Authors: Maya Rodale

The Rogue and the Rival (40 page)

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival

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“Do I?”

“Allow me,” Phillip said, reaching across the table. He brushed them aside, and settled for one caress of her cheek as he was taking his hand away. Angela smiled.

“He’s just going through a phase. You must have done the same thing at his age.”

“I did. But such antics were reserved for my brother or our governess. Having never dined with children before, I now understand why my father kept us stashed in the nursery until we were of age.”

“Speaking of your father,” Angela began, “you didn’t know about the letter and the settlement, did you?”

“I knew about the money, and that she accepted a thousand pounds not to marry me. I didn’t know about the letter.”

“Well, it seems obvious to me that he cared for you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have offered them a settlement so that they might not challenge you.”

“I was always aware that he cared for me as his heir, and by extension, he only cared about my transgressions if they reflected badly upon him, or the Buckingham legacy. I never thought he gave a damn about me as his son.”

“If you think about it logically, that couldn’t be the case. It’s not as if you were his only son.”

“Aye, that I know very well. I sure did make Devon look good in comparison. And maybe he did care. But I wonder now if it would have been better that he hadn’t interfered at all. I might have learned to deal with the consequences of my actions a little sooner,” Phillip reflected. It made Angela think of what Lady Palmerston had said about falling from time to time and standing back up. The man before her was attempting, metaphorically, to stand up after a long, slow fall.

And if he could do it, so could she.

Angela reached across the table and placed her hand on his. He took her hand, tracing his thumb over her palm for a moment before interlacing their fingers.

“My father wrote a letter for me before he died,” Phillip said. “I only discovered it recently.”

“What did he say?”

“He wished that I may not know regret as he did.”

“And do you?” she asked. Phillip smiled shyly at her at first, but it turned into that wicked grin she knew so well.

“Well, at the moment, I’m deeply regretting not getting a private parlor. But not as much as I regret lecturing Lady Palmerston about her chaperone methods, because otherwise we would be sharing a room.”

“I want you so much that I ache for it. But it’s better this way.”

“Angela, why are you tormenting me like this?” His tone was not angry, not quite desperate, either. Just plain. And the plain fact was that she didn’t mean to torture him. She was simply terrified.

“Why? Because you habitually leave, and I am habitually left. And I’m scared, Phillip. I lost you once, and I am not sure that I could survive it again.”

“But I’m not the man I was once was, Angela. Because of you, I’m different. I may not be good, but I’m trying.”

“Well, what if one of your other women love you still, and you return the feeling, or suddenly have an attack of decency and decide to make right what you once made wrong?”

“Doubtful. But this was your idea, mind you.”

“I know,” Angela sighed. “It’s just that I need time. I need to be sure because I am not.”

“Oh, Angela,” he murmured. “I don’t know what to say.” It was the truth. If there were magic words, he would say them. But he wasn’t sure even that would be enough. One thing that he was sure of, however, was that giving up and walking away was just not an option.

The number of patrons had increased by now, and the lot of them were all quickly descending into the more advanced states of intoxication. A group of men in the far corner erupted in a bawdy song, drowning out all other voices.

“You should drink more if you don’t know what to say. There is something in it that makes me say too much. And those men, too.” Angela took another sip of her ale and looked in the direction of the chorus of drunken fellows.

“It’s called alcohol. C’mon, let’s call it a night.” He stood, and still holding her hand, urged her to come with him.

“So soon?”

“If you drink any more, you will get drunk. You will then make improper advances upon me, and I will be unable to resist.”

That was almost exactly what happened.

They stood in the hallway before the doorway to the bedchamber that she was sharing with Lady Palmerston, due to a shortage of rooms. Phillip intended nothing more than a brief kiss on her cheek after which he would bid her good night and lie in torment alone in his chamber. But Angela turned her head and captured his kiss on her lips.

He did not resist. When did he ever say no, anyway? And how could he now, when the woman he loved and longed for was warm and willing in his arms?

It was a kiss worth waiting for and one worth suffering for.

He cradled her head in his hand and wrapped one arm around her waist. Angela pressed all of her luscious curves against him. He groaned into her mouth as she, slightly unsteady on her feet, rubbed against his erection. Phillip took a step backward so that he could lean against the wall.

The woman was making his knees weak.

With one hand on the small of her back, and another just a bit lower, he urged her against him again.

The woman was melting his resolve and calling into question his honorable intentions. She sighed and cupped his face in her hands so that he could do nothing but kiss her. Not that he wanted to do anything else ever again. Although . . .

Only the more primitive portions of his brain were functioning now, and they recognized two things. First, the woman he loved was willing in his arms. Second, there was an empty bed nearby. Was it the door to his room that he was leaning against, or was it the door on the left?

He couldn’t. She was intoxicated, and not from his touch alone.

“I’m not scared when I’m kissing you,” Angela confessed.

“Don’t stop then,” he murmured.

