The Devil Rogue Read online

  “Good evening, Miss Hopkins.” Blackridge’s deep voice came from the shadows near the room’s only window. The curtains had been drawn, shutting out the world, while glowing candles creating an intimate, cozy atmosphere. The table was set for two, at one end of the table.

  “So, it’s Miss Hopkins now. Aren’t you going to ask me to fetch your slippers? Isn’t that what servants do?”

  “That’s what dogs are trained to do, Miss Hopkins. You are certainly no dog.

  He moved away from the window, sauntering in her direction with the controlled grace of a stalking tiger. “I shall address you as it pleases me, and I always do what pleases me.”

  “I suppose I should expect no less, my lord.”

  “What’s this you’re wearing?” he asked with a flourish of his hand, referring to her gown. “I seem to recall suggesting you wear something a little more elegant.” His gaze moved slowly down the entire length of her body, halting at her hem. “And your shoes don’t match.”

  So much for hoping he wouldn’t notice that, Angela thought bitterly. “Oh? It must have slipped my attention.”

  “It’s been my experience that most ladies are quite fastidious about their appearance, right down to the very tips of their toes.”

  “Perhaps I prefer to be unconventional,” Angela said sweetly. “But I believe your suggestion was more in the line of an order.”

  He placed an index finger under her chin, gently forcing her to look up at him. “You are correct. It was an order. Do you disobey me, princess?”

  Struggling with the urge to fidget, Angela forced herself to stand still, to maintain eye contact. His eyes, she observed, were a strange combination of green and gold, like a cat’s eyes, or a hawk’s, as she’d first thought. They were mesmerizing, sensual, predatory. He was waiting for her answer. “Yes. I-I mean no – er that is, I did not intend to disobey you, my lord.”

  “Explain.”

  His finger traveled from her chin, down the column of her throat to trace the small hollow at the base. Her thoughts scattered like dandelion wisps in the wind as the tip of his finger drew upward to tease the contours of her ear.

  She stepped back when a servant entered to announce dinner was ready to be served, gaining some much needed breathing space. His hand, which had been left suspended in mid-air, dropped to his side. His expression betrayed his amusement at her obvious discomfort.

  When they were both seated at the table, he resumed their conversation. “I’m still waiting for your explanation, princess.”

  “All of my gowns have been ruined.” She decided to tell as much of the truth as possible, leaving out the fact that her clothes had been slashed, however.

  “Ruined? What do you mean?”

  “I daresay it was moisture, my lord.”

  “Moisture.”

  “Y-yes, moisture. Apparently, the contents of the trunk had somehow gotten wet, a-and considering the recent warm temperatures, everything was covered with mold. I found nothing to be salvageable.”

  The soup arrived, halting their discussion. While they waited in silence, Ian studied her, wondering what she was up to. Did the spoiled little princess want new gowns? Is that why she fabricated this preposterous tale? When they were alone, once again, he continued. “Nothing at all, you say?”

  “Nothing, my lord.”

  “Very well. I suppose I must call in a modiste and have some new gowns made up for you. However, I would like to have a look at the damaged gowns in order to assess what needs to be replaced, you understand.”

  “No! I-I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You see, they’ve already been disposed of. I don’t wish for you to send for the modiste, truly. I borrowed a couple of dresses from my maid, Rosemary, so there’s really no need.”

  What was she hiding? Determined to find out, Ian planned on making a late-night visit to her room while she slept. He would examine the contents of her trunk himself. “Nevertheless, I won’t have my mistress dressed like a common servant.”

  “But I am a servant, at least part of the time.”

  “You are my mistress and I insist that you dress the part. I will send for the dress-maker.” Any woman would be thrilled to have beautiful new gowns made. Why did she seem to be lying about her gowns, yet refuses to be fitted for new ones?

  “Please, my lord, I don’t wish it,” she persisted. “Perhaps you could purchase some material for me. Rosemary and I are very handy with needle and thread. Together we could sew a few new gowns. It’s what I’ve always done in the past. We’re really quite good.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you are the one responsible for all those beautiful gowns I’ve heard about and seen you in?” He could hardly fathom it. This spoiled rich girl made her own gowns?

  “You’ve seen me before, my lord?”

  Ian had seen her – on several occasions. Of course, he’d made sure to stay away from her, as his tastes usually ran to the more experienced woman. But, he’d studied her. He’d become an expert on the Baron and Miss Hopkins when his investigation into his friend’s death began. He had to come up with some other reason for his seeking her out, other than the fact that he suspected her as an accomplice to murder.

  “Why do you think I made my offer, princess? Your beauty quite captured my attention, and once I saw you, decided that I must have you, even for just one night. As it happens, you’re now at my disposal for three whole months, and I have you to thank for it.”

  Her brow crinkled adorably. “I find that difficult to believe, coming from a handsome rake such as yourself. I’m sure there is no shortage of willing women to accommodate you. So I have to wonder why you chose me, specifically.”

  “Handsome rake, hmmm? That you think so adds largely to my ego, among other things,” he teased. He was impressed by her bold response and that she seemed to see right through his lie, but he wanted to know more about why she made her own gowns. “Tell me why you would do such a thing as to sew your own garments when you could easily afford to have someone do it for you.”

