A Rogue Walks into a Ball Read online

  She was barely aware of him helping her all the way onto the bed and positioning himself over her. He kissed her forehead and her cheek, and she saw the shine of perspiration on his skin.

  “I need to make love to you now.”

  “I want you to.”

  He pressed his lips together, looking more serious than she’d ever seen him. “This will probably hurt.”

  “I don’t care.” And she didn’t. She wanted him inside her, and she wrapped her arms around him as he positioned the hot tip of his arousal at her entrance. And then, with one driving, steadily relentless stroke, he entered her.

  She gave a little cry in surprise at a sharp pinching sensation.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped, “but it seemed best that way.”

  She was struggling to absorb the feeling of deep stretching, but already the pain of his penetration had passed.

  “Did I hurt you?” She could see in his clenched jaw and the bunched muscles of his shoulders how he was straining to hold himself in check, and she was amazed to realize that she, Sarah Porter, had done this to him.

  “Only for a moment,” she said.

  He began to move, slowly, and the sensation of being filled by him grew more exquisite with each stroke. Again, the pleasure built, but deeper and more intense than before. Clinging to him, she pulled him against her, certain he could never be too close. She felt a swelling within her as his eyes met hers and knew with a flash of understanding that their souls were meeting and touching and joining.

  With sure strokes, he led her to the heights of pleasure, and only moments after she cried out her release, he gave a deep shudder and fell slack on top of her.

  He lay there for a minute or two, and though he was a weight on her, it was a weight Sarah delighted in. Eventually, he rolled to the side and propped his head on his hand. A devilish, pleased smile curled his lips. “Well?”

  “Well?” she repeated, smiling back at him.

  “Did you like that?”

  “Like seems like a funny word for it.” She ran her fingers lightly over his arm, trailing them across his chest before she let them rest between them. He arched an eyebrow, waiting. “It was pretty wonderful,” she said and dropped her eyes, suddenly a little shy.

  He placed a finger under her chin and gently tipped it back up. “No need to be bashful now, sweet. That was only the beginning of what you and I are going to be doing between the sheets, and behind closed doors, and in holiday cottages, and kitchens, and gardens and—”

  “Kitchens? Gardens?”

  His mouth quirked in that roguish grin that had become so familiar to her, but now his eyes held a soft light that she’d never seen in them before. “Oh, definitely gardens.”

  Chapter 16

  Sorella Teresa: Do we really know what is right or wrong in every case? So many things are gray.

  Mother Superior: That kind of thinking always means trouble.

  Breaking the Habit, Act 3, Scene 3

  Jack sat up and peered at the clock on the table by the bed.

  “Good, we have time for a snack before I take you back.”

  Sarah was in truth surprisingly hungry, and she wondered if being hungry was a frequent result of what they’d just done. The thought made her blush. “A snack does sound welcome.”

  He dropped a kiss on her forehead, pulled on his breeches, and left the room quietly.

  She got up and put on her gown, doing up the top button in back just to keep it closed since she couldn’t reach the others. She sat back on the bed and promptly sneezed several times. The result was awkward and urgent—she desperately needed a handkerchief.

  Looking around, she rejected the sheet as a disgusting choice. She saw nothing handkerchieflike on the desk or the small table at the side of the bed where she sat, though the table did have a drawer, and the situation being urgent, she opened it. Relieved to find a handkerchief folded in a neat square sitting on top of a pile of paper, she took it and made use of it.

  But when she reached to close the drawer, her eye was caught by the stack of paper, which was an intriguing thing to find in a bedside drawer. Centered on the top page were the words She Knew She Was Right by John Smith-Jones.

  She knew that handwriting. She’d seen it on the note Jack had included with some flowers he’d sent the morning after they became engaged.

  Glancing at the still-closed door, and aware that it was one thing to happen to open a drawer through an honest quest for a handkerchief and another to investigate what she found within, she lifted just the top sheet.

  Act 1, Scene 1, she read. Enter Jane, a young unmarried lady, accompanied by her father.

  The words were written in Jack’s hand, with that author’s name that seemed like something of a joke. Which could only mean—

  Outside the door, the floorboards creaked, and she startled and let go of the paper. Carefully, she closed the drawer just before Jack opened the door to the bedchamber.

  He was carrying a tray with a plate and two cups, and he deftly balanced it on one hand and closed the door behind him.

  “There was treacle tart,” he said, looking quite pleased with himself.

  “Oh,” she said, hoping she didn’t look guilty, “I’m fond of treacle tart.” Her voice sounded remarkably calm to her own ears, but her mind was spinning. Jack had to be John Smith-Jones. And considering the very honest reactions of his family to the play, she was fairly certain they were as unaware of his secret identity as everyone else.

  He put the tray on the bed and sat, being careful not to jostle the items on the tray. He’d brought cups of water in addition to the tart.

  “It seemed a bit late for wine,” he said, handing her a fork, “and anyway, I don’t like wine with sweets.”

