he cut a striking figure; tall and lean with broad shoulders, all emphasised by his perfectly tailored evening clothes. His dark hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he’d been running his hands through it, and his cravat had been loosened just enough to suggest a man more interested in comfort than propriety.

“Lord Dashcombe.” She exhaled, trying to calm her racing heart. “You startled me.”

“My apologies, Miss Ainsworth.” He gestured to the room with his glass, and she noticed that fluid grace of someone who’d had more than one drink. Not foxed, precisely, but certainly relaxed. “Though I must say, for someone seeking solitude, you’ve chosen rather poorly. I have already claimed this space as mine for the evening, and believe it or not, I had planned to do so alone.”

The corners of her lips twitched. This was why she’d always rather liked Dash, despite—or perhaps because of—his reputation. There was an easy charm about him that never felt calculated, even though she suspected it absolutely was. He’d been friends with Olivia for years, long enough that Nell had encountered him at numerous balls and gatherings. He had a way of making everyone feel like they were in on some private joke, and turning even the dullest conversation into something entertaining.

He was also, she couldn’t help but notice, devastatingly handsome. She’d always known it in an abstract sort of way—one could hardly miss those piercing blue eyes or the way his smile seemed to light up his entire face—but alone like this, with firelight playing across his features, the effect was rather more pronounced.

“Are you hiding too then?” she asked.

“Hiding is such an ugly word.” A hint of that famous smile curved his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes tonight. “I prefer to think of it as a moment of peace. There are only so many times one can be asked about one’s plans for marriage and courtship or listen to speculation about who might be compromised behind the potted palms before one requires fortification.”

He raised his glass, and she found herself moving closer to the fire. The library was warm despite the December chill, but she suddenly craved the heat. Or perhaps she simply wanted to be closer to another human being who seemed as disinclined towards the festivities as she felt.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the chair opposite his.

“Please.” He settled back into his own chair with the easy grace of someone who was completely comfortable in their own skin. As she arranged her skirts, he studied her with those disconcertingly perceptive blue eyes. “Though I confess I’m surprised to see you seeking refuge. I had the impression you were rather more tolerant of society’s demands than I am.”

“Perhaps my tolerance has limits after all,” she said lightly.

“Mmm.” He took a sip of brandy, watching her over the rim of the glass. Then, seemingly coming to some decision, he leaned forward slightly. “Would you care for some? I promise it’s significantly better than the punch being served in the ballroom.”

She should refuse. Ladies didn’t drink brandy, particularly alone with gentlemen in darkened libraries. But tonight… Tonight she felt reckless in a way she never had before.

“Please.”

If her acceptance surprised him, he didn’t show it. He rose and moved to a small table near the bookshelves where a decanter sat. Quickly, he poured a measure into a second glass. Not as much as his own, she noted, but not an insultingly small amount either. He was treating her as someone who could handle it, not some delicate flower who needed protecting, and for some reason she appreciated that.

When he handed her the glass, their fingers brushed briefly. The contact sent an odd little flutter through her stomach that she firmly ignored.

“Thank you.” She lifted the glass to her lips and took a small sip.

The brandy burned down her throat like liquid fire, stealing her breath and making her eyes water. She managed—barely—not to cough, but Dash’s quiet chuckle suggested he’d noticed her distress.

“First time?” His tone was teasing, but not unkind.

“That obvious?”

“Only slightly.” He settled back into his chair, stretching his long legs towards the fire. “Fair warning, brandy is not meant to be gulped. Sip it slowly. Let it warm you.”

Taking his advice, she attempted a smaller sip. The burn was still there, but this time she could taste something underneath it. Something rich and complex that seemed to spread warmth through her chest. It wasn’t pleasant, exactly, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant either.

They fell into companionable silence, the crackle of the fire and the distant strains of music from the ballroom the only sounds. Dash stared into the flickering flames. There was something almost brooding about his expression, a darkness that sat oddly on features she’d only ever seen arranged in charming smiles or mischievous grins. Was there more to the charming rogue than met the eye?

Perhaps he had his own reasons for hiding tonight. They were in his brother’s house. Maybe watching the happiness between the Duke and Duchess of Westbourne was grating on him the same way she felt watching her friends. Though perhaps not. Dash didn’t strike her as someone who longed to find love and settle down.

He was unattached. Deliberately so. Society whispered about him in the same breathless quality used for scandal and seduction, and he wore the rumours like a second skin. Lord Anthony Dashcombe: rake, rogue, temptation made flesh.

And unlike her, he was free. Free to choose his pleasure. Free to walk away. Free to want nothing at all.

While she had not even been kissed. And soon every freedom she possessed would belong to Lord Kingsleigh. Every future kiss, every intimacy… would belong to a man she abhorred.

The thought made her take another sip of brandy, larger this time. The burn felt appropriate somehow.

