Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 9-1

Chapter 9

She couldn’t breathe. “I did? You do?”

He nodded. “One glass of the finest French brandy, every night.” He sat back and held up his empty glass. “There was no wine with dinner, and I’ve never cared for port, but I wouldn’t mind a glass of brandy just now.”

The rotter. He was winding her up on purpose, just like one of her little cousins’ toys. Wind it up, pull the string, and watch the top spin like crazy.

Well, she wasn’t letting Tony pull her string.

She got up from the table with as much dignity as she could muster and retrieved the decanter from the sideboard. “Here, pour for yourself. I don’t want to take the chance of spilling it. Might land on your head.”

He grinned unabashedly, acknowledging her threat, yet unfazed. After he filled his own glass, his hand hovered near hers. “Care to join me?”

She paused. What was the harm? “Just a finger’s worth.”

He poured the requested amount and handed back the decanter. He waited until she was seated again, and held his glass up in a toast. “To what shall we drink?”

That was easy. “To no more leaks.”

“To no more leaks.” They drank, and Tony closed his eyes, presumably in appreciation. He leaned back in his chair, the wineglass held between his fingers like a brandy snifter, and slowly swirled the liquid. “Are there many more of them?”

“Too many. The one on the southwest corner is the largest. That’s where the roof is missing the most tiles.” She took another sip of her brandy, and then it was gone. Drat. Perhaps she should have allowed herself a tad more.

“How long has it been this bad?”

“Well, there was the storm last week, plus—”

“I wasn’t referring to the roof.”

Oh.

“Was it like this when you married him?”

She folded her napkin and smoothed the edges. “Let’s just say marriage to Montgomery was better than the alternative.”

Tony raised his eyebrows but didn’t press the issue. That was a point in his favor.

He’d hear the story at some point anyway, seeing as how all her men were gossips. Apparently. “Montgomery’s father was not skilled when it came to money, other than spending it, and not on the estate. Hubert tried, but the blockade with France for so many years hurt his shipping business. Two years ago, after several business ventures went badly, he turned to his grandfather’s trade. Smuggling. Things started getting better. Then last spring, a gale blew across the Channel. His ship was battered against the rocks, and all hands perished.”

Tony said not a word, but leaned across the table and poured half his brandy into her glass.

She didn’t need it, though she appreciated the gesture. She’d made peace long ago with what life had thrown at her.

Jimmy bounded back into the room just then, a smear of jam at the corner of his mouth, and Sylvia took a long drink. “I saved one,” he announced, setting the tart on the cheese plate between them. “There would have been more, but Macbeth caught a mole this afternoon and left it on the kitchen doorstep and scared the shi— Scared Galen. I think he does it just to annoy her. She had to calm her nerves with a dose or two of spirits. Barely got dinner ready.”

Jimmy paused, and they all turned toward the sound of voices in the hall and the front door closing. “That will be Corwin. Smashing. Now he and I can finish our chess game before you two turn in.” Jimmy went around the table, heading for the hall.

“I thought it was Sawyer we were waiting for.” Tony took another sip of brandy.

Jimmy looked back over his shoulder. “No, I’m sure it’s Corwin’s turn tonight.” And with that, he was gone.

Sylvia stared at Tony.

He drew slow circles on the back of her hand with his fingertip. “You think I forgot about your guard dogs planning to take turns sleeping in the dressing room that separates us?” His voice had turned low and soft again. “I assure you, there’s no need for them. Your virtue is safe with me.” He covered her hand with his own. “As safe as you’d like it to be.”

The smoldering look in his eyes was back. She snatched her hand back and twined her fingers together on her lap.

She was having trouble breathing again. Perhaps she should step outdoors. Fresh air would clear her head.

Tony stood, offered his hand, and pulled her up. Instead of letting go and stepping back once she was on her feet, he tugged her closer, the toes of his boots disappearing beneath the edge of her skirt, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body and inhale his scent of sandalwood soap and musk.

Her mouth went dry. Her dress felt too small, her bodice and stays too tight.

He leaned in, closer still, his breath warm on her cheek. His lashes swept down, hiding his eyes, just before his lips met hers in a simple kiss.

There was no audience present, no witnesses for whom to playact. He still held her hand, his fingers wrapped around hers. Electrifying, almost overwhelming. His free hand came up and cupped her jaw, his thumb caressing her cheek. Heat blossomed within her, threatened to burn her from the inside out. She squeezed his fingers and found herself kissing him back, despite her intentions. It had been so long, so very long, since she’d been kissed with tender affection.

He continued to kiss her, touching her, stroking her, but did not demand entrance. She was tempted to part her lips, but knew there would be no going back if she let him in.

It might already be too late.

Hours later, he pulled back a fraction. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “I suggest we go join the others now, before I do something for which you’ll never forgive me.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Shall we, sweetheart?”

Too dazed to speak, she merely nodded.

He patted her hand, as though aware he’d rattled her, and led the way to the rose salon.

Corwin was there, playing chess with Jimmy, while Monroe sat before the fire, smoking his pipe, commenting on each player’s move. Gerald was lighting more candles, and Galen entered with a tea tray. Tony escorted Sylvia to the sofa by the fire, then sat next to Monroe and the two began discussing the trip to West Lulworth in the morning. Macbeth trotted in, hissed at Jimmy, and leaped up into Sylvia’s lap.

