The Rogue Prince (4 page)

And yet he'd shared intimacies with another woman.
Women
, if Victoria was correct.

She shuddered as disgust roiled through her. Who was Julian to soil their wedding vows? How could he taint the sanctity of their marriage with the obvious precedence of other women in his life, in his heart and mind? How could he come to her bed at Blackmore Manor and touch her after…

It should not hurt quite so badly, but it did. And it shook what little confidence Maggie had. All these years she'd fooled herself into believing she had satisfied her handsome husband, when in truth she hadn't possessed whatever it took—beauty, charm, sophistication—to keep him faithful. Or happy.

Maggie swallowed back her tears. If Victoria was concerned that she would learn of Julian's infidelities in some public place, then
everyone
must know. Her family and friends, the servants, maybe even shopkeepers…

Mortification flashed through her. Julian's disloyalty and dishonesty cut into her like a jagged knife. Her entire married life had been a lie.

Her vision blurred by her tears, Maggie tripped, and would have fallen, but for a pair of strong hands that caught her.

It was him. The prince.

“Madam, we meet again.”

“Oh!” Maggie felt her cheeks go warm, and knew she was blushing bright red. She blinked away her tears and pressed one hand to her breast, feeling as sad and raw as a jilted bride. “Clumsy me.”

“Not at all,” he said. “There is a crack in the pavement.”

He could have released her arm then, but did not.

Maggie took a shaky breath and looked up at him, into those lovely green eyes, and forced herself not to sniffle. She swallowed thickly. “You…You seem to be making a habit of rescuing my family.”

“How is your son? He is fully recovered from his misadventure, I trust?”

She nodded, needing to escape, to find some private place where she could weep until she used up all her tears, but he continued to grip her arm. Somehow, she managed to answer the man. “But for a scolding and some time spent alone in his bedchamber, he is fine. Thank you for asking. And thank you once again, for intervening the other night. If not for you—”

“Think nothing of it,” he replied. And still he did not release her. Maggie took another quaking breath, her earlier upset complicated by the attentions of the man who had occupied far too many of her thoughts since his daring rescue.

“You are distraught,” he said, frowning fiercely. He took her elbow and looked down the street. “Is
there anything I—Perhaps you would join me for tea?”

“Oh, I really should n—” she began, but everything had changed. Her world had shifted in Victoria's parlor only a few minutes earlier, and her life would never be the same. She was a widow, no longer bound by the same constraints she'd known as a debutante or even a wife. There was no reason to decline an invitation from this man—a prince in every sense of the word. “Yes. I'd like that very much.”

She sent her maid, Tessa, home, then stepped forward to place her hand in the crook of his arm.

He slowed his gait to match hers, escorting her to Blakeley's Tea Shop, then going inside to a small table near a window. He ordered their tea, then turned his full attention upon her.

Maggie felt her heart flutter, much as it had the night before, when she'd knelt beside him and taken Zachary into her arms. This time, her panic was due to her lack of experience. Her sisters had decried her as a failure at flirting, but it had not mattered. Before she was halfway through her first season, she'd married Julian, and any attempt at flirting had come to an end, for he'd seemed oblivious to her attempts to engage him.

Maggie was on her own now, in uncharted waters. If she were to have an affair of her own, she could not have asked for a more intriguing or attractive man to have it with. And yet she knew better to think he would even entertain such a possibility.

“I hope it is nothing serious,” he said.

“What?” came her breathy response. Of course it was serious, just the thought of sharing intimacies with—

“Whatever has upset you.” He removed his gloves, then leaned forward and lifted one hand, gently using the pad of his thumb to rub away the remnants of her tears. Maggie hoped no one noticed his intimate act, but every fiber of her being vibrated with awareness.

Attraction shimmered through her, making her breasts tingle and her womb tighten with expectation. She had to force herself to ignore the pebbling of her nipples and the heat at the crux of her legs, for she knew such sensations would bring her naught but an afternoon of feeling vaguely frustrated and ill-at-ease. That was how it had always been with Julian on the occasions when he'd taken his pleasure in her bed, and then left her feeling unfulfilled and unsettled.

