The Rogue Prince (14 page)

Maggie bit back a refusal, her thoughts a tangle of confusion. First Kimbridge, now Thomas. Two men with differing agendas for her, but both intending to use her for their own purposes.

She drew up short, realizing she had to be honest—with herself, at least. She'd intended to use Thomas for the very same purpose from which she'd been spurned that very afternoon.

She wasn't ready to face him. And yet she said, “Of course.”

But the opportunity did not present itself right away, for Thomas and Mr. Beraza split up, each one drawing his own following. The women fawned
over Thomas, flapping their fans and fluttering their lashes, while the men bowed and gave him their utmost attention.

Maggie tried to squash her immediate reaction to seeing him, but her heart thudded in her chest and her pulse pounded in her ears. The thought of his intimate touch brought a blush to her cheeks, and she tried to dismiss it, even as she anticipated the moment when his gaze would light upon her.

Would she see the longing that she felt to the core of her being? Would his eyes show some regret for the lost opportunity that afternoon?

He gave his attention to his companions, looking over the crowd only sporadically. No doubt there were matters of great importance for a prince to discuss with the ministers of government, and Maggie had experienced the power of his undivided attention. He held them rapt, even as his gaze met hers, but suddenly stopped speaking. He looked at her with his mouth agape, and absolute shock in his eyes.

 

Tom recovered himself quickly, in spite of the sour burn that rose to his throat.
Maggie Danvers could not possibly be speaking to Major Foveaux
. His immediate pleasure at seeing her was ruffed by the sight of the vile commandant of Norfolk Island. The man had personally overseen three of Tom's most brutal floggings, and had quite obviously taken intense pleasure in the fatal beating of Duncan Meriwether. The man was the devil incarnate, and it would be all Thomas could do to
refrain from dragging the bastard out to the mews behind the Sawbrooke house and shoving his fist down his throat.

“If you'll excuse us a moment.” It was Nate's voice, and Tom felt his friend's hand on his arm as he drew him aside.

“It's him,” said Nate. “Foveaux.”

Tom sucked in a deep breath, hardly able to believe his eyes. “We heard he was dead.”

“The rumors were obviously wrong. What are we going to do?”

“He won't know us,” Tom replied, tamping down his shock and his fury. He felt as though he'd used up all his patience in dealing with Shefford during their encounter at Delamere House, and seeing Foveaux now was beyond the limits of his tolerance.

“How can you be sure?” Nate was always the calm one, coolly adding his insights to Tom's plans. But Nate's worry now was palpable.

Foveaux was directly responsible for far too many deaths. He'd had absolute control over the prisoners on the island, and every one of them had suffered because of him. Not just the men, but the women prisoners and children, old and young. The commandant had had no conscience whatsoever.

“It's been years,” said Tom, forcing a calm he did not feel. “We were half starved lads when he last saw us. We neither look nor speak anything like the poor young rips who were under his control all those years ago.”

He watched Nate compose himself. “Aye. You're right. He couldn't possibly remember us.”

Thomas's mind raced. He had never considered the possibility of encountering Foveaux again, not when they'd heard he'd died in some sort of uprising. Tom would be perfectly justified in killing the bastard with his bare hands if it were possible…But Tom was a civilized man. As satisfying as such brutal violence would feel, he was not the animal Foveaux was.

“What do you think about causing the bastard some financial difficulties?” Tom asked.

“I'll ask Saret to look into it right away.”

“It shouldn't be too difficult to find out where he keeps his money. And what his vices are.”

“You mean something besides the sight of a back laid bare and bloody from the lash?” Nate said bitterly.

“What do you think? Should we approach him now?” Tom asked, more calmly than he felt. The tracks of his own scars burned as he looked at the man.

“Christ, no.”

Tom ignored Nate and faced his old nemesis. It was nothing short of bizarre to see Foveaux now, when Tom had significant status and power. It felt so very different from those years on Norfolk Island, when he was subject to the whims of every prison official and guard.

Foveaux was an old man now. And he was a good deal smaller than Tom remembered him. He had no authority here, and even if he suspected he knew Tom and Nate from the penal island, he
would never trust his memory on it. Not when he was looking at Tom in his princely garb.

“He's talking to Lady Blackmore,” said Tom, bolstering his nerves. “I think I'll join them.” He walked away from Nate and started toward Maggie's group as Nate composed himself and rejoined Lord Castlereagh and some of the other men they'd accompanied from Brook's.

