Authors: Maya Rodale

The Rogue and the Rival (9 page)

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival

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“I’d rather you didn’t,” she replied. She held the towel out to him from an arm’s length away, very careful to keep her eyes focused above his waist. She thought about closing her eyes entirely, but she could not make her body obey her brain. So Angela remained and watched as Phillip used the towel to dry his hair, his back, and his chest, before wrapping it around his waist. When he turned, she noticed the unmistakable bulge of his arousal. Her heart beat faster.

Stepping out of the bathtub made him grimace and swear, presumably in pain. And then he just stood there for a moment, as did she. They were both thinking the same thing, she was sure, recalling that half embrace as she had helped him walk across the room the day before. And it dawned on her then that it might have affected him the same way it had her.

“I have to do this by myself,” he said finally, taking a step toward her. He winced as he took a step with his injured leg. Angela looked into his dark eyes and took a step back. That drew a slight smile to his lips as if to say, “I see what you are doing.” He took another step, and so did she.

One step forward for him meant one step backward for her. All the while, his eyes were focused on hers. And even though they did not touch, she felt as if his hands were actually upon her. It was suddenly too hot in the room; her skin became intensely sensitive, and it made her want to rip off her dress, with its itchy wool fabric rough against her skin when it should be his hands upon her bare skin.

One more step and then another, until Angela, oblivious to all of her surroundings but him, bumped against the bed and fell to sit upon it. The shock of it jolted her back to the reality of the situation: she was on a bed, with a mostly naked man, a very bad naked man, approaching. The most dangerous thing of all was that she desired him. She trusted herself to say no if it came to that. She did not trust herself to mean it.

Angela stood quickly, just as Phillip took another step closer to the bed. She bumped into him, he grasped her to steady them both, but it wasn’t enough to stop their fall.

She landed on her back, on the bed, with a stunningly handsome, oh so bad, and utterly dangerous man on top of her. One of his hands was placed beside her head, another was wrapped around her waist. She felt his arousal against her, between her legs, just as she felt an intense surge of heat and desire. She did not move. She did not dare speak out of fear that she would say what she was thinking instead of what she ought to say. All she could think was,
Kiss me
.

“I’m sorry,” Phillip whispered. His mouth was near her neck, his breath stole across her skin. It made her shiver. It made her arch her back so that he might remove his arm, which he did. With one hand on either side of her, he pushed himself up, and Angela immediately missed the loss of his weight upon her.

Oh, but he didn’t move away just yet. He looked into her eyes, and she saw his gaze then drop to her mouth. She parted her lips to speak, to say,
Don’t kiss me, because we shouldn’t, and I can’t trust myself to stop you.
But she didn’t.

She placed her hands on his chest as if to push him away but not managing to apply the necessary pressure. She closed her eyes. And she felt him lean in closer. His lips were not on hers, but so close that she could feel his breath on her lips. All she had to do was lift her head a fraction of an inch for the kiss.

Just one kiss,
whispered temptation. Years ago she remembered wondering what the harm was in just one kiss. She couldn’t see it, and so she had done it, but it didn’t stop at just one kiss. No, she was older and wiser now. And just one kiss was a lie, an illusion, and a step off the ledge. Angela knew how kisses ended. But the temptation remained.

All the vows of chastity and hours spent in contemplation and prayer could not erase the desire to be held, to be touched, to be kissed, to be loved in such an earthly way. With his arms around her and his weight on top of her, she felt closer to being whole. And she wondered if Lucas had been rougher or crueler to her, would she feel this. But she had loved him and never doubted his love for her, and he had shown her the potential for pleasure. Lucas just hadn’t satisfied it.

And then Phillip groaned and rolled to the side. Without him on top of her, or touching her, the haze in her mind cleared. She quickly stood up and turned away from him so that he could not see her face, which she knew was flushed. She took a deep breath and then another before turning around, and she saw that she had not waited long enough.

He lay on the bed, his arms behind his head. His eyes were closed.

“You’re trouble,” he said, opening his eyes and turning to look at her.

“Not as much as you are.” She walked around the bed to the table beside it, where she had left the linen and ointment and all the things for tending to him.

“Where did you put my clothes?” he asked.

“They should be on the bed,” she said, rearranging the things on the table.

“Perhaps you could close the door,” he said.

“Of course,” Angela replied. When she did close the door, she was safe on the other side. She picked up her skirts and ran down the hall, down the stairs, and through the door to the garden.

Phillip, dressed and standing by the open window, saw her run outside. It seemed they both had the same need for cold air to cool heated skin and clear muddled minds. At this moment he keenly craved a brandy and a cigar with a nearly palpable intensity. Like most men, Phillip was conditioned to use brandy to help with thinking . . . or rather, to help stop thinking.

Stop.

He had stopped.

He had stopped before, when the girl told him to. He wasn’t
that
despicable. But, in all frankness, it was a rare occurrence that a woman denied him. And this afternoon marked the first time that he had denied himself. He had felt her shiver with desire beneath him. She had not pushed him away. But he had stopped anyway. Stopped so close that he could almost taste her.

