Page 9 of Road Trip With a Rogue (Her Majesty’s Rebels #3)

Lucien decided against wearing gloves down to dinner. As tempting as it was to frustrate Daisy’s unashamed curiosity about the extent of his injuries, it simply wasn’t practical.

Besides, she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d faint at the sight of a scar. She’d shot a man to save Geordie’s life, even though it had pained her, and Lucien could think of only a handful of other women of his acquaintance who would have had the guts to do the same.

He’d told her that he didn’t care what other people thought, but as he descended the wide staircase and made his way toward the dining room, he found himself oddly nervous about her reaction.

He hoped to God she’d changed out of her masculine clothes. She’d removed her overcoat halfway through the afternoon to reveal a loose jacket, a white shirt tucked into a pair of soft buckskin breeches, and a pair of scuffed leather boots.

Lucien had stifled a groan. The shirt was of poor quality, thin and darned in several places, and he kept getting glimpses of the chemise she wore underneath whenever she moved. Even worse, the sleek length of her thighs was outlined with indecent clarity by the breeches.

The tails of the jacket concealed her backside when she was standing up, but when she climbed back into the coach, the curves of her buttocks were tantalizingly close and his hands had flexed with the desire to shape and stroke.

The only relief was the fact that she had no idea how much her proximity affected him. She never had, thank God.

He stepped into the dining room and almost swallowed his tongue. She was already there, waiting for him, and perhaps he should have suggested that she stay in her bloody boy’s clothes after all.

“Is that one of the duchess’s gowns?” he asked stiffly.

She stroked her palm down the front of it. “Oh, no. This is mine. I have a room full of things here, for when I stay with Tess and Justin.”

He should have guessed that, from the way the damned thing fitted her with such delicious precision.

The cobalt-blue silk dipped low at the front, hugging her breasts and hips so faithfully it was clear it wasn’t borrowed.

A swathe of utterly impractical fabric flowers decorated one shoulder and tumbled with apparent innocence down the neckline, irresistibly drawing the eye to the creamy swell of her left breast. It was a diabolically seductive dress.

“It’s by Madame Lef è vre of Bond Street,” she added absently.

Of course it was. He’d paid for a few dresses from the stylish modiste himself, for various paramours. None of them had ever looked as good in the creations as Daisy did.

Bloody woman. She didn’t even aspire to looking good.

She’d probably spent less than five minutes worrying about her hair, and he’d be amazed if she’d done more than wash the mud from her hands, but that refreshing carelessness only made her even more attractive.

The fact that she clearly didn’t give a fig for enticing him was both highly amusing and, ironically for her, entirely ineffective. He wanted to eat her for dinner.

Bloody Hell.

The servants had seated them together at one end of the vast mahogany dining table. A hovering footman pulled out the chair for her and she sank into it with a smile, while Lucien lowered himself opposite her.

Her gaze flicked to his uncovered hands as he casually rested his left on the table and used his right to take a sip of wine, but instead of glancing away, as most people did, she tilted her head and regarded him openly.

He kept his face carefully expressionless.

“Is it still healing?” she asked.

“Not really. It’s been over a year. This is probably as good as it’s going to get, in terms of appearance.

” He let her look her fill at the raised lattice of pale scars that crisscrossed the back of his left hand and disappeared beneath the snowy cuff of his shirt.

“It used to be redder, but while the color has faded, the texture will always be like this.”

He’d always been glad of the small mercy that it had been his left, nondominant hand that had been injured. And that fact that he hadn’t lost any of his fingers.

She took a sip of her own wine. “I’m sorry you were hurt. Joining the army was a brave thing to do. Especially since it wasn’t expected of you.”

He frowned, thinking she was implying that he was considered a coward, but she quickly clarified.

“As the heir to a dukedom, I mean. First-born sons were expected to stay here and keep the country running.”

His lips twisted. “That was certainly my father’s opinion. But I couldn’t stay twiddling my thumbs while other men defended my home. I was lucky to survive with such a minor injury. Thousands of men never got the chance to return.”

