Page 38 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Rockley would have turned on his heel without a second thought, if it weren't for the fact that he was ravenous. Not a single table remained vacant, and he was in no mood to make the obligatory small talk with strangers if he was forced to share.

He should have ordered supper to his room, but he was here now and the sooner a plate of roast beef was in front of him the better.

A sharp survey of the salon showed him a seat no more ten steps hence, where three ladies appeared deeply engrossed in conversation. It was far from ideal but, if they were talkative among themselves, he might manage the meal in relative peace. Nodding his intention to the Ma?tre d', Rockley strode out and had almost reached the table when the dark-haired woman with her back towards him turned.

His breath caught.

Did they know one another?

He thought not, for an introduction to a woman as handsome as the one before him would not slip his mind.

Yet there was something familiar in her features, or perhaps it was her hair: a cloud of ebony above an elegant neck, with wisps curling upon her nape.

He was looking into eyes of languid softness.

Her chin lifted, and her lips parted. The desire came upon him to press his thumb there, to the center of her plump lower lip. He imagined her drawing it into her mouth and sucking upon it. Another image came fast upon that, and it was impossible to prevent the swelling stir of his cock.

A mere twelve months prior, he would have paid her every attention but, as alluring as she was, the last thing he needed was an entanglement. He wrenched away his gaze, making himself address the older ladies.

"I beg your pardon. May I seek the favor of joining you?"

"Please, do."

"It would be delightful?—"

The welcoming responses came without hesitation. The Ma?tre d' had now caught up with him, in time to hear the matrons' invitation. The vacant chair was pulled out to receive him.

Without delay, he sat. "You're too kind."

The Ma?tre d' was hovering. "Your Grace, you are joining the Misses McTavish, and Mrs. Bongorge."

Rockley inclined his head in recognition of the introduction.

"Such a treat!"

One of the silver-haired women tittered. "A titled gentleman at the table, and so stately in appearance. We shall be the envy of every lady in the salon."

"Oona, dear, you'll have him sprinting for the door,"

the other chided.

"The pleasure is all mine."

A carafe of White Burgundy appeared at his shoulder, alongside a fish course.

"I hope His Grace shan't mind us asking if he has been enjoying his trip."

Oona McTavish ventured again. "Although I wouldn't dream of pressing him."

The second Ms. McTavish cast a reprimanding eye upon the first. "I fear my sister has forgotten she's no longer a debutante casting about for suitors at her first ball. Really, Oona, leave His Grace to enjoy his meal without being interrogated."

Rockley couldn't help but be amused. The pair were harmless enough, and their Scots accent was gentle on the ear. The lemon sole was also very good, served with purple-headed broccoli and Chartreuse potatoes. While the ladies pushed morsels delicately onto their forks, he was close to finishing his portion.

He obliged the inquisitive Miss Oona McTavish with a reply. "I had business in Italy, which is now concluded. I'm journeying back but am in no hurry. Some time at sea seemed appealing."

Taking a sip of his wine, Rockley tried not to be distracted by Mrs. Bongorge's perfume—a heady mix of musk and spice. It was an unusual choice for a woman, akin to the cologne he favored himself. She hadn't spoken, though he was aware of her observing him.

"I hope you didn't dedicate your time entirely to business."

The languor of her voice, rich and harmonious, lent a suggestive air. "Venice, after all, is the City of Love."

Her dark lashes flicked upward, and he was caught in the tunnel of her gaze. He swallowed hard. "Many cities are named so. Paris, for instance."

"Venice is more alluring, don't you think? So much is hidden and mysterious; a more compelling prospect than the obvious glitter of the French capital."

"I defer to your judgement."

He made himself look away. "I fear I'm not the romantic sort."

The statement was not true. Of all cities, Venice held an enduring appeal, with its maze of waterways and ancient palaces. By night, especially, he found it enchanting. However, he wished to steer the conversation into more innocuous waters. If the Misses McTavish could be encouraged to take up the narrative of their lives, he felt sure his own remarks could be kept to the minimum.

In this way, the next three courses were dispatched, until the elderly ladies declared themselves not only too full to enjoy dessert but in need of their beds.

He was about to excuse himself in a similar manner when a platter of grilled peaches was placed before him, topped with mascarpone and drizzled with honey and orange liqueur.

Mrs. Bongorge had barely spoken since their earlier interaction, and he thought himself safe to enjoy the dish before making his own exit. Yet he'd taken only one succulent mouthful before he felt something brush his leg beneath the table.

