A Rogue’s Pleasure (19 page)

“Oh, Chelsea. What have you done to me?”

He rubbed against her, his manhood chafing her softness.

And suddenly he was the one in danger of losing control, of being taken prisoner.

He broke off the kiss.

In the dim light, Chelsea's angry eyes glittered. “I d-don't need s-saving,” she repeated between heavy breaths.

Her mouth, swollen from his assault, no longer owed its rosy hue to paint; her cheeks, burned bright, were scoured of rouge.

He reached for her. “You have no notion of the type of man you're dealing with.”

“At the moment, I would say a rather brutish one.” She cast a pointed look at his fingers still wound about her upper arm.

Anthony followed her gaze and scowled. He hadn't meant to hurt her. “I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me.” He shook his head, hoping to clear it. “But God, Chelsea, how you try me. Riffling through my personal papers…I'd thought we'd moved beyond that.”

She bit her bottom lip. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't you? Am I to believe my invitation to tonight's fete sprouted legs and walked off my desk?”

“Oh, that. I found it lying atop a pile of papers. You said you weren't coming, so I didn't think there would be any harm in my borrowing it.”

“And that gown. Did you borrow it as well?”

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. Finally she admitted, “Actually I purchased it, or rather you did.”

Had she worn it for him, he would have gladly bought her a closet full. But she hadn't. She hadn't even expected him to be here. Jealousy surged through him, dissipating desire.

“I see. It's very daring.” He sneered, deliberately fixing his gaze on her breasts.

Face flushed, she said, “I'd hardly make a convincing courtesan buttoned to my chin.”

“So that's your game, is it? Lucky Ambrose.” His tone dripped with bitterness, but he was too wounded to care. “Given the shameless way you've been behaving, I collect you mean to lift your skirts for him here, or will you wait until he takes you to his bed?”

She looked as though he'd struck her. “That is the cruelest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

He ached to recall the scathing accusation, but it was too late. And why should he when she had as good as admitted that she planned to sleep with his enemy?

“Do you deny that he's invited you back to his house? He has, hasn't he?”

“That is none of your affair.”

“Meaning I'm right. Tell me, Chelsea, have you decided that having a wealthy protector may not be so
loathsome
after all?”

She regarded him, lips pursed, eyes snapping. “I suppose that would depend on the protector.”

“And you fancy Ambrose?”

She shrugged, which did interesting things to the cleavage edging out of her bodice. “He is not unattractive.”

She was the worst liar he'd ever known. “Dare I say a certain rare coin collection is behind this sudden attraction?”

Tight-lipped silence greeted the question.

“I thought so. And is your plan to give yourself to him and then claim a priceless coin as your reward?”

“Don't be insulting. I plan to steal it, of course, and then leave.”

It was a harebrained scheme, fated to fail, and yet the realization that she didn't intend to turn whore was an inestimable relief.

“This may surprise you, but not every man is prepared to show my…restraint. Some men, when they have been brought to a certain—how shall I say this—level of excitement, will not honor a woman's last-minute change of heart.”

Even in the encroaching darkness, there was no mistaking the berry blush branding her cheeks.

Encouraged, he continued. “Ambrose is not some country swain whose hand you can slap if he steps out of line. The man is totally amoral, the lowest of rogues.”

She rolled her eyes. “Surely you must realize how absurd that sounds coming from you.”

Anthony's jaw tightened. “At least I make no pretense of being other than what I am. And, unlike your good friend Lord Ambrose,
I
have never forced a woman.”

Her mouth formed a shocked circle. “Just what are you saying?”

“He forced himself on the sister of a friend of mine. Brutalized her, actually. One night Fanny showed up on my doorstep a bloody mess and with rope burns on her wrists.” He exhaled. “To make matters worse, there were…
consequences
.”

“Consequences?”

“A child, a little boy, whom even now Ambrose refuses to recognize.”

“What happened to him?”

He smiled when he thought of his godson. “Little Anthony just turned four. In spite of the circumstances of his birth, he is strong and healthy and very much loved.”