Angela, luscious and soft beneath him, had placed her hands on his chest, closed her eyes, and parted her lips. He almost lost himself on the spot. That, too, was new. It usually took a little more time, and a lot more than an almost kiss to get close to his release.

It was just that she had closed her eyes so as not to look at him. And he thought of the rumors, greatly exaggerated, that he could ruin a woman with his eyes. And then he heard the abbess’s voice his head: “
I would give this lecture to any man who looks at Angela the way you do. Don’t hurt her. Again.
”

It was the
again
that got to him. It did not matter to him if she was innocent or not; he would be the biggest hypocrite in the world if he did care about that. It was just that he felt like he was always hitting his head against low expectations. And his reputation.
A man like you.

But he had stopped. If he really was the man they thought him to be, she wouldn’t be out in the cold right now. She would be in bed with him. But if he wasn’t that man, then who was he? And what was it about that woman that made him think of these things?

As he already knew, that woman was bewitching and dangerous. She was also a danger to herself, sitting out there in the cold, making no effort to move, even though it had begun to rain.

He leaned out of the window and shouted her name: “Angela!”

She looked up.

“Come inside.”

She nodded and stood and walked into the abbey, but she did not come to his room that night.

Chapter 5

“Good
morning, my lord.” At the strange and unexpected voice, Phillip opened his eyes to see a very young girl with flaming red hair and dark brown eyes. She reminded him a bit of Emilia Highhart. Well, Emilia Kensington now. The one time Phillip had planned on marrying a chit after being caught in a compromising position, it didn’t work out. Instead, she married his twin, which was just as well. Devon was the one she had wanted all along, not him.

“Who are you?” Phillip asked.

“Penelope. I brought you breakfast.”

“Where is Angela?” he asked. His first thought was that she might have fallen ill after spending so much time in the cold and the rain yesterday. The possibility had him worried. His second thought was no consolation: she was avoiding him after what had happened yesterday afternoon.

“She is in the chapel,” Penelope answered, bringing a tray over to him. Phillip then recognized her as the nun that had brought him two blankets when he had asked for one. He liked her.

“What is she doing there?”

“Praying, my lord. It’s what one does in a chapel,” Penelope answered gravely, but the gleam of amusement in her eyes didn’t escape him.

“Right,” he answered. He suspected that Angela thought their moment yesterday was a sin that needed to be confessed, and that she was praying for forgiveness. But nothing had happened, really, much to his frustration.

“Can I get you anything else?” Penelope asked sweetly. She was so much nicer and obliging than Angela. He missed Angela.

“Directions to the chapel,” he answered.

“What for?”

“Perhaps I have some praying to do.”

Penelope laughed. “I’m sorry, my lord. I just—”

“You caught me in a lie,” he admitted, grinning sheepishly at her. “I want to see Angela.”

“She’s not avoiding you, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Penelope said, lowering her voice. “When I didn’t see her in the kitchen this morning, I looked for her and found her in the chapel. I didn’t want to disturb her. And I thought you didn’t want to wait any longer for breakfast.”

“That’s considerate of you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“How old are you?” he asked curiously.

“Nineteen.”

“And you’re a nun? Took your orders and everything? Aren’t you quite young for that?”

“If I hadn’t promised myself to God, I would have promised to be some man’s wife by this age. Both are lifelong commitments.”

“Indeed. But . . .”

“Sometimes, Lord Huntley, one just
knows
what they are to do. In fact, I am inclined to think that one always knows their path, but that pain and struggle come from denying the truth one already knows.”

“You’re awfully young to be dispensing such wisdom.”

“And you’re awfully old to not already know that. Finish your breakfast, and I will walk to the chapel with you.”

Penelope left Phillip at the doorway to the chapel. He paused before entering, irrationally fearing the place might erupt in flames if he stepped inside. His only concern was that Angela would be caught in the fire.

She was kneeling before the altar, particularly before a statue of a mother and child, surrounded by lit candles, the light of which made her hair glow as if it were spun gold. Phillip watched for a while until the urge to be near her won over the thought that he shouldn’t disturb her. So he began the long walk down the aisle. His injured leg was in agonies now, and he occasionally leaned against a pew for a momentary respite. Kneeling down beside her was excruciating, but he didn’t allow the pain to stop him.

“What are we praying for?” He leaned in to whisper the question to her. She looked up suddenly, shocked to find him here, of course. But then she turned and bowed her head again.

“We are praying that I may master and stifle my desire,” she answered without looking at him.

“I am not praying for that,” he said. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Which is why I must,” she answered, bowing her head.

“Is this because of what happened yesterday? All you did was break my fall.”

“But I wanted something to happen,” Angela confessed. He really ought not to feel such joy at her pain. And he wouldn’t have, had it been anything else. But he desired her, and she him, and now there couldn’t be anything to stop them . . . except for her guilt and her thinking it was a sin and her looming vow of chastity.

“Me, too,” he answered.

“But you stopped.”

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival

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