Of course he could. He was Phillip Kensington, notorious absolute scoundrel, with a willing woman in his arms and an empty bed nearby. He had done this before, he could do it again.

But he shouldn’t. Not yet. And not like he had always done. She deserved more than that.

He would put a stop to this before it went too far. In just a second . . .

Reality intruded in the form of loud, drunken male voices, the shrill laughter of their female companions, and their collective footsteps stomping up the stairs. It occurred to Phillip that all he had to do was continue to kiss Angela until they were seen. Caught in a compromising position.

This time, after being caught, he wouldn’t run. Unless it was
to
the altar.

But that was what they all expected of him, wasn’t it? Phillip Kensington, caught in a compromising position. Again. And again . . . and a stunning thought occurred to him: just because everyone had low expectations of him didn’t mean he had to prove them right.

He broke off their kiss, and not a moment too soon.

Lady Palmerston opened the door he had been leaning against. She raised one eyebrow in the direction of the group that was now passing loudly through the hall, eliciting their sincere apologies and silence.

Lady Palmerston gave him a Look.

Phillip bade her and Angela good night and retired to his chamber. Alone.

They had not taken the road to Gretna Green, Lucas had noted, which had been his first assumption upon seeing Angela, Phillip, and her chaperone embark on what would obviously be a long journey. Of course they hadn’t. Who elopes with a chaperone?

He had followed them to this backwater village a day’s drive from London. He could not fathom what purpose would bring anyone here, other than to spend the night before continuing on.

They had taken the last two rooms at the inn. Lucas seethed and secured lodgings at the seedier establishment a few miles down the road. He returned to the main village, and his discreet inquiries informed him that they had visited Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, a respectable couple with a passel of brats and lands that were the envy of more than a few of their neighbors.

He could not learn or imagine why they would have called upon some local farmers. But Lucas could wait and watch.

They left midmorning the next day. Lucas followed.

Chapter 22

At
the rare sound of a carriage rolling up the drive of Grafton Park, Jane, Lady Grafton, ceased her writing and went to the window to see if she had well and truly gone mad and hallucinated the sound.

She had not. And furthermore, it was not her husband’s carriage. It wouldn’t be, of course. His Grace came to visit her and the child once a year at Christmastime. It was summer now. And that was definitely not her husband’s carriage. Though she barely knew her husband, she was certain that Grafton wouldn’t be caught dead in a lavender-colored vehicle.

“What is it, Mama?” Charles asked. The little boy abandoned his game of toy soldiers and came to peek out of the window beside her.

“Someone has come to call.”

“Is it Father?”

Jane’s breath caught in her throat as she saw a man step out of the carriage. He paused to help two women alight. She couldn’t lie to her son, but he was too young for the truth. She looked down at Charles, six years old, with his nose pressed against the glass.

“It’s not Father. Do you know how I know, Mum? Because the carriage is different, and it’s not Christmastime.”

Charles sounded so proud of himself for his deductive reasoning skills. Jane couldn’t explain to him how that saved her—that note of pride in his voice instead of disappointment.

“Your Grace, there are callers.” The butler had no trace of emotion in his voice, but that was unremarkable, because Farnsworth never did. But surely, he had to be just a little bit thrilled to utter the words “There are callers,” for he so rarely had a chance to.

“Thank you. Please show them to the drawing room, and bring a tea tray. Please tell a maid to come up and stay with Charles. I shall be down in a moment.”

Jane collected the pages she had been writing, placed them in her desk drawer, and locked it. She then fixed up her hair before the mirror, while explaining to her son that he should wait here while she spoke with the guests. She promised she would tell him all about it over lemonade and cake once they departed.

She forced her voice to be light and easy, so that her son might not know the panic bubbling up. What was Phillip Kensington doing here? And now, after all this time? She reassured herself that he had no right and no reason to take her son from her.

“You look pretty, Mama.”

“Thank you, darling. I shouldn’t be long. I love you, baby.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“Of course. I still love you.”

She paused for just a second before entering the drawing room.

Phillip looked older than she had remembered, which was only logical. It had been years since . . . since she had seen him last. And it had been dark then.

He introduced his traveling companions, Miss Angela Sullivan and her aunt and chaperone, Lady Palmerston. Phillip did not explain their relationship to him nor why they were traveling together.

“You look well, Lady Grafton. How are you?” Phillip asked. She searched his face to see what features her son might have inherited. The eyes, certainly, but only the shape and the dark brown color. Charles’s eyes still had the light of innocence.

“I’m fine, thank you. Curious, actually, as to why you have come to call.”

Phillip glanced at the young woman, Miss Sullivan, and she nodded her head, urging him on.

“Lady Grafton, I have come to apologize to you.”

Jane did not take a sip of tea as she had planned. Instead, she replaced the cup in its saucer.

“I should have stopped as soon as I realized the mistake,” he continued. “But by then it was too late. The damage had been done.”

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival

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