The Infamous Rogue Part 13

Sophia stared as the shadows on the green lengthened and reached for the house. She eyed the dark shapes creeping across the rolling lawn and quivered.

Even the pirate lord's name evoked mighty sentiments...sensual memories. The man's handprints were still seared on her flesh. His sultry breath still teased her cheeks and aroused her nerves.

"It's only a headache," she said in a shaky voice. "The cool night air is so refreshing; it chases away the discomfort."

"Your headache might be the result of your ankle injury. Perhaps you should come inside and sit down?"

"Thank you for your concern, my lord. But a light breeze will do me good, I'm sure."

The earl frowned. "Our walk was too long this morning. You must forgive me, Miss Dawson. It was thoughtless of me to take you so far. I just wanted to show you the grounds. But I failed to think the journey might be too exerting for you."

"I enjoyed our walk today, truly. Please don't blame yourself for my condition."

"It's my fault," he insisted. "You must allow me to express my sorrow and shame."

It was not the earl's fault she was so frazzled...it was Black Hawk's.

Sophia took in another sharp breath. She wanted to pound the ruthless devil with her fists, cut off his sensuous fingers with her knife. She wanted to choke him, maim him...

ravish him with her lips.

She started as the earl slipped his fingers through hers and lifted her hand. "Will you accept my apology, Miss Dawson?"

Sophia stared at the man's tender fingers, so clean and crisp and wel manicured. He stroked her knuckles softly, cooled the fiery blood coursing through her veins with his steady words and unmoving inflection.

He wasn't James.

Sophia gathered her wayward thoughts. The earl wasn't James. The earl didn't stir the longing in her soul. He was everything she needed in a respectable partner: quiet and upright. A man with scruples and good sense and polite manners.

She would be cold sometimes. But she would gladly endure the formal, even indifferent relationship between a wife and a husband if it offered her prestige. She didn't need pa.s.sion. She had endured enough hardship under its tight hand, suffered the sneers and crude jokes as Black Hawk's mistress. She would not put herself in another position to be mocked; the pain was too great.

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord." She smiled. "I'll be inside shortly."

After a short pause, he kissed the back of her hand. "Very well, Miss Dawson."

Sophia stared after his departing figure. He had kissed her! Not on the lips, true. But the affectionate gesture was a sure sign he was ready to propose. She was so close to her goal. She was so close to making her dream come true.

Sophia imagined being the next Countess Baine. She pictured a faceless gentleman as he doffed his hat in deference, a lady as she curtsied. The impression was vivid, the longing in her heart profound.

She turned away and looked at the sunset again. Soon. Soon she would be free of the ignominy, the fear of censure. Soon she would be free of James.

Something stirred at the back of her neck. She swatted at it, rubbed her skin. But there was nothing there. It must have been the wind, she thought. But once more the pressure rested on her flesh, her bones.

She bristled.

"Where are you, Black Hawk?"

"Right here, sweetheart."

She glanced over her shoulder. He stepped out of the shadows and pressed his shoulder against the wal , locking his arms together. He had been hiding in the garden.

Listening to her exchange with the earl?

Her heart started to pound. He had tucked his fingers under his arms, out of sight. But she still sensed their arousing touch at her thigh.

She quelled a shiver. "I'm not your sweetheart anymore, remember?"

"No, you're not my sweetheart anymore," he said softly. "I've replaced you in my bed."

Her pulse quickened. The balmy heat that had blanketed her just a moment ago vanished, replaced by a vicious need to bite his d.a.m.nable finger. She dismissed the unwelcome spurt of jealousy, choked it quiet.

"What do you want, Black Hawk?"

"I told you not to call me that in public."

Sophia quickly looked inside the house. The curtains served as a shield, guarding them from the other guests. But the gla.s.s was parted, allowing the merriment to seep outside.

She lowered her voice and hissed, "Then keep your distance."

He approached her instead.