A shadow flitted across her face. “Yes. I know. I lost a good friend at Waterloo.”

Lucien experienced an unexpected flash of jealousy. Who was she talking about? Had this mystery man been just a friend, or something more?

God, he’d tried not to listen whenever her brothers discussed her various suitors, but he was sure they’d never mentioned anyone who’d been killed in action. Had she had a secret lover?

Damn it, her love life was none of his affair.

It wasn’t as if he’d been a saint, although in truth the rumors of his conquests had been greatly exaggerated.

Since he’d been back in England, he’d been too busy recuperating for the first six months to give much thought to seduction, and after that he’d amused himself with professionals who understood that physical pleasure didn’t need to be accompanied by any emotional attachment.

The arrival of the first course interrupted his brooding, and he let his eyes wander over her as she started to eat.

“That dress is an excellent disguise.”

She glanced up, her brows arched in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“It makes you look sweet and docile. Not at all the kind of reckless hellion who would interrupt a robbery.”

Her lips quirked in delight at the backhanded compliment, and his gut tightened in response.

“Are you still armed?” he drawled.

Her eyes flashed. “A knife in my pocket. It was hidden in my boot. Your man failed to find it when he searched me.”

He bit back a smile at her cockiness. “I’ll be sure to give him a dressing-down. I doubt he’s ever encountered a young lady with three knives on her person.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “Are you armed?”

“Only with my wits,” he quipped.

“You don’t consider me any kind of threat at all, do you?”

“Physically? No. In truth, I don’t.”

“Not even with the element of surprise?”

She sounded offended, and he knew she still harbored a ridiculous sliver of hope that she could outmaneuver him. He should have found it ridiculous, instead of endearing.

“I doubt I’d ever let my guard down around you enough to let you get the better of me. But feel free to try, if you find it entertaining.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he almost willed her to leap over the table and try to attack him.

She was tempted; he could see it in her face.

But he also knew that it would be a fatal mistake.

They’d had anger and violence between them before, five years ago, and it had only taken a heartbeat for it to turn into something equally passionate and far more dangerous.

The chance of it happening again was high, even if she professed to hate him.

There was no denying the attraction that shimmered between them. It had plagued him for years, an insistent tug he’d done his best to ignore. But if she put her hands on him there was no telling how he’d react.

He saw the moment she arrived at the same conclusion. She swallowed hard and her eyes dropped from his, and she busied herself with her soup.

He ignored a twinge of disappointment.

They made it through the main course with a steady flow of harmless conversation, but when the cook brought in an impressive array of desserts, Daisy’s expression became almost euphoric.

“Mrs. Ward! You shouldn’t have!” She sent the cook a mock-scolding glance. “But I’m so glad you did. I’ve been dreaming of your cr è me br ? l é e for months.”

The plump woman flushed with pride. “You know how much I like seeing people enjoy my food, Miss Hamilton. It’s the highest compliment a chef can receive.”

She turned to Lucien and bobbed a respectful curtsey. “Your Grace, I’ve made a couple of extra puddings, in case you have a sweet tooth too. That’s a pear cake with custard, and this is a strawberry blancmange.”

Daisy’s eyes twinkled. “I hope you haven’t made us the special desserts you made for their Graces on their wedding night?”

The cook’s cheeks creased in a naughty smile that made her look more like a ten-year-old girl than an elderly matron. “Of course not. Bon appetit!” She bobbed another curtsey and sallied out.

Lucien raised his brows. “Special desserts?”

Daisy snorted. “The staff were so keen to promote a love-match between the new duke and duchess that Mrs. Ward cooked everything with foods thought to be aphrodisiacs. Tess told me all about it.”

“Considering how Thornton talks about his duchess, I’d say it was entirely unnecessary,” he drawled. “I’ve never met a man so nauseatingly in love with his own wife.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Ward’s desserts helped?” She used the back of her spoon to crack the caramelized sugar crust on the top of her cr è me br ? l é e, then scooped a spoonful into her mouth.

