Page 4 of Road Trip With a Rogue (Her Majesty’s Rebels #3)

Daisy leaned her head back against the luxurious velvet seat and tried to quash the jittery impatience plaguing her.

Allowing Vaughan to escort her to Hatfield was the sensible thing to do.

She would be safer with him than alone on horseback, and it would be foolish to refuse his help simply because he made her uncomfortable.

She would accost the two runaways, take them back to London, and rejoice in the satisfaction of another job well done.

Vaughan had stalked into the inn to check on his coachman—and hopefully to keep his word about sending someone back for the highwayman she’d shot.

She felt awful for hurting another human being, but she would have felt even worse if she’d done nothing to prevent the coachman’s cold-blooded execution.

She closed her eyes, striving for calm, but every inhalation brought with it the ghost of Vaughan’s scent, and with a groan she allowed herself to remember that fateful night five years ago.

She doubted Vaughan even recalled it. The women he’d kissed probably all blurred into one another, but it had been one of the most significant events of her life. The details were etched into her brain with cut-glass clarity.

The blame was doubtless hers. She’d been fascinated by him from the first moment she’d seen him at one of the wild parties her brothers had hosted at Hollyfield.

At sixteen, she’d been told to stay in her room, but she’d always chafed at obeying orders.

Besides, she was only looking. No harm in that.

She’d lingered in the shadows of the upper gallery to spy on the revelry in the ballroom below, and her heart had missed a beat when she’d glimpsed Vaughan’s dark hair and saturnine features.

He invariably had a female companion in tow; her brothers never invited respectable females of the ton , so she could only assume the string of gorgeous women on his arm were either actresses or courtesans.

The sight of his big hands casually stroking a waist, or squeezing a bottom, produced a terrible yearning in the pit of her stomach.

A dark, gnawing jealousy that made her clench her fists against her skirts.

When she was seventeen, she’d stumbled upon him kissing a voluptuous blonde in one of the quieter corridors. The girl’s head had been thrown back, her neck arched as he pressed his lips to her throat.

Daisy had skidded to a shocked halt on the marble floor. The girl had been so drugged by his kisses that she didn’t even register the intrusion, but Vaughan’s eyes had met hers and Daisy’s breath had caught in her throat at the combination of amusement and burning desire in their depths.

He’d raised his brows, as if to chide her for the interruption, and she cursed the heat that scalded her cheeks as she swirled around and raced back up the stairs.

His dark laughter had followed her down the hall.

She thoroughly resented the fascination she had for him. He was debauched and wicked, clearly not the sort of man to whom she ought to be attracted, but his dangerous allure was irresistible.

After her come-out she saw him quite regularly, although he was part of a different, glittering social set.

Sometimes she felt him watching her, and her pulse would thunder alarmingly in her throat, and whenever their eyes met, she’d experience a jolt in her body like a static shock.

He’d raise his brows in silent challenge, and for some reason she knew it would be a sign of weakness to look away, so she forced herself to hold his gaze.

Eventually, when her skin was on fire and a wicked, heavy throb of desire pulsed between her thighs, his lips would twitch as if he was trying not to laugh, and he’d release her from her torment.

His dark gaze would drop to her mouth, her throat, her breasts, and she’d feel it like a brand, a physical touch, even across a crowded ballroom.

It was a ridiculous, unspoken game between them, the rules of which she never fully understood, only that she looked forward to those wordless interactions more than anything else.

When Devlin had mentioned that he and Vaughan were joining Wellington’s army to fight against Bonaparte, her heart had been seized with dread. The thought of Vaughan dying on some dusty battlefield in Portugal, of never returning to drive her quietly insane, was unbearable.

As soon as she’d heard that he was hosting a farewell party at his father’s mansion in Mayfair, she’d known what she had to do. Her lack of an invitation had been no deterrent, and since Devlin had mentioned it was to be a costumed affair, it was the perfect opportunity to be bold.

Her courage had flagged a little when she saw quite how debauched the gathering had become.

She’d deliberately waited until almost midnight to arrive, certain that she had a better chance of sneaking in unchallenged if most of the guests were already drunk, but by the time she casually strolled through the side gate and into the lantern-lit gardens, it was clear that the revelry was well underway.

A giggling woman tugged an unresisting gentleman behind a yew hedge, while the unmistakable sounds of energetic lovemaking could be heard from somewhere behind the trees.

Daisy bit her lip and checked the ribbon on her mask was firmly tied. She’d borrowed the outfit from a friend who worked at Drury Lane Theatre, and the neckline of the burgundy velvet gown was far more revealing than anything she’d previously worn. She felt daring and gloriously naughty.

She spied Devlin and Dominic drinking with a group of women on the patio and gave them a wide berth as she slipped up the steps, through the open French windows, and into a crowded ballroom.

Needing some courage, she plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and took a deep sip, deftly avoiding the groping hands of an inebriated gentleman dressed as a shepherd.

She weaved through the buoyant crowd, her stomach fizzing with excitement as she absorbed the hedonistic pleasure of the guests.

The music was loud, the laughter louder, but there was a brittle edge of recklessness in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment that this could be the last time some of these men might truly enjoy themselves.

The haunting possibility of death hovered just beyond the walls, and everyone inside was determined to seize this moment of happiness.

Vaughan wasn’t in either of the rooms set aside for gaming, nor was he on the dance floor, and Daisy quashed a wave of disappointment.

What if he’d already abandoned his guests and withdrawn somewhere more private with some lucky lady?

She hadn’t heard that he had a mistress, but it wouldn’t be a surprise. He could have any woman he wanted.

She was just wondering whether to accept the offer of a dance from a handsome man dressed as a sailor when her wrist was seized in an inescapable grip, but her outraged protest died on her lips when she saw Vaughan’s dark features towering over her.

He hadn’t bothered with a mask. His brows were pulled down in a frown and her stomach dropped at the furious look in his eyes.

“Sod off, Gadsby. This one’s mine.”

The sailor sent him an amused look and shrugged. “Don’t blame you, old man.” His lecherous gaze slid over her exposed chest. “She’s a prime bit o’ muslin.”

He drifted away, but when Daisy tried to extricate her wrist, Vaughan’s fingers tightened almost painfully.

Her heart began to pound with excitement. Surely, he hadn’t recognized her, which meant he’d singled her out because he wanted her!

She followed him, unresisting, as he tugged her through the crowd and out into a slightly less crowded corridor.

Elation bubbled up inside her. Yes! This was where he’d take her in his arms and kiss her, exactly as he’d kissed that blonde at Hollyfield.

She’d finally get the forbidden kiss she’d been dreaming about for so long, and since she was masked, he’d never know the identity of his conquest.

He didn’t stop in the corridor. Daisy tried to angle him up against the wall, but he was so much bigger than her it was like trying to divert the path of an avalanche.

She bit back a slightly panicked laugh. Perhaps he was taking her somewhere even more private?

Oh, God! She really hadn’t given this sufficient thought.

He still hadn’t said a thing—he probably didn’t expect conversation from his paramours—but she looked round in surprise as he finally opened a door and tugged her into a cozy-looking room that appeared to be a study.

A fire burning low in the grate provided the only illumination, but she glimpsed a heavy wooden desk and a pair of comfortable armchairs before she was swung around to face him.

The manacle-like grip on her wrist suddenly eased, and she glanced up with what she hoped was a welcoming, seductive smile.

“Dorothea Hamilton, what the fuck are you doing in my house?”

Daisy gasped in horror. Before she could even come up with a retort his hand shot out, ripped the mask from her head, and flung it across the room.

Oh shit.