She studied Dash’s profile in the firelight. The strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows as he stared into the flames. A mad, impossible thought resurfaced in her mind. One she’d had before since her father announced his plans for her impending nuptials. She’d dismissed it as lunacy.

Except… was it really so mad?

Dash might be the perfect man to approach about this. He was experienced. Careful. And despite everything society whispered about him, she trusted him not to be cruel. If she were to make a reckless choice, better it be with a man who knew both discretion and pleasure.

It would be madness though, wouldn’t it?

She glanced at him again. He’d shifted slightly, his hand coming up to his dark strands in a gesture of frustration or exhaustion or both. The movement pulled his evening coat taut across his shoulders, and she couldn’t help but reflect on how broad they were, how the garment fit him like it had been sewn onto his body.

Heat crept up her neck. Oh, he’d be perfect.

But this was ridiculous. She could not possibly…

“I want you to ruin me.”

The words escaped before she could stop them, hanging in the air between them like a tangible thing. Dash’s hand froze halfway through raking through his hair, his entire body going still.

Then he laughed.

It was a short, startled sound, almost disbelieving. Turning to her, that charming smile played at his lips as if she’d just told him an excellent joke.

“I beg your pardon?”

The amusement in his voice made something hot and sharp lance through her chest. Humiliation. And anger at being dismissed so readily. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly.

“You heard me.”

His smile faltered, and his blue eyes searched her face. She wasn’t jesting, wasn’t foxed, wasn’t doing anything except ask him for something she desperately needed.

“Christ, Nell.” He’d never used her nickname before, only ever addressing her properly as Miss Ainsworth, and something about hearing it now—rough and low, almost intimate—sent gooseflesh racing across her skin. He set down his glass and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What brought this on?”

Retreating would be the proper choice. Laughing it off as the brandy talking. Gather the tattered remains of her dignity and flee back to the ballroom where she belonged.

Instead, she took another sip of liquid courage and said quietly, “My father has arranged a marriage for me. To settle his gambling debts. I’m to wed Lord Kingsleigh soon. I got my father to agree to wait until the start of the Season, but it will come sooner rather than later.”

Any amusement vanished from Dash’s face, replaced by something darker. “Kingsleigh? The viscount?”

“The very same.”

“But he’s—” He cut himself off, jaw working. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

“And then some.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Widowed twice over as well. Apparently, he has a fondness for young, pretty things, and my father owes him a rather substantial sum. I am the payment.”

“Bloody hell.” Dash stood abruptly, pacing to the fire and bracing one hand against the mantelpiece. The firelight cast his profile in sharp relief, highlighting the tension in his shoulders. “What is your father thinking?”

“That he will be debt free.” She shrugged, trying to appear calm while, really, on the inside she was nothing but knots of anxiety and dread. “This is my future, and I’m resigned to it. But I…” She hesitated. “Perhaps I am a fool, but I wish to experience passion at least once before I marry someone who will never care for my pleasure. And don’t try to tell me Lord Kingsleigh will prove to be a kind and attentive husband. We both know better.”

“I wouldn’t insult your intelligence with such platitudes.” His voice was rough. He turned to face her, and something in his expression made her breath catch. “But Nell… what you’re asking… It’s impossible.”

“Why?” She stood as well, needing to meet him on equal footing. “You have a reputation for being a rake. Surely one more woman wouldn’t—”

“You’re not ‘one more woman.’” He cut her off, dragging a hand through his hair again. “You’re an innocent. A friend. Do you have any idea what would happen if we were discovered? Your reputation would be destroyed beyond all repair, and I—” He stopped himself.

“You don’t ruin innocents,” she finished flatly. “Yes, I’m aware of your code of honour. How noble.”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharp. “Don’t mock what you don’t understand. I’ve spent years being very careful about who I take to my bed precisely to avoid situations like this.”

“Forgive me.” His rejection stung more than it should have. She’d known it was a mad idea, known he’d likely refuse, but hearing him say it aloud made something crack inside her chest. “I should never have asked. I’ll trouble you no further.”

She made it three steps towards the door before his voice stopped her.

“Wait.” There was some shuffling behind her, but she refused to turn around, too mortified by his rejection. “Where are you going?”

“To find someone else.” Dash might not want her, but she was determined to experience a kiss—and ideally a lot more—before having to marry Kingsleigh. “Surely there is someone at this house party who would be willing to accommodate me. Lord Wickersley, perhaps. Or that baronet who keeps staring at my decolletage.”

“Like hell you will.” His hand closed around her wrist. The contact sent heat racing up her arm. “Bloody hell, woman, you can’t approach just anyone with a proposition like that. Do you understand what some of them would do if they thought they had your consent? The liberties they would take? Wickersley frequents places you’d never dare set your foot, and that baronet owes money all over town.”

She tried to pull away, but his grip, while gentle, was firm. “What does it matter? In a few months, I’ll be Lord Kingsleigh’s property anyway. His to do with as he pleases. At least if I choose my own ruination, I’ll have that.”