"A nightcap? I have a fine bottle of Vecchia Romagna brandy in my room. The vanilla is pleasing on the tongue but complimented well by the darker spices. I'm sure you'll find it satisfying."

Mrs. Bongorge's hand came to rest, unmistakably, upon his thigh.

The blatancy of the invitation could not be mistaken and, despite himself, he was tempted. He'd spent the past hour trying not to think of how it would feel to have her mouth upon him, and her hands. The cut of her gown left him in no doubt that her breasts were magnificent. What shade would her nipples be: pale pink or a ruddier crimson? He imagined spilling there, over her creamy fullness.

If he allowed his cock to make the decision, he'd have her naked before she could unstopper the damn brandy. There were plenty of ways to enjoy one another without the ultimate consummation. But his world had changed, and his obligations. He held himself, now, to a different standard.

Gently, he moved her hand away. The swiftest way to extricate himself was through honesty. "Much as I'd love to sample what you're offering, I've an appointment at the church for a little over two months' time, and a bride who deserves better than a man who shares his favors freely."

Mrs. Bongorge's eyebrows rose. "How noble, though a disappointment for me. I must say—and I hope you won't take offence—you don't give the impression of a man in the grip of all-consuming love."

Rockley was under no obligation to explain himself. Yet, she struck him as a woman who might read a man, regardless of what he spoke aloud. That being the case, he supposed she sensed his attraction to her.

"It isn't that sort of marriage,"

he said simply. "Miss Maitland was betrothed to my brother, though the ceremony was delayed by family bereavement on her side. A year ago, most unexpectedly, Frederick died. She was twenty-three when they became affianced and is soon to have her twenty-sixth birthday. It would be cruel for me to deny her any claim upon myself."

Mrs. Bongorge looked thoughtful. "It is a great sorrow to lose a sibling. Please accept my condolences. But your sense of duty is excessive, is it not? Unless you feel a great attachment to the lady yourself? We do not live in the age of our grandmothers. If the lady is agreeable and well-connected—as I imagine she must be—she will not lack suitors."

"Her ancestry is perfectly acceptable."

He spoke firmly. "Her grandfather was the youngest son of a baronet and, though her father lacks a hereditary title, he was knighted a decade ago for his services to industry: an achievement for which I have the greatest admiration."

He frowned. "But those considerations mean nothing. Miss Maitland was promised a certain status, and only I can make amends."

His betrothed possessed not only respectable lineage but an ample dowry, thanks to the success of her father's ceramics business in Derbyshire. However, Marjorie was a shy creature, with neither the manner nor looks to attract men in the way he imagined Mrs. Bongorge took for granted. For her to re-enter the marriage mart would be painful on many levels.

Mrs. Bongorge's lips, so full and sensual, pressed in disapproval. "She's being passed along like a second-hand petticoat."

"That isn't how I view it, and I should hope it is not how Miss Maitland feels. Her company is not unpleasant. Her kindly nature and modest bearing are conducive to a companionable arrangement. I'm led to believe she finds me similarly tolerable. I shall give her every freedom. The liaison has the greatest chance of happiness."

"What lovebirds you will make!"

Mrs. Bongorge's eyes flashed. "Does it not occur to you that, beneath the wings of your gentle sparrow, may hide a yearning heart? She deserves more than that paltry consideration."

The outburst took him aback. To his own mind, he was without reproach. His wife would be denied nothing, if he could but navigate the one area that worried him, and father the children he had no doubt she wished for.

Not that children were a necessity. His younger brother had already wed, and there were cousins. An heir to the title and estate was ensured, one way or another. But Miss Maitland—Marjorie—would want a child, he assumed.

As for himself, he was of the notion that marriage comprised but one part of a man's life. It was natural for a woman's interests to center within the home. Rockley Hall, situated close to the Welsh border, was generally held to be impressive, if somewhat lacking in modern luxuries. He intended to give his wife free rein in its decoration, and she might have any number of guests come to stay. He, meanwhile, would spend the majority of his time in town. Naturally, he would visit, but not above a few months each year. It would be adequate.

As captivating as Mrs. Bongorge was, she had overstepped the mark. "Madam, do not presume to know what is required to make my bride-to-be content. I venture that Miss Maitland's temperament is vastly different from your own."

Dropping his napkin to the table, he rose, bowed to the smallest degree, and departed. If some quietly insistent voice whispered that there might be a degree of truth in Mrs. Bongorge's statement, he pushed down its unwelcome pestering.

Lord Theodore Rockley, eleventh Duke of Pembridge, would marry Miss Maitland, and she would be every bit as happy as he intended her to be.