“It's nothing. Only some strange news,” she said. She did not think she could ever speak of her late husband's betrayal to anyone. It was bad enough, just hearing the few details Victoria had told her.

The prince seemed to understand that the subject was not open for discussion. “I hope you weren't too harsh with your son last night. Zachary, was it?”

“Yes, Zachary,” she managed to say. “I fear I was much too lenient with him. I yield far too often to my softer side.”

“He is a lucky boy, then,” said the prince,
his voice low and seductive. He moved his hand slightly, touching Maggie's fingers with his own. It could have been an inadvertent contact, but she did not think so, not after he'd touched her face so tenderly.

His hand was large and square, with a sprinkling of dark hair on its back, his fingers long and blunt-tipped. Just looking at them caused a frisson of sensual awareness to shoot down Maggie's spine.

“My son needs discipline,” she said quietly, “and a father's influence.”

“His father does not provide it?”

“My husband passed away some time ago,” Maggie said, aware that her statement might be construed as an announcement of her availability. She'd half intended it to be so.

But the prince said nothing, and Maggie lost heart. As her sisters had been pleased to point out, she hadn't the slightest idea how to attract a man, and it was obvious now that her marriage to Julian had not improved her skills. If anything, what few she possessed had become rusty during her marriage. He'd had little interest in her or the children, coming to her bed every now and then, whenever it suited him.

Maggie pushed back her chair, embarrassed at her own failures and her silly forwardness with this man, this stunning stranger who attracted the surreptitious attentions of every fashionable lady who walked past their little niche. “Perhaps I should go.”

“Please don't.” He placed his hand over hers. “I'm new to your city and I thought perhaps you might have time to show me some of the sights.”

Maggie felt a sudden fluttering of butterfly wings in her stomach and hoped he had not spoken out of pity. He could not possibly be indicating an interest in pursuing something with her. Something dark and sensual, and entirely improper.
Julian
was the one who'd engaged in—

No. As a widow, Maggie was as free as a woman could be. And she was going to enjoy the attentions of this man for as long as they lasted, even if it was for one afternoon.

“What…Er, d-do you have anything in mind?”

She swallowed nervously, suddenly aware of how absurd it was for a weepy, country viscountess to be entertaining the kind of thoughts she was having about this striking man.

“None at all. What do you recommend?”

Maggie believed he must be allowing her to dictate their terms. She could choose to move quickly, or slowly, or not at all, depending upon her own preference. “London is not really my home,” she said. “I've only just come into Town to take care of some business. But there used to be a gallery in St. Alban's Street—with wonderful drawings. And there are Lord Elgin's marble works, newly arrived in Town.”

“I would very much enjoy visiting either one with you.”

The prince rose and went to Maggie's chair.
She felt a moment of indecision, then stood, determined to pursue a path she'd never once considered before. If this breathless sense of anticipation occurred every time Julian had met his paramours, Maggie could almost understand how he'd been drawn into his illicit affairs.

As the prince helped her with her chair, his hand lingered on her shoulder a fraction of a second longer than necessary, causing rivers of sensation to course through her.

If she had the slightest misgivings about going with him, she squelched them as they left the tea shop. They stepped into the street together and his carriage pulled up at his signal. The driver jumped down and opened the door, and Maggie climbed in.

 

It had not occurred to Thomas that Maggie might be a widow, and the thought that she might avail herself of his attentions appealed to him more than it should. Yet he could not devote his complete attention to his business. There had to be some relief from the intensity and focus of his mission in London.

She wore the same subtle fragrance of roses that he hadn't been able to put from his mind since their encounter in Hanover Square. It wasn't just her scent that drew him, but a lush potency that was purely female—her full mouth and delicate hands drew him like a horse to clover. Now that he was with her again, it was no stretch of the imagination for Thomas to think of her lying naked, her body
round and soft with promise, wearing nothing but her lovely scent, in his bed.