  “Because I enjoy it,” she said. “May I have the material, my lord?”

  There was such a hopeful look in her eyes and she seemed so earnest that Ian could hardly refuse her. What would it hurt for her to make a few gowns, as long as they were presentable? “You may have what you need. Just be sure to include a couple of ball gowns. There’s a possibility that we may be attending a function or two.”

  In fact, there was one in particular Ian wished her to attend. He’d orchestrated a plan that when set into motion would truly mark the end to her position in society. It was cruel, but no less than she deserved.

  “Thank you, my lord!”

  Her face beamed with pleasure over such a trivial matter. Earlier she’d clearly been concerned for the servants, she’d been grateful that he’d sent for her belongings, and now she appeared joyful over the fact that she was to sew her own gowns. This was not in keeping with his image of the pampered daughter of a wealthy baron. Either he had sorely misjudged her or she was the greatest actress in the land.

  Mentally strengthening his resolve, Ian tempered his softening feelings toward her. He would use her, ruin her, and then toss her to the wolves for the part she’d played in the death of his friend. He chose to ignore the nudging of his conscience that warned him he could be wrong about her. He was sure of her guilt, along with her father’s, and nothing – not even her innocent act – would sway him.

  The meal progressed as they talked, the servants performing their duties with their usual efficiency, blending into the background. With dinner finished, Ian’s thoughts turned to the evening’s entertainment. He was looking forward to witnessing Miss Hopkins in her role as bath slave. It would definitely knock her down a few levels from her privileged pedestal.

  Angela hadn’t tasted a single thing during dinner. She could have been eating sawdust and not noticed the difference. Her nerves were on edge, as always, whenever Blackridge was near. From beneath her lashes, she’d
watched him sip his wine, analyzed the way his lips met the smooth edge of the fine crystal glass. Her gaze had lingered on his throat as he swallowed, giving her the insane desire to kiss him there.

  The fingers that held the glass by its delicate stem were long and tapered, the nails well-manicured. She could easily imagine those fingers running along her sensitive skin, touching her breasts.

  Goodness! The room seemed suddenly over-warm. She raised her eyes to look at him fully, her heart skipping a beat when she realized he was looking at her intensely.

  “Did you not enjoy your meal, Miss Hopkins?” he inquired in a husky voice.

  “I apologize if my appetite hasn’t done justice to the wonderful fare served this evening, my lord,” Angela responded, her heart still thumping madly. “I only need time to acclimate to my new surroundings.”

  “Ah, not used to sleeping in strange beds, is that it?”

  Angela sat up straighter. “Certainly not, my lord. Contrary to what you might believe, there are those of us who remain in our own beds at night.”

  “Who said anything about the night? Beds are extremely useful for activities other than sleeping. And might I remind you that you’re about to be sleeping in my bed soon, or have you conveniently forgotten?”

  Her mouth went suddenly dry. “I’ve not forgotten, my lord.” She needed no reminders about what loomed on the near horizon, nor did she need to be reminded of her impending bathing session with the much too handsome viscount. At least she had successfully gotten his permission to make her own gowns, rather than have them made for her.

  What was she going to do when it came time to become his mistress in reality? Angela experienced a moment of panic as she logically assumed they would both be unclothed. Of course they would be naked! How else would the deed get done? But then, one never knew the habits of men and women doing such things.

  Would she be able to hide her scars from him?

  There had to be another way. If there was one horror Angela could think of, it would be for someone, a stranger, to get a look at her scarred body. That was why she’d refused to have a modiste fit her for clothes. Rosemary was the only one who knew the extent of her disfigurement.

  The most recent addition was the cut on her arm, now healing nicely, but would still leave a telltale scar. Each time her father had beaten her, it had added to the others until they culminated into a lifetime of painful memories, ugly reminders of her failure to make him love her.

  But he wasn’t her father, or at least she suspected it. He must actually be her stepfather. She was loath to give him even that title. The Baron seemed to fit better in her mind.

  She thought of Blackridge, with his masculine beauty, seeing her scars and being repulsed by them. It made her stomach tighten into knots.

  His skin was probably smooth and unmarred by any imperfections. Judging by his pleasing features and his impressive physique, he was most likely perfect.

  “May I be excused, my lord?” she asked politely.

  He studied her for a moment.

  She needed to escape his presence, at least for a little while before she had to—

  “Yes, princess, you may have some free time to yourself, but I expect you in my room in two hours.”

  5

  Villarreal / The Devil Rogue

  Chapter 7

  IAN WAS HAVING second thoughts about his scheme to have Miss Hopkins bathe him.

  What the hell had he been thinking?

  Just imagining her hands roaming over his skin made him swell painfully in his trousers. He stood next to the bed, a half empty glass of brandy in his hand, and stared at the tub. He watched the misty steam rising from the heated water, considering whether or not he should forget the whole thing.

  No. He couldn’t back out now. He’d already set his course and now he must continue to follow it.

  Moving toward the tub, he set his glass on the small table next to it. He removed his robe and settled into the hot water. The warmth wrapped around his body, relaxing his tense muscles.