Maggie regarded him pensively, her eyes darkening as he came near, and he understood her reticence. He had not lived up to his promise of an afternoon of shared pleasure, and he regretted it as much as she appeared to.

If she was having second thoughts about their affair, she was fully justified, though Tom believed—hoped—he could convince her otherwise. But for now, he could not afford to focus his attention on Maggie while Major Foveaux stood so close, glowering at him.

Tom locked eyes with the old commandant as he approached, wondering if perhaps he had not changed as much as he thought he had. His credibility as the Sabedorian prince could be lost with one word from Foveaux, but Tom decided it would not happen. As he'd said to Nate, it had been a long time ago since they'd stood before Foveaux while he dispensed his vicious punishments. Tom had been little more than a boy at the time, and powerless against the old tyrant.

“Your Highness, what a surprise,” said Maggie, her voice tight, her manner polite in the extreme. He could see that his work was cut out for him.

“Lady Blackmore, it's a pleasure to see you.” He took her hand and bowed over it, then moved to her side, her presence surprisingly calming. She wore an elegant gown of a color that reminded him of a ripe peach, and made him hunger for the sensation of her peach-soft skin against his. The gown had short sleeves and a daringly low neckline that clung enchantingly to all her curves. Tom blew out a surreptitious breath of appreciation and tried to dismiss his burning hatred for Foveaux for the moment, while he gazed into her vexed eyes.

He shared her frustration. Their afternoon had not gone as Thomas would have wished, either, and he despised that the desire that surged through him had to mingle with the loathing he felt for Foveaux. He did not think there was anything in the world that could make him forget the horrors of Norfolk Island, and Foveaux had been largely responsible for the brutal conditions there.

And yet Maggie's presence took the raw edge from his intense hatred. He found that he could speak normally and look Foveaux in the eye with confidence, divulging nothing of his secrets. Somehow, he even managed to refrain from ripping Foveaux's sword from his side and running him through, all at once.

Tom realized he needed to manage Maggie carefully throughout the evening so that she would not reject him altogether. She was justified in doubting the seriousness of his advances, and it was up to him to reassure her. Which he would do. Later.

Now, he had to make the most of this chance meeting with Foveaux.

He greeted Lady Ranfield, whom he had met on the previous evening at the Waverly ball. Maggie's posture remained stiff as she turned partially toward him, without looking into his eyes. “May I introduce you to my friends, Lord Teversal and his wife, Lady Nettie Teversal.”

Thomas made the appropriate gestures of greeting, and when Maggie introduced him to now-General Foveaux and his wife, he did the same.

“Have we met, Your Highness?” Foveaux asked, and Tom could almost see the wheels of his brain turning. Tom's face was familiar to him, but it had been thirteen years since he was an inmate at Norfolk. Tom reassured himself that the old commandant couldn't possibly remember him.

At the same time, Tom could not help but enjoy the words “Your Highness” on Foveaux's lips. He almost wished he'd established a more demeaning form of obeisance for those who greeted him, if only for this moment. Tom would have dearly loved to see Foveaux on his knees before him.

“Have you ever been to Sabedoria, General?” he asked.

“I am forced to admit I had never even heard of it before I read about you in the newspaper,” Foveaux replied with doubt in his tone.

“And you Englishmen are said to be such explorers.” Tom tried for a blend of curiosity with facetiousness.

Foveaux reddened with the direct hit to his En
glish pride. “I
have
done some extensive traveling.”

Tom grinned. “It's strange that no British ships discovered our isle on any of their travels in the South Seas,” he said, glad for the opportunity to berate the British marines who'd manned the prison ships and “kept order” on the isle under Foveaux's command, the bloodthirsty scoundrels.

“I would say so, yes,” Foveaux said, and Thomas greatly enjoyed the helpless scowl on the man's face. “I say, your English is remarkably good for a…a foreign-born gentleman”

Tom resisted the urge to look away. “Aye. We learned from some well-versed teachers.” He changed the subject. “I understand you tried growing flax on one of your prison islands south of my country.”

Foveaux's flush deepened. Flax production had essentially failed on Norfolk Island, and Tom knew the commandant would not enjoy being reminded of it, in addition to Britain's failure to discover Sabedoria.

“No. No, you are correct. The endeavor on the island did not yield what we'd hoped.”

“We Sabedorians might have saved you a great deal of time and trouble,” Tom said, enjoying his ability to rankle Foveaux. “But of course your ships still have not reached our shores.”