“That’s insane logic.”

“Is it?” She spun to face him, and the sudden movement brought them far too close. Now she could smell him, brandy and something masculine and indefinable that made her pulse quicken. “I have only until the start of the Season before I become his third wife. I’ll be trapped in a marriage where my only purpose is to provide him with an heir and whatever else his particular tastes require. Anything is better than living my life never having known what passion tastes like.”

Dash stared down at her, his blue eyes dark in the firelight. Something flickered across his face, and his jaw worked as if he were fighting some internal battle.

“This is madness,” he said finally, but his voice had lost its conviction.

“Possibly.” She held his gaze, refusing to look away. “But I’m asking anyway. I trust you, Dash. I trust that you wouldn’t hurt me, that you wouldn’t use this against me. And I trust that you know what you’re doing.” She paused, then added quietly, “I can’t say that about anyone else.”

With a frustrated huff, his grip on her wrist loosened but he did not release her. “Damn it all to hell.”

Hope, dangerous and desperate, fluttered in her chest. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a…” He closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for strength or sanity… or both. When he opened them again, they burned with an intensity that sent off a fluttering in her abdomen. Oh, this might be more dangerous than she’d thought. “God help me, it’s not a no. But Nell, if we do this—and I cannot believe I am even considering this—there must be rules.”

“Rules?” Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears she was certain he must hear it too.

“Yes.” Releasing her, he stepped back, putting distance between them as if he needed space to think clearly. “First. Absolute discretion. We meet only when it’s safe and where we won’t be discovered. If there’s any risk at all, we stop immediately. I won’t have your reputation destroyed.”

“Agreed.” Why was her voice so breathless?

“Second,” he continued, holding up two fingers, his expression serious, almost stern. “The moment you ask me to stop, I stop. No questions, no persuasion, no attempting to change your mind. Your consent is paramount, and you can withdraw it at any time. Do you understand?”

The concern in his voice made something warm unfurl in her chest. “I understand. And… I assume the same is true for you? If you ask to stop?”

A grin flashed across his face, there and gone so quick she almost missed it. “I don’t believe that will be an issue.”

“Oh, right.” Her cheeks heated as she remembered how much more experienced he was compared to her. The suggestion must have been ridiculous. That she would push any of his boundaries. Did he even have any? She’d heard all sorts of rumours about him and the establishments and private parties he attended.

“And finally…” He stepped closer again, and she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Why had she never realised quite how tall he was before? It probably was no surprise since his brother was a veritable giant, but still… She’d never before been close enough or cared enough to really register this simple fact. “This is purely physical. An arrangement. We’re not falling in love. We’re not building a future. I’m giving you a few stolen kisses before you’re forced into marriage. That’s all this can be.”

“That’s all I want it to be.”

It was true. She had no grand aspirations of falling in love. With anyone. There was no escape from this arranged marriage, and so falling in love with someone else would be an endeavour in hopelessness. She had no interest in such things. All she wanted was to know the embrace of a man she didn’t abhor before all such things would end.

“I’m not naive enough to believe in fairy tale endings, Dash.” She smiled wryly. “And I do not mean to offend you, but you’re the last person I would fall in love with. I simply want to know what I’ll be missing.”

And perhaps have some inspiration for her secret little projects.

An amused smile touched his lips. “You wound me,” he said, his tone lighter now, approaching his usual teasing tone. “I am very lovable.”

“I’m sure,” she muttered. “But I am not usually keen on rakes. However, for my current pursuits, you are exceedingly suitable. Why should I waste my time with someone who might be a terrible kisser and…” She hesitated. While she might be considered brazen in some regards, and certainly, her mind was not so innocent as her body, but there was something oddly… intimate… about saying the word ‘lover’ in front of him.

He raised a dark brow. “And?”

“…and lover,” she continued more quietly, her cheeks burning. “When I can go straight to someone who has plenty of experience and by all accounts knows how to pleasure a woman.”

“So I am good enough to ruin you, but not good enough to fall in love with?” He chuckled darkly. “Ouch, Miss Ainsworth. Ouch, indeed.”

Was he actually hurt by her assessment or was he simply jesting and teasing as always? She couldn’t tell. He’d even reverted to addressing her properly. She missed the way he said her name.

“I… I am sure you’re perfectly suitable for someone else to fall in love with.” Ugh, why was she trying to defend her statements? “I am just not her.”

“Not to worry.” He was grinning now. Damn him, he’d worried her for a moment. “I have no intentions of marrying any time soon, so we are on the same page.”

“So… do we have an agreement?” She held out her hand as if they were sealing a business contract rather than agreeing to something that could ruin her reputation if they were found out.

With a smirk, he took it. She hadn’t expected his hand to be quite so large wrapping around hers, or his skin to be so warm. The contact sent that strange flutter through her stomach again, more pronounced now.

“We have an agreement, Miss Ainsworth.”