Thoughts of tasting her flooded his mind, and Tom forced himself to rein in his erotic fantasies. She was upset and skittish, and probably did not understand the depth of his desire for her.

She would soon know.

The sorrow in her eyes touched some primal nerve in him, long since buried. Someone or something had hurt her, and he felt an entirely irrational desire to make certain it never happened again.

“No need to be nervous,” he said, taking the seat beside her. He'd made a point of learning everything there was to know about high society, so he knew it was not quite proper to take her into his carriage alone. And yet she had not protested. It boded well for his intentions.

He turned toward her and took her hand, which was lying in her lap. “I promise not to ravish you.”

“Oh, but I—”

“As much as I might want to.”

With her deepening color and sharp intake of breath, Tom saw an innocence in her, and knew she'd never engaged in any kind of seduction. She'd likely followed the usual course for women of her class, and married at a young age to a man she hardly knew. And now he was dead.

It raised all kinds of possibilities for the way he might proceed.

He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “Tell me what is special about the St. Alban's gallery.”

Her thick, dark lashes closed over her excep
tional eyes, as though savoring the moment, and Thomas felt a distinct tightening in his groin. She would be pure voluptuous pleasure in his bed.

He removed her glove. Keeping her hand in his, he lowered his head slightly, as though he might kiss her. He wanted to, desperately. As the pleasing scent of roses filled his senses, he could almost taste her.

“St. Alban's is full of p-portraits and beautiful landscapes,” she said quietly, her breath feathering his cheek. “And there used to be a number of Mr. Rowlandson's prints on display. Perhaps they are still there.”

She looked up at him with parted lips, more alluring than anyone he'd ever known. He'd bedded a fair number of beautiful women, but perfection had a way of playing out much too quickly. He sensed untapped layers in this woman—layers that would be an immense pleasure to peel away. Perfection was immensely overrated.

“I've never heard of him,” Tom said quietly.

“Well, you wouldn't if you're new to England.” Her lips were barely an inch from his. “Rowlandson is an artist I admire.”

“Then he must be very good.”

The carriage rolled over some uneven pavement, jostling them, and she tipped her head away, perhaps realizing how close she'd come to touching his mouth with her own. She was clearly out of her element, and her reticence inflamed him as much as the raw emotions she'd already displayed in his presence. He wanted to pull her into his lap and
cover her with kisses. Yet, if Tom had learned anything during all his years away, it was to exercise patience. He could wait for this woman to adjust to his advances.

But not too long.

They soon arrived in St. Alban's Street and went inside the gallery, where Thomas paid the entry fee. It was a two-story building, divided into several rooms, each with tall windows to maximize the light. There were only a few patrons inside, wandering from one display to the next. Tom touched the small of Maggie's back, and they moved together toward one of the back galleries.

He felt a sharp pull of possessiveness, and with that fleeting touch to her lower back, craved even more. They stopped to admire the paintings on the walls, but Tom's eyes were drawn to Maggie far more often than to the pictures. His senses were alive with her—the roses, the freckles scattered across her nose, her full, kissable lips. Even her slightly uneven gait and the intriguing scar on her chin drew him—to a lass who had not been coddled and spoiled by her aristocratic kin. She seemed to be a woman apart.

Her clothes were nothing special, her simple, brown pelisse covering her completely from neck to wrists, and down to her ankles. And yet it fit her form so closely, he could not stop thinking about peeling it from her body, the way he would peel the soft down of a peach from its sweet, pink flesh.

He steered her to a quiet room where there were no other visitors and walked beside her as she
wandered from picture to picture, until an intricate drawing of a pub brawl suddenly caught her attention.

“Oh look, here is Dr. Syntax,” she said, pleased at the drawing. “He is one of Mr. Rowlandson's recurring characters.”