Foveaux cleared his throat and was saved from having to respond by the appearance of another guest. He was a bland-featured, fair-complexioned man about Tom's age. He bowed to Maggie, whose eyes darted from her friend, Lady Victoria, up to
Tom, then back again, clearly unnerved by the man.

If Tom's hackles rose any higher, they would lift him off the floor.

“Lady Blackmore! What a delight to see you here!” the man said.

“Mr. Kimbridge, how do you do?” Maggie replied, returning his bow. Her jaw was set tight, and Tom bristled at the notion that Kimbridge might have done her some harm in the past.

“Lord Shefford never mentioned that you would be attending the musicale,” he said.

“It is not my habit to inform Lord Shefford of my comings and goings,” she said curtly, and Tom touched his mouth briefly to cover his smile.

She introduced Kimbridge to their small group, but the man took little note of Tom, of his prodigious title or the impressively royal costume he'd donned for his meeting at the fashionable men's club. Kimbridge was entirely focused on Maggie, taking her arm in an attempt to draw her away.

“The music is about to start,” Kimbridge said. “Please do me the honor of sitting with me, Lady Blackmore.”

“You are too late, Kimbridge,” Tom said, having gone far past amusement with the bloody rascal and on to frank irritation. “I've already asked the lady to join me.”

Maggie slipped her hand through the crook of Kimbridge's elbow and stared straight into the other man's eyes. “I would be most pleased to have you accompany us, Mr. Kimbridge.”

M
aggie avoided Victoria's questioning eyes. How could she explain the situation with Thomas to her very proper friend? Victoria would be scandalized.

And Maggie hardly understood it herself.

“Thank you, Lady Blackmore,” said Mr. Kimbridge, taking her hand again and kissing it dramatically. “I've been hoping to see you ever since I heard you were in Town.”

“Oh?” Maggie doubted that very much. Kimbridge hadn't shown the slightest interest in her until Shefford had told him how easily she could be duped. If her brother had his way, she would become a doormat all over again.

She did not care to be anywhere near Mr. Kimbridge and his dreadful fawning. She'd heard enough of his conversation with Shefford to know she wanted naught to do with him. Under any circumstances. And yet Thomas's presence and his proprietary assumptions had jarred the ill-advised invitation from her lips.

She hoped Mr. Kimbridge's presence would dis
courage Thomas from thinking he had any further chance with her. Perhaps if he was aware of another admirer, he would withdraw his attentions. She could not go through another night feeling as though she might crawl out of her skin for lack of his kiss, of his intimate touch.

General Foveaux and his wife went away to take their seats, and Lord Ranfield came back to join Victoria, who seemed to have stopped trying to figure out what was going on between Maggie and Thomas. Still, she stayed close, claiming the available pair of seats that were directly behind the one Maggie had chosen for herself.

“My lady, may I say you are looking particularly lovely this evening,” Mr. Kimbridge said.

“Thank you,” she replied, though she took no pleasure in his words or his whiskey-laden scent. She added his tendency to over-imbibe to the list of his faults.

“I trust you are finding London to your liking.”

“Not particularly, Mr. Kimbridge,” she replied. Thomas stood so close that she could smell his subtle, appealing scent, and Maggie fought the urge to close her eyes and inhale deeply of him. “I am most anxious to return to Cambridgeshire.”

“Ah, yes. Blackmore Manor.” Kimbridge frowned as though he just realized exactly what she'd said. “But you must find it terribly dull in the country.”

“Not at all, Mr. Kimbridge. It's peaceful and quiet there. I very much prefer it to Town.”

“I believe I visited there once,” said Kimbridge.

Maggie recalled the visit, and the fact that she had not cared for him much. He'd drunk too much even then, had laughed too loudly with an oddly forced conviviality, and had played a vile game of tossing her little son into the air and catching him. Julian had not put a stop to the dangerous sport in spite of Maggie's entreaties.

She always wished that Julian remain at home with their family in Cambridgeshire, but since he seldom came home alone, Maggie never did mind his leaving when it meant that he took his dreadful friends away with him.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit out to Delamere House today,” said Thomas.

“Yes, of course,” Maggie replied tersely. “You have a very fine estate.”

“I believe the children were entertained.”

Maggie tipped her head slightly, but could not bring herself to look at him. She feared she might very well be lost if she did. “They enjoyed the pony ride. Even Lily, who is not very daring at all.”

She wished she had not used that word—daring—and tried to ignore the frisson of awareness in her lower back and the tightness in her chest. She was no more daring than her little daughter.

And yet, even Lily had climbed readily into Thomas's arms.