Lucien watched helplessly as she closed her eyes and groaned as the first taste of the creamy dessert touched her tongue.

His cock hardened instantly.

She withdrew the spoon, pulling it slowly between her lips, and he tightened his grip on his wineglass.

Bloody woman. The worst thing was, she wasn’t even doing it deliberately.

She had no inkling of the way she made his blood heat.

Or if she did, she didn’t care. He couldn’t decide which would be worse.

“You like desserts?” God, his voice sounded like he’d been eating gravel. He cleared his throat again.

Her eyes popped open and she shook her head. “I love desserts.”

“Love’s a very strong word.”

“I think you’re underestimating the desperate lengths I’d go to—possibly just short of murder—for one of Mrs. Ward’s apple puffs.” She took another spoonful and ate it with salacious delight. “Isn’t there a food you love?”

Lucien considered the question, mainly to stop himself from thinking of what she’d taste like if he kissed her. How much he wanted to lick that bloody cream from her skin.

“I don’t think I love anything,” he said truthfully. “I am fond of things. I desire things. So I have them. But I wouldn’t say I love them.”

She tilted her head. “What about people? There must be people you love.”

“A select few. But loving someone opens you up to being hurt.”

“It is a bit of a double-edged sword,” she conceded thoughtfully. “Love makes you stronger and weaker at the same time. More vulnerable, but also invincible. That’s how I feel about Ellie and Tess, anyway. I’d be lost without them.”

He nodded, refusing to ask if she was also thinking about the man she’d loved and lost. “You’re fortunate to have such close friends.”

“I am. Which is why I can’t let them down by failing to catch Violet and Peregrine.”

Lucien suppressed a groan. Daisy’s tenacity would be an admirable trait under different circumstances, but in this case, it was most unwelcome.

She was right to be suspicious of his motives, and he wondered what she’d do if he told her the real reason he was going along with her plans. Her quarry, Peregrine Hughes, was his nephew, the only son of his elder sister, Marion.

And while Daisy was determined to put a stop to Perry’s elopement, Lucien was equally keen to ensure it went ahead. He was heartily sick of chaperoning the love-struck fool around London, and selfishly keen to have his unwanted house guest out from under his feet for good.

The fact that Perry had managed to fall in love with an heiress, and not some gaudy opera singer or Covent Garden flower-seller was a miracle in itself—no less incredible than the fact that Violet seemed to return his affections.

Violet’s father didn’t approve of the match, but that was neither here nor there.

Lucien had advised the two lovebirds to present the curmudgeonly Mr. Brand with a fait accompli, and since he’d had little faith that two such simpleminded individuals could get themselves to Gretna Green unscathed, he’d been following them at a discreet distance ever since they left London.

The highwaymen’s attack had proved his decision to keep a close eye on his charge was justified, but Daisy’s unexpected appearance had added a new and exciting twist. Lucien’s onerous task had suddenly become far more interesting.

His lips quirked in dark amusement. Daisy was probably going to stab him with one of her knives when she discovered the truth, but he was enjoying her company too much to tell her. She was going to be a delightful diversion.

“I hope you’ll be ready for an early start tomorrow?” she said, breaking into his thoughts.

Lucien frowned into his wine. “How early, exactly?”

“Shall we say eight o’clock?”

“That’s an ungodly hour.”

She sent him a look full of mock-sympathy. “You poor thing. Have you ever exerted yourself to get out of bed before noon?”

He pinned her with a hot, direct look that immediately banished the teasing amusement from her face. “Only with the strongest of incentives,” he drawled. “Staying in my bed is usually a far more inviting prospect.”

He let that thought, that image, dance between them for a moment, and enjoyed the way her lips parted and the blood rushed to her cheeks. He stood and sent her a formal, mocking bow. “I’ll bid you good night. Sweet dreams.”