Her brows lifted. “Little Anthony?”

He looked away, torn between friendship and the desperate need to keep Chelsea safe.
“At first Fanny didn't want her family to know. Her brother, Peter, was one of my two best friends, and I felt closer to their parents than to my own. But the decision wasn't mine to make. I kept her secret and helped her as best I could until after Anthony was born and she struck up the nerve to go home. Naming the child after me was her way of thanking me, I suppose.”

Unfortunately it had also fueled the rumor, instigated by Ambrose, that Anthony had gotten Fanny
enceinte
and then deserted her. Small wonder buying colors and joining the fight against Napoleon had seemed so appealing.

“I'm sorry for what happened to your friend, truly I am. But I am not she. I can take care of myself…and my brother.”

She turned to go, but he caught her arm. “Don't do this, Chelsea. Don't go back to him. My carriage is just outside the front gate. I'll have Masters drive you home…or anywhere you like.”
Anywhere but here
. He was pleading now, no longer in control.

She shook her head. “The fireworks will be starting soon. I have to go back,” she said, mouth trembling.

It was no use. He let her go. He had to. Turning on her heel, she fled.

As soon as she disappeared, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake.
Go after her, you fool,
his instinct urged.

But, even if he caught her, what good would it do? She'd never listen to him. Knowing Ambrose as he did, if Anthony tried forcing her into leaving with him, he would be the one escorted to the gate.

Heading back up the path, he told himself that Chelsea Bellamy wasn't his problem. He'd warned her, even violated a friend's confidence to do so, and still she rebuffed him. Temper mounting, he told himself that she deserved what she got.

He didn't believe it for an instant.

The crowd inside the pavilion had thinned by the time he returned. He found Phoebe where he'd left her, alone now and looking miserable. Guilt pricked him, particularly when he recalled how close he'd come that afternoon to abandoning her. Since coming to London, he'd been too besotted by a certain flame-haired felon to give his fiancée much thought. Perhaps he should spend more time with her, get to know her. Perhaps, if he gave her a chance…

“Anthony, you've been gone an eternity. Nearly everyone's left for the fireworks.” She stared at his empty hands.

He flushed, recalling that he'd excused himself under the pretense of fetching food. He offered her his arm. “Then let's find a good spot to view them, shall we?”

Once outside the tent, he led her toward the South Walk at the outskirts of the park.

He pointed to a knoll overlooking the Thames. “We'll have the best view from over there.”

Panting, Phoebe lifted her skirts. “Must we go so far?”

“Just a few more paces,” Anthony encouraged, taking her hand.

They crested the hill and settled on a carved stone bench beside a folly of a Grecian temple. Strains of Handel's
Music for the Royal Fireworks
reached them from the orchestra pit in the Grove.

Facing him, she tilted her face upward and closed her eyes, his cue to claim the one chaste kiss it was her custom to permit at an evening's end. In the course of their courtship, he'd come to find the childlike gesture inordinately annoying, but never more so than now.

“The fireworks will be starting any minute,” he said harshly.

Her eyes flashed open. Her face registered hurt, perhaps even disappointment. Might Phoebe enjoy his kisses more than she let on? That night was as good a time as any to launch a small experiment.

He draped an arm about her thin shoulders and drew her closer. “You look very pretty tonight.”

Encouraged when she didn't move away, he brushed her mouth lightly with his. Nothing. He felt nothing. At that moment, he would have traded his good leg for the ability to rid himself of the heated memory of copper hair and turquoise eyes searing his brain.

Dammit, he was not going to allow his life to be turned topsy-turvy by any woman, particularly not a sharp-tongued shrew who'd made it abundantly clear that she didn't want his protection. Didn't want
him
.

He forced his attention back to the woman sitting stiff as a board in his arms, her mouth motionless beneath his own. Defiant, he swept his tongue along the seam of her closed lips.

Phoebe's eyes shot open. She scooted away.