It was all so … normal.

She declined the offer to play cards when the chess match was over. Turned out Jimmy had only offered out of politeness, since he immediately demanded a rematch with Corwin. While they set up the board and began again, she stroked Macbeth, sneaking the occasional glance at Tony.

He was the picture of innocence, the epitome of propriety. Corwin and Monroe would never suspect the liberties he’d taken, the outrageous things he’d done and said when he’d been alone with her.

That was the idea, wasn’t it? To lull them all into a false sense of security, get them to lower their defenses, before he… Before he what? Ravished her?

She choked on her tea.

“Everything all right, Syl?”

“Fine, Jimmy.”

Monroe got up to refill his teacup, and Tony sent her a glance heated enough to singe her eyebrows.

To hide her flaming cheeks, she bent her head to look at Macbeth, but his eyes were closed, his tail slowly flipping side to side in the way that signaled for her to keep petting him. Typical male, only wanting one thing.

Her hand froze. That was it, wasn’t it?

Tony didn’t necessarily want her, he just wanted. She was a widow, the youngest in Lulworth Cove, and at the risk of being arrogant, the most appealing. She still had all her own teeth.

The handsome, rich aristocrat, amusing himself by taking part in their little drama, simply wanted female companionship. And she was the pick of the litter.

That was all. He’d probably had a female companion in every town he’d stopped in on his way from London while traveling with his friend. Just look at how he’d accosted her, a complete stranger, at the inn during their first encounter. If she were a different type of woman, they might have spent that afternoon in his room. Or a hayloft.

Well, she wouldn’t fall for his tricks. She might enjoy his attention — after all, he was charming and she was only human — but it would go no further. Once their crisis with Ruford was handled, Tony would be on his way, no doubt to another female companion in another town. There was nothing to keep him in Lulworth Cove. She refused to be just one of his many conquests.

She would enjoy, but not succumb.

Monroe wandered over to watch the chess match. Tony settled on the sofa beside Sylvia, his arm stretched along the back, not quite brushing her shoulders, and turned toward her. Her breath caught.

“Mind if I pet your… cat?” His hand hovered above Macbeth, still curled up on Sylvia’s lap.

“Go ahead, if you dare. He doesn’t like most men.” Macbeth continued to slowly flip his tail.

Moving very slowly, Tony stroked the cat from the top of his head, between his shoulders, down his back, all the way to the tip of his tail. Macbeth purred even louder. Tony did it again.

This time, Sylvia felt Tony’s fingertips stroking the back of her neck above her dress, underneath her hair, at the same time he stroked the cat. His expression did not change, Macbeth did not move, and no one else in the room paid them any attention.

She struggled to breathe normally. The pressure of his fingers increased, massaging away the knots of tension at the base of her skull. She should tell him to stop. She felt like purring.

Amazing. His fingers were strong on her neck, easing the tension, yet feather light on Macbeth, as he continued the cat’s favorite stroke. She let Macbeth purr for both of them.

“There is a dainty little woman in Singapore who would do you a world of good.”

Tony was leaning so close, she felt his warm breath against her cheek. She remembered the feel of his lips against hers. “Excuse me?”

“My friend Nick found her on one of his voyages. He’d lie on his stomach, and she’d take off her shoes and walk up and down his back. Releases all the tension. He swears by it.”

If she was tense, it was Tony’s fault. He hadn’t moved back, yet no one else in the salon seemed to notice.

Macbeth stood up and arched his back in a stretch and yawned, baring his teeth, then stepped over to Tony’s lap.

Sylvia could only stare.

The cat turned in a circle before settling himself on Tony’s thighs, with one paw on Tony’s stomach, and looked up at him expectantly.

“You’re a harsh taskmaster, Sir Macbeth.” Tony used the backs of two fingers to stroke under the cat’s chin, who resumed his loud purring.

“Now that’s something I thought I’d never see.” Jimmy perched on the arm of the sofa next to Sylvia. “I didn’t think that cat liked anyone but Syl.”

Tony eased his hand away from Sylvia’s neck. She should feel relieved, but already missed the contact. She berated herself.

“Felines are notoriously discriminating.” Tony stroked behind the cat’s ears. “Aren’t you, kitty?”

Sylvia cleared her throat. Good thing she wasn’t relying on Jimmy to protect her virtue. Tony probably could have had his hand down the back of her dress, and Jimmy wouldn’t notice. “Finished your chess game already?”

“Checkmated in only eight moves. I think I’d better turn in for the night.”

Sylvia caught Monroe stifling a yawn. “Excellent idea.” And it was one sure way to prevent herself from succumbing. She’d have more willpower after a good night’s sleep.

Soon the household settled in for the night, Corwin on the cot in the dressing room, Monroe on a pallet out in the hall.

She waited for Macbeth to jump up onto the bed and join her. And waited. Everyone had sought their own bed, Monroe already snoring in the hall, when she heard a quiet voice. Tony. Judging by the silences between, a one-sided conversation. Talking to her cat.