Page 92 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
“Hmm. I still say the title could be shortened a bit.”
Cass tickled her ribs, his fingers flying from bone to bone as if he were a virtuoso of piano. “When you are utterly frustrated by the vague advice on how to be good given by people who’ve not done a damn thing wrong in their lives, you may make suggestions.”
Ada laughed until tears sprang to her eyes, her arms flailing. “Stop! Ha! Cass!”
He stopped, his hands flattening around her rib cage, his lips contouring to hers with a kiss.
When they came up for breath, Ada sighed and said, “And the letter from my father?”
He pulled the epistle from his pocket and handed it to her. “For you to read, love. Perhaps it says when they plan to set sail.” The entire Cavendish clan would leave for Italy this summer, and Ada looked for their letters every day, bought little trinkets for the children every time she left the house. She’d had a special reticule made, much larger than deemed fashionable, to fit all her finds within. It had been a year since they’d wed and left their families in England. And though she had loved every moment of their travel, and he had loved every moment watching her soak in the world, she missed home.
As did he.
But if she asked him to follow her round the earth another decade, he’d do so, happier than he’d ever been before.
She unfolded the letter, but a sound outside the window sent the paper fluttering to her lap. She laughed and popped out of his lap. She ran to the window and looked out onto the street.
“Look, Cass!” He joined her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “It’s the poet from across the piazza. You said you wanted to speak with him again.”
“I said I wanted to tease him. He’s so blissfully unaware.”
“Wicked, Cassius.”
“Always, love.” He nipped her ear.
Her head lolled to the side with a happy sigh. “Don’t you wish to go down?”
“Not particularly. The poet will be there tomorrow. Do you?”
She stilled, thinking, then she melted. “Not particularly. Take me to bed, Cass.”
And he did, giving her exactly what she wanted, needed, and desired—his body, his heart, his entire future.
* * *
The letter from England fluttered to the seat of the chair, forgotten in youthful excitement, in excited passion.
But not forgotten for good. In an hour’s time, as the sun set below the piazza rooftops, and as the lovers’ bellies grumbled for sustenance, they would roll from their nest and put bare feet to floor. The rogue would go in search of food and the explorer would stretch her arms above her head, don a dressing gown, and follow after him.
The letter remained for later, but it is now, as it will be then, in her father’s bold script…
Dearest Ada,
We had planned a surprise for you. We were to embark on our voyage to the Continent in a few days so that the next you heard from us would be while wrapped in crushing hugs. But we have canceled our passage. I know such news brings disappointment, but I hope you will understand when I tell you …
Do not fret, my dear, but Nora is … not in London. Nor at Cavendish Manor. She has disappeared to Norfolk, and we do not know when she will return. Do not worry. I feel she is safe. Sarah, however, has flown into an unexpected fury. She tells me young ladies should not run off with men her parents have never met. She insists we retrieve your sister. I will send further news when we return to London.
I love you dearly, my intrepid explorer, and am glad you have Cass to keep your heart company and to keep you safe.
—Papa
In Florence, a Cavendish woman has found her heart.
In London, a Cavendish man bundles into a traveling coach to soothe his wife and find his daughter.
And in a small town in Norfolk, in a run-down manor owned by a reluctant viscount, another Cavendish woman wonders what the hell kind of mess she’s gotten herself into.
* * *