“Really, milord!” A patch of pink stained each cheek. “I have never known you to be so…
familiar
.”

So much for the hope that he might be able to stir to life a feeble flame of passion between them. But then how could he when he himself had felt
nothing?

“Forgive me, Phoebe. I didn't mean to alarm you. But we are to be married in less than a fortnight. You must know that, on our wedding night, we will become very familiar indeed?”

Terror and something else—revulsion, perhaps—filled her eyes.

He tried again. “Surely your mother has explained…”

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. “Must we talk about this now? I was so looking forward to the fireworks, and now you're r-ruining everything.”

He exhaled heavily and handed her his handkerchief. “No, of course not.”

A trumpet blared, the signal that the fireworks were about to commence. Dread settled into the pit of his stomach. Fireworks, how he hated them. At least, if he lost control, there would be only Phoebe to witness his humiliation.

The first rocket fired. Anthony girded himself. The next moment, the black sky was ablaze.

Her upset forgotten, Phoebe clapped her hands. “Oh, how marvelous! It has a tail like a dragon.” She rattled his arm. “Don't you think it looks just like a dragon?”

He gripped the edge of the seat with both hands to keep from covering his ears. “The very image.”

Perspiration filmed his body. His evening clothes clung. Fear shrieked through him, urging him to flee or at least to take cover beneath the bench. Instead, he concentrated on sitting very still, gaze focused on his feet.

Next a girandole resplendent with fuchsias, ambers, greens, and oranges erupted over their heads, drumming a sick tattoo through his temples. He started trembling.

Get hold of yourself, man. It's only fireworks.

But it was so much more. Every explosion brought back the roar of the cannon and the crack of artillery. Every crimson tide sparked memories of fields and friends awash in blood. Even breathing the acrid air had his stomach tightening.

Oblivious, Phoebe's gaze was fixed heavenward. Every now and again she would pluck at his sleeve and remark on some particularly impressive specimen, but Anthony never looked
up, and she never noticed. Never noticed that his limbs trembled, his breathing came in shallow gulps, or that his hair clung to his perspiring forehead.

Never noticed the battle he was waging inside himself.

And then, silence. Like the eerie quiet that descended before a battle, this interlude was but the precursor to the greatest explosion of them all. Breath held and jaw clenched, Anthony waited. Suddenly it was upon him, the near deafening salvo of the display's grand finale. A hush fell. About them, faces turned skyward as the exploding missiles formed the British flag. The orchestra struck up “God Save the King,” and the crowd began to sing as the magnificent display dissolved into ash.

Anthony reached for his handkerchief and scoured his forehead. His heartbeat was still erratic, but he'd managed to get through the exhibition with Phoebe none the wiser.

Chelsea would not be so easy to fool. She would take one look at his face and know that something was wrong. Chelsea would have…

God, he had to find her. He'd been a fool to let passion and pride get in the way of saving her. This time, he'd carry her out kicking and screaming if need be.

Resolved, he stuffed the damp linen square back into his pocket and rose. “We should go back now.”

Even now, Chelsea might be struggling to free herself from Ambrose's lecherous embrace.

He helped Phoebe up and they started down the hill. Despite the limp, he increased his pace until Phoebe was tripping over her feet to keep up.

The strains of a waltz flitted through the night as they gained the pavilion. Anthony scanned the packed dance floor. There was no sign of Chelsea or Ambrose among the twirling couples. His gaze slid over the rest of the enclosure, already knowing he would not find her there.

An invisible fist smashed into his abdomen.

Chelsea was nowhere in sight.

He sighted Reggie by the dessert table, helping himself to a slice of the centerpiece cake, an elaborate rendering of the Parthenon. He hauled Phoebe toward her brother.

“I must get back immediately,” he said without preamble. “I need you to take Phoebe home.”

Around a mouthful of cake, Reggie said, “All right.”

Anthony slapped his friend's back. “Thank you.” To Phoebe, he said, “Forgive me, my dear, but this cannot wait.”