  “I don’t either,” she said, taking a forkful of the tart. They ate companionably for several moments while Sarah tried to decide what to do. Should she say something? Clearly, he didn’t wish people to know he was John Smith-Jones.

  “This is nice,” he said, “sitting up with you in the middle of the night. I look forward to doing it often.”

  She took a bite of the tart and tried to enjoy it as Jack was doing. But she couldn’t sit there, knowing this thing about him without him knowing that she knew. She put her fork on the tray.

  “While you were gone, I had a sneezing fit,” she began.

  “Oh?” he said around bites of tart. “Is it particularly dusty in here?”

  “I don’t know. It might have been something that blew in the window. But it suddenly became urgent that I find a handkerchief, and not seeing one about, I opened the drawer to that table,” she said, gesturing to it.

  “I hope you found a handkerchief,” he said, suddenly very occupied with pushing his dwindling piece of tart around the plate.

  “Jack, I saw the script.”

  “Script?” He didn’t look up.

  “The script of She Knew She Was Right.”

  “Oh?” he said noncommittally.

  He was being evasive, but why? It wasn’t as though he’d done something bad. “I recognized your handwriting, Jack. The author’s name always seemed like a joke, and now I see that it was.”

  He glanced up, his eyebrows lofting skeptically. “So, you think I wrote that silly play?”

  Why was he being so difficult? He’d written a play that had been performed in front of an appreciative audience. Actually, John Smith-Jones had written several plays, all of them well received. He ought to be crowing.

  “It’s a good play,” she said. “I like it, your family likes it. Kate in particular adores John Smith-Jones. Why don’t they know he’s you?”

  He let the silence stretch out for long seconds. “I wrote that play for Kate. Last year, she broke her engagement to a gentleman we all liked, and ever since then, I’ve felt she was doubting herself over it. I wanted her to have an experience that might encourage her to trust her choices.”

  Sarah was speechless for a moment, touched beyond words.
“That’s... an incredibly thoughtful thing for a brother to do for his sister. And maybe it’s really had an effect. She seems more outgoing of late.”

  He shrugged, as though it was nothing, as though to do such a thing didn’t indicate the very deepest sort of love. “If the play did have a positive effect, I wouldn’t want to undermine that by admitting I wrote it. Ruins the effect of her discovering things for herself, you see.”

  Sarah nodded slowly. “I do see that. I’m just surprised you’ve kept the playwriting to yourself all this time. And I’m wondering when you were going to tell me that you’re John Smith-Jones.”

  Instead of replying, he turned his attention to putting his plate on the tray and rearranging the cups and the forks. Sarah pressed her lips together and tried to push down rising irritation as she waited for a response.

  He finally looked up. “I haven’t told anyone, Sarah,” he said in a clipped voice she’d never heard from him before, “because I don’t want anyone to know, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” she said, returning his sarcasm, hurt spiking through her at his cool manner. “But why don’t you want anyone to know? The play is funny and entertaining, and it has something to say.”

  He got up with the tray, as though it was necessary in that moment to put it on the desk. He didn’t come back to the bed, but leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. “I think we can assume, given your history, that you’re likely to be more appreciative of a play about a bigamist than the average person. It’s a play full of people making foolish choices and being led around by their emotions.”

  His words stung, but she saw that he was lashing out. She just didn’t understand why. She stood and moved closer to him, though his eyes were hooded and his expression closed off, so that she might as well have been across the room.

  “I’ll grant you that people enjoy mocking stories like She Knew She Was Right,” she said, “because the characters behave in ways that are not sensible or practical. But people also secretly want to see plays like that because they give them the chance to talk about things that are often avoided. You should be proud.”

  His lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “I am proud of my work, Sarah. But that doesn’t mean I need everyone else to know I’m doing it. And I don’t see how this concerns you.”

  She drew in a breath at his blunt words. He wanted her to understand that his writing was his secret and his alone. “I’m not everyone else,” she said quietly. “Or at least, I thought that was the point of marrying someone.”

  His expression deepened to a scowl. “You don’t see.”

  “Oh, I think I do. You’re used to being the charmer who takes nothing too seriously, the dashing man who makes all the ladies swoon. You use charm to keep people at arm’s length, while keeping your most deeply held feelings and vulnerabilities hidden.”

  He snorted derisively. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I’ve never been able to hide my biggest vulnerability,” Sarah said, “but then, it’s right in the middle of my face.”

  “When are you going to let that go?”

  She thought of how she’d felt accepted by his family and friends, and how his desire for her had made her feel beautiful. She didn’t feel like the same closed-off woman who’d come to London, teeth gritted, to help her cousin.

  “I actually think I already have.”

  “Ah,” he said, some of the hardness fading from his eyes and a melancholy smile touching his lips. “Bravo, Sarah. London has come to recognize your worth. I always knew people would, if you gave them a chance.”

