A Rogue by Any Other Name

Without hesitation.

So he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs. Up to decadence. Up to pleasure.

Chapter Nineteen

Dear M—

Today, I am twenty-six.

Twenty-six and unmarried—growing older and more wizened by the hour, despite what my mother likes to say in her high-pitched moments.

Eight years of seasons, and not one decent match . . . a shabby record for the eldest daughter of the House of Needham and Dolby. This morning, over breakfast, I saw the disappointment in all their gazes.

But, knowing what my options have been, I found I couldn’t bring myself to agree with their censure.

I am a bad daughter, indeed.

Unsigned

Needham Manor, August 1828

Letter unsent

The stairs led to the owners’ suite.

Michael set her on her feet just inside the secret doorway that opened at the top of the passage, closing it securely behind them before moving with quick grace to the main door to the room. She followed him closely, eager for what was to come next, not wanting to miss a moment of this. Of him.

She had thought he would take her to bed—for surely in this massive club, where men came to explore wickedness and pleasure, there was a place where he slept. Where she might sleep with him.

Where they might do other things, as well, before they had to return to reality and remember all the reasons their marriage was in shambles and their lives were all wrong.

When he locked the door and turned back to her, she stilled in the room, lit by the warm light of a trio of fireplaces and the large golden window that looked out onto the floor of The Angel.

Realization coursing through her. He meant for them to . . .

Here.

She backed away instinctively, and he followed, slow and steady, a silken promise gleaming in his eyes. “Where are you going?” he asked, and she caught her breath at the deep gravel in his voice.

She took a step back. “We’ll be discovered.”

He shook his head. “We won’t be disturbed.”

“How do you know?”

He raised a brow. “I know.”

She believed him. Her heart pounded in her ears as he stalked her across the large, dark room, toward the window, his intent clear.

He would have her. And it would be glorious.

And suddenly, she was not backing away from him out of nervousness or concern or embarrassment. She was backing away because it was unbearably exciting to be pursued by him. He was beautiful and sleek, and he moved with a purpose lacking in lesser men. It was that single-mindedness that drew her to him, that made him so tempting. His pursuit of those things he wanted was relentless.

And right now, he wanted her.

Anticipation thrummed through her and she stilled. In the next heartbeat, he was upon her. He reached for her, cupping her cheek, tilting her face up to his, capturing her gaze with such attention. Such focus.

All on her.

She was consumed with excitement at the realization. With breathlessness.

“What are you thinking?” His thumb stroked along the line of her jaw, leaving heat in its wake.

“The way you look at me,” she said, unable to look away from him. “It makes me feel . . .” She trailed off, uncertain of her words, and he leaned down to press a kiss to the base of her throat, where her pulse raced.

He lifted his head once more. “How does it make you feel, love?”

“It makes me feel powerful.”

She hadn’t realized it until the words were spoken, and one side of his mouth lifted in the hint of a smile, his fingertips tracing over her skin, brushing across her collarbone, running along the edge of her silk dress, sending pleasure rippling across her skin. “How so?”

She took a deep breath at the pleasure he wreaked, at the way his eyes tracked his fingers along her skin, and said, “You want me.”

Hazel darkened to brown, and his voice turned to smoke. “I do.”

“It makes me feel like I could have anything.”

He tugged gently at the bow that kept the bodice of her dress tight across her br**sts, the movement loosening the ribbon and causing the fabric to gape. His finger dipped below the hem of the fabric, hinting, teasing there. “I would give you anything you want. Anything you ask.”

Love me.

Not that. That, she knew, he wouldn’t give her.

But before she could trace the thought, he was lifting her hands and unbuttoning her gloves, sliding them off slowly, the lush stroke of kidskin against flesh ensuring that she would never again be able to think of the donning or doffing of a glove as anything other than a sexual act.

He slipped one hand into her gaping bodice, beneath the edge of her chemise, to cup one breast and lift it from the fabric. She gasped at the sensation, and he leaned in to capture the sound with his kiss. “I want to lay you down in the light of The Angel and make love to you.” The words were punctuated with the rough stroke of his thumb across one nipple, and the scrape of his teeth down her neck. “And I think you want it, too.”

She could not stop her nod. Or her confession. “I do.”

As long as it is with you.

He released her, turning her to face the massive painted-glass window. She looked out on the floor of The Angel, teeming with people, as he worked at her buttons, releasing them methodically. “Tell me what you see,” he whispered, his lips pressing hot and soft along the curve of her shoulder.

“There are . . . men . . . everywhere.” Penelope gasped and clutched the fast-loosening fabric to her chest.

He reached her corset and made fast work of the laces, releasing her from the bone-and-linen prison. She sighed at the sensation, and his hands stroked across the cotton chemise, soothing the skin beneath. One hand came up to the window to hold her steady at the sensation, so welcome against her worried skin.