Page 39 of Road Trip With a Rogue (Her Majesty’s Rebels #3)

Dinner was a surprisingly amiable affair. Everyone seemed to have tacitly agreed not to mention anything about Daisy and Vaughan’s predicament, for which Daisy was profoundly grateful.

Logic insisted that marrying him was her only viable option. She had to be practical. Sensible. But her heart ached for impractical, illogical things.

Stupid heart.

She’d derived a startling rush of pleasure from the simmering look he cast her when she’d first appeared in the dining room with Ellie and Tess.

She’d ordered her damson silk gown from Madame Lef è vre, intending to wear it to the opera, or the next time King & Co.

had a case that required her to extract information from some hapless male who could be counted on to pay more attention to the cleavage on display than to the words coming out of his mouth.

The low neckline was wonderfully distracting, so expertly cut that it seemed as though one false move would expose her completely.

It wouldn’t, of course. The boned corset beneath made sure of that, but Madame Lef è vre was quite deservedly one of the most expensive dressmakers in London.

She didn’t just sell dresses. She sold fantasies. Fever-dreams. Miracles of illusion.

It certainly seemed to have captured Vaughan’s attention. Despite being seated at the opposite end of the table, Daisy could practically feel the heat from his regard. Every time she heard the low rumble of his voice, or the gruff bark of his laugh, her stomach clenched.

When dessert arrived—Mrs. Ward had excelled herself with both summer pudding and cr è me br ? l é e—she glanced over at him and found his piercing gaze fixed on her mouth.

She tortured him by licking the back of her spoon with deliberate lasciviousness, and gained the delightful reward of a muscle ticking in the side of his jaw and a glare that promised retribution.

Excellent.

She dropped her gaze to the almost-healed nick on the side of his neck. A casual observer would assume he’d cut himself shaving, but a wicked, possessive thrill raced through her at the memory of how he’d received it. It was an intimate secret between them, something only the two of them knew.

Worth it , he’d said.

Well, she’d just keep reminding him of that. She was worth more than just his kisses. She was worthy of his heart. His life. His love.

The men lingered at the table when the ladies withdrew, and Daisy couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed when Tess suggested they retire to their respective rooms. She was tired after the long day of traveling, but still craved more interaction with Lucien.

Here, in a private setting with friends, the rules of propriety were more relaxed, but she was already dreading the return to London. The stifling social restrictions there would mean her every move would be watched and commented on.

Life would be unbearably dull if she had to avoid Lucien.

What was the point in attending a ball without the possibility of catching his eye across the room and seeing if she could drive him to distraction?

She wanted to make him abandon all good sense, and drag her away into a broom closet or hedge maze and show her exactly how men like him treated provoking women like her: with the delicious “punishment” of debauchery.

Tess and Ellie offered to come into her room to talk, but for possibly the first time in their acquaintance, Daisy pleaded fatigue. She adored them both—but she needed to think.

Jenny helped her undress and get ready for bed, and when she was gone, Daisy looked around the room she’d used for years with fresh eyes. Had it really been only five days ago that she’d slept here last? Before she’d given herself to Vaughan.

It seemed a lifetime ago, and she a different woman.

She couldn’t regret what had happened. Wicked she might be, but in the darkest, most secret recesses of her mind, she was glad that things had come to this.

If she was completely honest, she’d spent years fantasizing about belonging to him, of possessing him in return.

Of having him thoroughly entwined in her life.

Even if he had only offered marriage because he was being noble, she’d make sure he never had cause to regret it. They were well suited. Both of them were capable of being sneaky, stubborn, and manipulative. Both of them liked to win. She was more than a match for him.

Tess had put him in the room at the far end of the corridor, just two doors down from Daisy.

They were the only two guests in this particular wing of the house.

Ellie and Harry had been moved to a larger set of rooms in the east wing, near Tess and Justin’s own master suite, and Daisy didn’t know whether to curse Tess for her unsubtle encouragement or to laugh at her silent approval.

Lucien’s tread sounded on the boards outside her door an hour or so later. Daisy held her breath, but while his steps slowed, he passed by without stopping and she ignored the little tug of disappointment that snagged in her chest.

She’d rejected him. She couldn’t complain if he did the noble thing now and gave her some space. Even if she wished he’d stay true to form and simply barge into her room and ravish her.

Pride demanded that she keep refusing him until he at least proposed properly, but it was clearly up to her to get him to that point.

Something had to be done.

Daisy waited another twenty minutes, then slipped out of bed.

Her silk dressing gown matched her scandalously sheer nightgown, both a glorious emerald green, edged in black lace.

Madame Lef è vre had insinuated that such styles were all the rage in Paris, especially among the beautiful courtesans at the Palais Royale.

Most noble ladies would have been offended to have been shown such harlot’s garments. Daisy, Tess, and Ellie had ordered three sets each. Madame knew her clients’ tastes to perfection.

No doubt Justin and Harry had already been brought to their knees by the seductive silk and their respective wives. Now it was Vaughan’s turn.