“I hope they'll come back one day soon.”

Her eyes flew up to his face then, and his expression confused her. Nothing about this affair was clear, and she feared her emotions would not settle down until she put some distance between them.

But it would not be possible yet, not while Kimbridge flanked her on the left and Thomas on her right. She sat down between them, refusing to allow Thomas's proximity to reduce her to a raging puddle of need. He had made it abundantly clear that he'd reconsidered his proposition. And yet—

“If you enjoy the country,” Thomas said quietly, “you would enjoy Sabedoria.”

His voice sent shivers of longing through her, even though his words were not an invitation for her to go away with him. It was just another sensual trap, one she was unwilling to fall into again. She managed a courteous, distant reply. “It is pastoral, then?”

“Very. Plenty of open land, and our cities are not as crowded or as noisy as London.”

Kimbridge leaned forward and spoke to Thomas. “But your country is upside down, is it not?”

“I beg your pardon?” Thomas said.

“As I understand it, Sabedoria is at the bottom of the world.”

“Some would say
this
part of the world is the bottom,” Thomas replied in a wry tone. “But yes, Sabedoria is very far south.”

“I'm not much given to travel,” said Kimbridge. “Don't like ships.”

“Weak stomach?”

“Of course not!”

Maggie suppressed a smile at Mr. Kimbridge's indignation. Perhaps his stomach tolerated rough seas, but the wind might disturb his thickly po
maded hair, and the itinerary would certainly interfere with his schedule of foolish entertainments. Gambling and womanizing, no doubt, just like Julian.

Lord Ranfield leaned forward and spoke to Thomas. “How long a journey is it to sail to England from your country?”

“Six months.”

“Oh my,” said Victoria. “I cannot imagine such a long time on shipboard!”

“You would be surprised what a person can withstand, my lady,” Thomas said solemnly.

“How is your climate?” Ranfield asked.

“Warm all year,” he replied. “But we have a rainy season in spring—which would be your autumn.”

“Really,” Victoria said, thoroughly engaged. “So everything is reversed?”

Thomas nodded, adding nothing more.

“How long will you be staying in England?” she asked.

Thomas gave an engaging shrug. “We haven't yet decided.”

Victoria nudged her husband. “Charles, you should invite the prince to our house party this summer.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Ranfield said. “We always have a party at the end of the season at Ranfield Court. If your schedule will allow it, we'd be honored to count you among our guests.”

“I will see what Mr. Ochoa has put on my schedule,” said Thomas. “Thank you.”

Maggie had a sudden, vague inkling that Thomas
had some reason, other than trading Sabedorian flax, for coming to England. He clearly had more wealth than any nobleman she could name, and she wondered if all of Sabedoria was so prosperous. If so, they would have no need to sell their flax to England.

He was not hostile, and the English ministers seemed to have welcomed him gladly. So his purpose was not war, thank heavens. England had had enough of that during most of Maggie's adult years.

She wondered about the Sabedorian language and culture, and how Thomas had come by his name. It sounded altogether English, and yet his country was on the other side of the world. Perhaps it was an English version of a Sabedorian name.

“Lady Blackmore,” Kimbridge said, shifting in his seat so that Maggie was forced to turn from Thomas, thereby shutting him out of the conversation. Facing him so closely, she saw that his eyes were bloodshot, reinforcing her unflattering opinion of him. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a drive in the park tomorrow?”

“A drive?” Maggie said, dubiously. She wanted nothing to do with him.

Kimbridge smiled forcefully. “Yes. In the park.”

She felt Thomas at her back, could almost see his arms crossing his chest as though he had any right to dictate her activities.

“A drive would be lovely,” she said to Kimbridge, and wished she could bite her tongue the instant the
words came out of her mouth. She had no desire to go on an outing with such an odious companion, but some contrary part of her had insisted upon demonstrating her disinterest in Thomas.

The quartet took up their instruments and started tuning. “Cancel it, Maggie,” Thomas whispered near her ear, and Maggie shivered. “Meet me tomorrow. Alone.”

The voices quieted as the music started, and Maggie could not recall ever feeling more uncomfortable than she did at that moment.

“I apologize for this afternoon,” he said, as quietly as before, the instruments masking his voice.

Maggie's breath caught.

She knew better than to credit his words. There had been no reason for him to include her children on their trip to his estate. If he had truly wanted to spend time alone with her, he could have done so that afternoon. He had chosen not to.

He spoke quietly again. “I neglected to consider how many people would be present at my estate today and would take note your arrival.”