She turned away from him, nerves thrumming. The sun was gone. A soft chorus of chirping crickets fil ed the dark stillness.

She shuddered as the pulsing heat from his torso nestled behind her. She inadvertently licked her lips.

"What's the matter, sweetheart? Have you overexerted yourself today?"

He had been listening to her conversation with her earl. He was tossing the man's words back at her in mocking reverberation.

Sophia bit her bottom lip with a savage pinch. "I'm fine."

He didn't touch her. She could feel him breathing, though. He stirred her hair. And then his breath caressed her ear.

"You're not fine."

Slowly he fingered her ear in a feathery stroke, brushing aside the stray curls, making her shiver.

"What wil you do when you're hungry, Sophia?" He skimmed the rim of her earlobe with the tip of his tongue. "What will you do when you're married and your bones throb in the dead of night? Who wil you turn to?"

Not you.

She fisted her palms as the ache welled deep inside her.

"I don't need pa.s.sion," she repeated the mantra. She was in a daze, a trance. There was a deep echo in her ears, her heart beat wildly. "I don't need you."

"No, you don't need me...you have everything you need in the earl."

She gasped. "Yes."

Touch me!

No! She didn't want the beast to touch her. She didn't want the black devil to soil her with his wicked hands.

"How wil you live, sweetheart?"

He moved his lips to the back of her neck. He didn't touch her with his mouth, but he touched her with his sultry breath.

Sophia swallowed a groan, tamped the feral impulse into the pit of her soul. She was shaking. It was a faint quiver, but it sapped her energy and made her feel weak.

"What will you do when you want to dance in the moonlight-or swim in the nude?"

She shuddered at the erotic memory. She closed her eyes and wil ed away the enchanting dream.

He moved to her other ear, tortured her with more whispered words. "What will you do when you lose your temper? Do you think the earl will play a game of chess with you?" He grazed her hair with his nose. "Do you think you wil ever win another argument once you're married? He wil be your husband then. He will always be right in all matters."

He was chipping at her resolve, the blackguard! She remembered Quincy's words again: James hates to be in society. I think it comforts him to make the rest of us miserable.

Was that what the rogue was doing? He sensed the earl was about to propose, he sensed she was about to be happy, so he wanted to make her miserable?

Sophia gathered her strength. She opened her eyes and confronted the scoundrel. "I will gladly submit to my future husband...but not to you," she said tartly. "Never again to you."

The man's lips firmed.

"Supper is served," the butler announced from inside the house.

Sophia abandoned the brigand in the shadows and entered the drawing room. The glowing candlelight warmed her already flushed features.

Imogen stepped beside her and offered support. "Are you al right, Miss Dawson?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Let me escort you to the dining hal ."

Sophia simpered at the young woman. "Thank you, Miss Rayne."

"Imogen, please," she whispered back with a genial grin.

The earl took his sister by the hand. He smiled at Sophia from across the room. She returned the affectionate gesture before the whole party filed out of the room.

Sophia still burned with desire for the formidable brigand's sensuous lips. But the pa.s.sion inside her would wither and die with time. And once she was married, she'd bar the black devil from her house-and soul. She would never suffer the pangs of longing again.

James was slow to cut the roasted duck, for it was like carving his own flesh. The surrept.i.tious scrutiny from the other guests hampered his movements-and stoked the fire in his belly.

He thought about dropping the gold fork and grabbing the meat with his fingers, chewing the cooked fowl like the barbarian that he was...like the barbarian they all believed him to be. But he refrained from the whim. He wouldn't disgrace his sister in a moment of thoughtless pa.s.sion. And he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of being right about him.

"Mr. Dibbs." Rosamond summoned the butler. "Please tell Cook to delay the next course. Captain Hawkins is still eating."