Daisy’s heart was in her throat as she turned the brass doorknob as quietly as she could and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. A single oil lamp had been left burning at the far end, and its flame flickered as Vaughan’s own door suddenly opened too.

Daisy stilled.

He glanced up, his hand still on the door handle, and his eyes darkened at the sight of her, caught motionless in exactly the same position down the hall.

He was wearing a banyan robe of deep burgundy, with a sash tied around his waist. A tantalizing V of bronzed skin showed at the neck. Was he naked underneath? She hoped so.

“Going somewhere?” she asked innocently.

“Just looking for a glass of water.”

She bit back a snort at his innocuous tone. “That’s odd. There’s nearly always some in every room. Tess is an excellent hostess.”

“I’ve a decanter of brandy, not water.”

“There’s a bell pull. You could have called a servant.”

“Didn’t want to bother them so late. What are you doing?”

Daisy let her gaze drop to his lips, then back up. “I was hungry. I thought I’d sneak down to the kitchens and see if there was any leftover dessert.”

She pressed her lips together to stop a giggle escaping.

His teeth flashed. “Liar. You were coming to my room to tell me you accept my proposal.”

She lifted her chin. “I was not. You were coming to my room to actually propose. Because you haven’t, you know. You just told Letty I was going to be your duchess.”

His brows quirked. “What’s the point in proposing? You’ve repeatedly said you’ll only say yes to a man who loves you.”

“That’s true.”

He took a step toward her. “Then humor me. How will you know when a man loves you?”

His question caught her off guard. In truth, she’d never actually thought about it, beyond a vague feeling that she’d somehow just know .

Tess and Ellie presumably knew that Justin and Harry loved them, but Daisy had never asked them to explain how.

That omission was something she needed to rectify if she had any hope of making Vaughan fall in love with her.

She’d need to know when her efforts had been successful, after all.

“Well, I suppose he would have proved his love for me in a hundred different ways,” she temporized.

“How? By filling your house with so many flowers you get hay fever? Composing sonnets to your eyebrows?” His tone was sardonic.

“Well, no,” she admitted. “I can’t say either of those would convince me. Quite the opposite.”

“What, then? Would he build you a house? Plant you a garden? Give vast sums to a charity close to your heart?”

“Fund a home for soiled doves, wounded veterans, and stray dogs, you mean?” Daisy saw his look of confusion and laughed.

“That was what Tess, Ellie, and I said we’d do when Tess first became the Duchess of Wansford.

We didn’t end up with quite that combination, but we do support two different boardinghouses in Covent Garden.

The Traveler’s Rest is for veterans, and the Golden Hart is for soiled doves.

Both of them accept dogs. They’re run by a friend of Harry’s uncle, Hugo Ambrose. ”

“All very admirable.” He took another step closer. “But you haven’t answered my question. We’ve already established that you don’t need to be in love to make love. Do you think fucking someone who’s in love with you will feel different?”

“I’m not sure.”

He was in front of her now, and his proximity made her breath come a little faster. The delicious scent of him, dark and tempting, made it hard to think.

“I’m trying to understand the logic here,” he continued softly. “Would a man who loves you be gentle? Or rough? Or a combination of both?”

His eyes roamed over her face in the dim light, resting lightly on each of her features as if cataloguing each one. “He’d obviously desire you so much that he’d be desperate for you, yes? But he’d also take the time to pleasure you before he saw to his own needs. Do I have that right?”

“Well, yes, I suppose…”

Daisy frowned. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. What he was saying made sense, but then he’d been both rough and desperate, gentle and selfless, when they’d been together at the inn. And he didn’t love her. He was simply an accomplished lover.

“It’s… complicated,” she muttered.

His lips curled in a look that was half amused, half resigned. “It is indeed. I hope you’re not telling me it’s all down to some mystical feminine instinct. Because if that’s the case, what hope does a man have?”

Daisy glared up at him. Why was he so determined to have a deep, meaningful conversation on the essence of love right here, in the corridor, at midnight? There were other, far more enjoyable, things they could be doing instead.

“Can’t this discussion wait until morning?”

His eyes darkened. “Am I keeping you from your tryst with the leftover cr è me br ? l é e? Or is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

Daisy stepped forward so her breasts brushed his chest. “You are the most aggravating man, Lucien Vaughan.”

“You’re not the first person to make that observation.”

She grabbed the lapels of his dressing gown. “Just so you know, we are not engaged. I haven’t agreed to marry you.”

“Understood.”

“I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

“You will.”

She ignored the ambiguity of that remark. “That said, I have no objection to you giving me another demonstration of what it’s like to bed a man who doesn’t love me.”

“A scientific study?” he growled. “For comparison?”

She licked her lips and his hungry gaze followed the move. “Exactly.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, as if she’d said something to annoy him, but his expression was pure wickedness as he loomed over her. “Oh, sweetheart, I am more than happy to oblige. Your room, or mine?”