  From the first, he’d insisted her nose was an asset, a distinction unique to her that she had only to claim. Maybe this was something she would have discovered herself in time, but she wasn’t so sure. Having learned to seal herself off to her feelings because she feared rejection, she’d become very, very good at doing without other people.

  Jack had changed that, had snuck in under her defenses and made her see how very good life could be. But he’d also taught her to want more, even as he kept himself apart.

  “You’re right,” she said. “That’s why I find it puzzling that you feel such a need to keep yourself aloof.”

  He frowned deeply. “There’s nothing wrong with having things about us that are private.”

  “I agree. But sharing some of what means the most to you with others is how you grow closer to them. I care about you, and I thought you cared about me.”

  “I do care, Sarah,” he said impatiently, as though he couldn’t understand why those words were not enough. “You know that. How can you doubt that I love spending time with you?”

  It was the furthest he’d ever gone in expressing emotion to her, and once, it would have been enough. But now she knew that it wasn’t. She’d spent her life concealing hurt, concealing how she felt, but now a new force within her pressed her to speak her truth, to release herself from the shackles of hiding the most important things about herself.

  “That’s just the thing, Jack. You like me, and you love spending time with me. But I love you. Do you see the difference?”

  He paled. “I... we’re going to be married, Sarah. We’re going to share our whole lives.”

  “Are we?” she said.

  “I... don’t know what you want me to say. I want to marry you, and I think we’ll be very good together. I know you don’t like how the engagement transpired, but I’m glad I compromised you, because I might not have proposed otherwise.”

  He would not have proposed, she knew that. He’d been happy with things as they were, and he was telling her that he’d be happy with things as they would be when they married.

  He didn’t understand what she’d said at all, or he didn’t want to. Apparently, he saw marriage as some sort of collaboration in which he wished to invest himself only so far. She could never expect him to give all of himself to her, because he either didn’t want to, or he couldn’t. That was simply the truth, and it was better that she knew it now.

  “It’s late,” she said, weariness that had nothing to do with the hour dragging at her voice. “I wish to return to Aunt Louise’s.”

  He nodded, and she could almost feel his relief that this conversation would end. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

  She made no reply.

  They crept through his house and across the gardens, their necessary silence in the still of the night heavy. They parted at the door to Aunt Louise’s house, with nothing, it seemed, to say to each other but a terse, “Good night.”

  As Sarah lay in bed staring into the darkness, she faced the fact that this was how it would be between them, that he would always keep part of himself hidden. Because unlike her, he wasn’t dying to share all of himself with her, to lose himself in her the way she wanted to lose herself in him. She knew he cared for her and that he desired her, but he didn’t love her.

  And she knew what she had to do.

  First thing the next morning, she wrote him a brief note to be delivered later that day, sealed it, and packed her bags.

  Chapter 17

  Mother Superior: Sometimes, I don’t know what the Almighty was thinking when He gave us free will.

  Breaking the Habit, Act 3, Scene 4

  Jack went riding in Hyde Park that morning, intending to clear his head of the funk that had settled in after his conversation with Sarah, but a punishing pace on his favorite chestnut had no effect. Unwilling to return home, where the quiet he needed for writing now loomed oppressively, he collected Viscount Eastham, and together they rode to a pub located on a handsome green outside London, where they played bowls and drank ale, and Jack didn’t have to think about what Sarah had said.

  It was late when he finally returned home. He knew he should have called on her early that day and found a way to talk to her, but what was he supposed to say? She’d wanted him to speak of his feelings the night before, but when she’d revealed that she knew he was John Smith-Jones, he’d felt exposed and probed, as if she wanted to in
vade every space that had ever been his.

  Her talk of love had made his stomach clench.

  His butler greeted him with the various details of the household and handed him a note that had been delivered earlier. Jack recognized Sarah’s handwriting, and he took the note with him to his bedchamber, where he dropped it on his desk and proceeded to pull off his cravat while trying to ignore the note. But it only throbbed like a live thing, increasing his sense of guilt.

  Finally, with a grunt, he grabbed the note and broke the seal and read words thanking him for the honorable thing he’d done in engaging himself to her after she was compromised, but letting him know that, upon consideration, she didn’t think marriage between them was a good idea.

  “What?” Jack barked aloud, his fingers crimping the fine cream paper as he took in her meaning.

  I release you from our engagement, and I trust you’ll explain this to your family in whatever way you see fit. I have left Town and do not anticipate seeing you again in the foreseeable future.

  Teeth gritted, he balled up the paper and tossed it on the desk. What the devil? She couldn’t do this! They were engaged! Did their engagement mean nothing to her?

  She’d told him she loved him. What kind of love was it when she wouldn’t even stay to talk to him? They had been intimate, and he knew that had meant something to her, because he’d seen her eyes when they were making love. It had meant something to him, but he just couldn’t put what that was into words yet. He’d felt she’d wanted to rush him into something he wasn’t ready for.

  Apparently, she didn’t want to rush him into marriage—which was completely insane of her, considering what they’d done the night before. She might very well be carrying his child.