  What was it about the lovely Miss Hopkins that made him want her more than any other woman? He was an experienced lover, having bedded some of the most beautiful women in London and beyond. So, why was his pulse racing in anticipation of her arrival?

  He had no time to answer that question when the knock sounded on his door.

  Angela stood on the other side of the door to Blackridge’s bedroom. Should she knock or just go right in? What rules of protocol pertained to a mistress? But she wasn’t officially his mistress yet, so she supposed she should knock.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake!

  What was she doing here, anyway? She should run back up to her room, pack her things and bolt for the front door – now, while she still had the chance.

  But then where would she go? What would she do? She had no other options except to forge ahead, face the unknown, accept the inevitable.

  Gathering her courage, she lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and knocked. She heard his muffled voice from within call, “Enter!”

  Angela opened the door and walked into the room. She immediately faced the large, imposing bed, the covers turned down invitingly. A breeze, still warm from the heat of the day, gently parted the sheer, floor-to-ceiling curtains covering two large, open windows on one side of the room.

  “My lord, I—”

  “Close the door, princess.”

  Her words lodged in her throat. All she could do was stare dumbly, as her air supply seemed to be cut off. He was already in the tub – naked! She blindly swung the door closed, her heart pounding in her ears as she took in his broad, muscular shoulders, and the wide expanse of his chest – his smooth and hairless chest. Odd, that. She’d heard men were generally very hairy, or at least that’s what she’d overheard, as she’d eavesdropped on numerous conversations at parties. She knew it was rude to listen in while others were talking, but how else was she to learn anything?

  One sculpted arm, bulging with more muscles, was draped over the side while he rested the drink in his hand on the edge of the tub. The opposite edge supported his other arm, those long, tapered fingers of his casually dangling.

  The mellow glow of the lamps cast golden, shimmering lights over his dampened skin, skin that disappeared beneath the murky water at his waist. Thank goodness! If her reaction to only half of him was any indication, then seeing his entire naked body would probably have her fainting like a ninny!

  By God, no man should have the right to be put together so deliciously. It just wasn’t fair! How could she ever hope he would not be sickened by her scars…her ugliness? She would just have to get herself through the next three months, and then she would be free to start a new life.

  “Don’t just stand there, slave, your master awaits you.”

  His deep, commanding voice sent a thousand butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Wait a minute – did he just call her slave? She moved forward with as much dignity as she could muster. “I have a name, my lord. It’s not slave . . . or . . . or princess.”

  Just the same, she moved toward him as though he reeled her in by some invisible tether. Kneeling on the floor behind him, she grabbed the soap and washcloth that lay on a nearby table. She dipped the cloth quickly into the water and began scrubbing his back with the tenacity of a washerwoman.

  “Ow! Take it easy, will you?” He sat forward, taking care not to spill the liquor in his glass. “I’d like to keep some of my skin.” He turned slightly to look at her over his shoulder. “Listen, I apologize . . . Angela . . . could you please begin again, except without such enthusiasm?”

  Angela felt awful. She shouldn’t have taken her annoyance and frustration out on him. His beautiful, dusky skin was red from her thoughtless actions. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s just that I was angry. It was wrong of me to take it out on you.”

  He swallowed the remaining brandy in his glass, setting it on the table where the cloth and soap had been. “It’s all right,” he sa
id huskily. “Just begin again.”

  Without conscious thought, she ran her bare hands over the reddened spots to soothe them. “Your skin – it’s so hot,” Angela said softly. “Are you always this warm?” It was an innocent question, asked only out of curiosity. She’d never touched a man before and she found the experience quite pleasurable.

  “I suppose it’s just a little warm in here,” he rasped.

  “And smooth, too. Do all men have such smooth skin and so many muscles?” She wanted to know. Now that she was here, getting a good look, she craved more information.

  “I wouldn’t know, princ–, Angela. I’ve never made it a point to observe other men that closely.”

  Taking up the cloth again, she rubbed some soap into it and returned to washing his back. “Lean forward, so I can reach further down,” she ordered. This was wondrous! And she hadn’t even gotten to his front, yet!

  “What are you doing?” he choked out when she blew a cooling stream of air on the back of his neck.

  “I was just observing the way the tiny little hairs on the back of your neck stick up when I lightly blow on them.”

  “Angela.”

  She wasn’t sure how she was doing it, but he was obviously becoming agitated. So she decided to try different things to see how he would react. She knew she was probably playing with fire, so to speak, but the feeling of power and control gave her the courage to continue with her ‘experiment.’”

  “Tip your head back,” she said, reaching for the pitcher on the table. She filled it with water from the tub and poured it over his head. She soaped his hair, running her fingers through its rich thickness, and massaged his scalp. She’d done this before, with Rosemary, but this was entirely different.

  He groaned, and she noticed that he was gripping both sides of the tub so tightly, his knuckles had turned white.

  “There . . . done. Time to do your front,” she said cheerily. However, when she scooted on her knees to get a better angle for washing, she couldn’t suppress her gasp of surprise. On closer inspection, she could see that his chest and abdomen had several long scars. They looked like claw marks.