She swallowed at the implication of his words. Turning to him then, she was sure there must be unspoken questions in her eyes.

“I did not care to have any of my men speculating about you.”

Maggie made no reply, feeling flattered at first, that he had considered her reputation. But then she became wary, and perhaps a little bit cynical. She'd swallowed many a tale told by her husband, and
never received any serious answers to her questions about the estate, or the tenants and livestock. And she knew where that had gotten her.

No man was ever going to make such a fool of her again.

She turned to face forward, and focused on the quartet that was midway through Haydn's lovely concerto, admonishing herself to pay closer attention to it. To relax and try to enjoy it, in spite of Thomas's provocative words.

The soft candlelight reflected all the glittering jewels in the room, and the starched white of the gentlemen's collars. Maggie felt overly warm in Lady Sawbrooke's music room, even with her arms and half her chest exposed in Stella's satin evening gown.

She found it difficult to relax, feeling entirely out of her element beside the most fascinating man in the room. A man who had acted to protect her reputation, if she could believe him.

She ached for his touch, certain it was the only thing that could end the torture of the heavy physical awareness she felt. Her body drifted toward his, as though tugged by some unseen magnet. She felt his heat beyond their small point of contact at the shoulders, and it seared through her entire body. When he shifted slightly in order to touch her hand, she felt as though she were on fire.

She dreaded another night of denying needs she hadn't known she possessed.

The concerto ended and the room erupted in applause. “I believe I've done us both a great disser
vice,” Thomas said, his words drifting softly to her ear. “I want you.”

They were exactly the words that could incite her, and dear God, she did not even care if anyone heard him. As she clapped her hands in applause for the performance, she tried to temper her thoughts and the urgings of her body, for it was all impossible. She was a respectable woman, certainly not meant to be paramour to any man, but especially not the prince of Sabedoria.

 

Maggie's rose fragrance had not left Tom since he kissed her that afternoon at Delamere House. Her scent reminded him of the sunshine and abundant fresh air at his estate in New York. Tom had no doubt she would enjoy Thorne's Gate far more than she cared for Julian's holdings in Cambridgeshire.

Significantly more than any absurd drive in the park with Kimbridge.

The Englishman's attentions should not matter, but Tom could not help being annoyed by the way the man gaped at her. As though she were a pastry he could not wait to taste.

He forced himself to retreat, releasing his tight grip from his knees. Easing back slightly, he listened as the next piece of music began. It was Maggie's decision whether or not to accompany Kimbridge, but there was no reason why Tom couldn't ride through the park at the same time she would be there. He could ride the entire bloody day if he wished.

He turned slightly and caught Foveaux's glance,
and the commandant made no attempt to disguise his direct stare. Tom managed not to recoil from those piercing eyes, meeting the man's stare head-on. He allowed himself the slightest hint of a smile, remembering that he was the one with the power now, not Foveaux. Tom had a feeling the man would eventually remember why he and Nate looked familiar, in spite of their assumed names. In their days on Norfolk Island, the old commandant had never forgotten anything.

It was only a matter of time before he figured out Tom's true identity.

He hoped the old commandant wouldn't do or say anything foolish. Tom's incredible wealth should protect him from any rash statements Foveaux might make, for who would ever believe a convict could amass the riches Tom possessed? And which of the English foreign ministers would care to admit they'd been duped?

Even the fiction of Sabedoria was impossible to disprove. There was a tangled maze of islands northwest of Botany Bay. It was entirely possible that no European ships had ever encountered the location that Thomas had given for his island home. He was safe for the time being.

Foveaux was not, however. Mark Saret had the connections to investigate the state of the general's finances and from there, they could figure a way to do him a vast amount of damage. It was an opportunity Tom could not let alone, for the bastard deserved nothing less for his treatment of the convicts on Norfolk Island.

Tom looked away from Foveaux and turned to the far more pleasant occupation of observing Maggie. Her lips were full and pink, her skin as smooth as alabaster except for the light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. He knew how sweet her skin tasted and remembered how those alluring freckles blanketed her shoulders.

He meant to taste them again.

She kept her hands properly folded in her lap, her ivory gloves shielding every inch of her skin from her fingertips to a few inches above her elbows. Tom would never have believed the sight of a woman's bare hands could be erotic, but when he remembered Maggie placing one of hers on his full erection, he reacted with an immediate tightness in his groin. He suppressed a groan at his reaction and turned his thoughts to something—
anything
—that was less arousing.