The haughty b.i.t.c.h was still miffed with him, it seemed. He had ruined her stupid game the other night by guessing her shallow thoughts too quickly. So petty and immature, she had fixed her eyes on the peac.o.c.k ornament: the most sparkling decoration in the drawing room. It was too easy to suppose she would pick the brightest treasure in the s.p.a.ce.

"There's no reason to delay the next course on my account," said James. "I'm finished."

Rosamond pursed her pampered lips as a footman collected the dishes. He had insulted her by leaving most of the meal untouched, for she had designed the menu. He had unintentionally insulted the cook, too. But James wasn't about to give the arrogant chit the satisfaction of calling him a slow-witted barbarian.

"I saw the loveliest great spotted woodp.e.c.k.e.r in the woods today," said Imogen. "It had a brilliant red crown and vibrant underside."

James glanced at the woman seated to his left. He sensed her discomfort, her distaste for confrontation. She wasn't one to let an awkward moment stretch or a silent void go unfulfil ed, he supposed. She wasn't like the other wolves at the table.

As the a.s.sembled company commented on the bird sighting, James glanced at Sophia.

She was seated across the table from him, prim and proper in a rich agglomeration of silk and linen. The quiet, lily white frock was a stark contrast to her deep, earthy brown tresses. And the lavish diamonds at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s winked in the candlelight, blinding the guests. But then that was the stone choker's purpose, wasn't it? To blind the guests and keep them from seeing who she really was?

The earl was hoodwinked for sure. One look at the simpering mooncalf confirmed the man was smitten with Sophia; he considered her a great treasure. But poison seeped from the viper's lips and cruelty flourished in her cold heart.

Sophia ignored him with commendable resolve. She sensed him watching her, he could tel . A pulse throbbed at her throat. But she resisted the temptation to meet his gaze.

Instead, she smiled and engaged in light table conversation with the doctor seated beside her.

Dessert was making its way around the table. Sophia was served after the earl and she dipped into the bowl of sugared plums.

James watched as she lifted the glazed fruit to her lips with a spoon. A smidgen of frosting rested near the corner of her mouth, and she patted her lips with a napkin. He imagined the sweet icing dripping from her lips and pooling between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He imagined slipping his tongue into her bodice and licking the sugary syrup off her tender flesh.

He stiffened at the erotic image. He heard the woman's wanton sighs of pleasure in his head. Blood and muscle and bone ached under the pressure of the l.u.s.ty dream, and he gnashed his teeth to do away with the haunting reflection. He had come to the country house party to seduce Sophia, not to be seduced by her. He needed to bolster his seduction if he wanted to get the witch into his bed and foil her courtship with the earl.

"Dr. Crombie, I understand you champion a new form of treatment to cure all types of illness," said the earl.

The distinguished physician was senior in years, his soft brown hair speckled with gray.

He was a rotund man with a brusque manner. But he enjoyed the pleasures of country dining and feminine companionship, for he had consumed two of everything and eyed al the ladies with interest.

"Yes," said the healer, "it's called mesmerism."

"Mesmerism?" Rosamond quirked a brow. "What is that?"

The doctor wiped his lips with the napkin. "Mesmerists believe the mind, if properly focused, can cure any ailment."

"No surgery or medicine?" said Lady Lucas.

"None a'tall," returned the doctor.

The company appeared both skeptical and intrigued by the claim. James half listened to the unfolding conversation, too engrossed with Sophia's subtle movements as she savored the sugared plums with almost licentious delight.

"Doesn't the treatment involve magnetic irons, too?" said the earl.

"Under the teachings of its founder, Dr. Franz Mesmer," said the physician. "Mesmer had his patients place their feet in a pool of water while holding magnets. However, the practice has evolved to exclude all external forces. Today we focus solely on the mind."

"And how does one focus solely on the mind?" said Sophia in a soft and measured voice. The tip of her tongue darted between her lips. She licked the icing from the corner of her mouth, making James's head throb.

"The patient is placed in a trance," said the doctor. "The presiding physician then offers instruction and therapy to cure the individual."