Page 18 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
Fine. He’d tell her about the whoring. And then she’d have no choice but to lecture truly, to take him to task for his paramours, his public exploits, his breaking of hearts. He should tell her about the mistress he’d not gotten pregnant. But when all of London assumed him to be the father, he’d encouraged the rumors, ever hopeful they’d disgust his father and make his brother blush.
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and considered how he’d tell her all of it.
He conjured images of his mistress’s bedroom. Rumpled sheets, tangled legs, sun-kissed and rosy skin, the skin of a country girl, not a cold city beauty. He imagined thick dark hair tumbling out of place when he usually favored golden-haired mistresses or got caught with women with hair red as sin. He imagined pushing that dark, silky curtain back over a creamy shoulder and then circling one elegant wrist and pulling Miss Cavendish—for that’s who it was, no denying that now—flush against his hard, aching body. He’d nudge her head to the side then lick the long column of her neck until he reached her ear. He’d nip at that, then follow the curve of her jaw with his lips all the way to the tip of her chin. That skin beneath it had been so smooth. He’d drag his finger up her throat and over that smooth patch, then finally take her lips in a kiss, part her mouth with his tongue, and devour her.
His eyes snapped open. Bloody hell, he wasaroused! And from a mere fantasy.
He sat up straight, attempting to banish naughty visions from his mind. This was a decided leap backward. Onto an imaginary bed where he’d debauch a perfectly respectable woman. No. This could not be equated with a mere step back. Seemed more like a flying leap. He’d never debauched a lady before, and now he could not shake the idea from his mind. His hands shook as he took up the pen. If he punished himself now, what would he do if he only got worse? If he only mired himself further in soul-stealing sin?
Miss Cavendish had her family—her father and siblings, those twins she wrote of and her stepmother. She could not understand the peril he faced, the despair of the soul to find oneself locked out of all that.
It took him less than a minute to pen and send his next note, and after he had, he pulled open his red notebook. Under the note he’d written about women and reforming, he wrote:Women, especially pretty ones, decidedly bad idea when trying to reform.
* * *
Ada lay on her bed, looking up at the canopy, Lord Albee’s latest letter sitting lightly across her upturned palm on the bed at her side. Such a short, terse note. She held it up to read it once more in the fading light. Perhaps she missed something.
Miss C,
I will not tell you about the whoring. Or anything else for that matter. My sins may be an adventure for you, but they are serious to me. And I do not need your pity. If I ruin my governess, I will only sink further into sin until I cannot be rescued, by you, by myself, or by anyone else.
Enjoy your London season, love.
—A
She winced. She had intended to use his sins for adventure, as he said. That, perhaps, had not been kind. Guilt careened through her like a skipping stone on a lake, leaving ripples in its wake before sinking deep into her gut. She’d made an error somewhere during their correspondence. Perhaps she should not have told him about her desire for running a little wild. Perhaps she should not have shown the pity she felt for him. Perhaps she should not have asked about the whoring.
She’d been curious, but she did not wish him to feel like an exotic insect pinned and on display. She did not wish to feel that way, her own flaws dissected and labeled for all to see.
The sun hung low in the sky outside her window. And her spirits sank with it. What a short-lived adventure that had been. A few letters, much anticipation, seeing inside another person’s soul. Even though he’d doused the candles ages ago to keep everyone out.
All of it was over. Her grand adventure had lasted a single day. She’d failed in another more significant way, too. She’d failed Lord Albee. The despair of his last letter still rang in her ears. He’d given up on himself. She’d failed to help him, and so his careful plans now laid in shards about her feet.
She picked up her pen. She must apologize. She must offer a final note of consolation. He was, she realized, not an adventure but a person in pain. She could not help him, but she could apologize for whatever damage she’d done.
She put the pen down.
She would visit Aunt Lola tomorrow. She had given him pain, pricked it into his skin with each word she’d written, and he deserved a personal apology. That’s what she did with the twins and Pansy. When she’d been in the wrong or lost her temper, she could not forget it, act like nothing had happened. If she apologized when in the wrong, then they would learn how to apologize, too.
Hmm. Perhaps her ability to influence him for the good had not yet ended. Perhaps there she had one more trick to try. She’d seek him out and tell him with her voice, not her handwriting, that she was terribly sorry, and by making amends herself, she’d teach him how.
Chapter Six
Cassknelt in a flower bed in the back of the Earl of Beckingham’s greenhouse. A tiny plot just for him filled with dying flowers planted with his own hands. Nathan had told him planting flowers, helping other things live, would help him heal.
What did it say that the flowers were dying? Not good, that.
At least Miss Cavendish had not persevered. He’d had a moment of fear that she’d continue sending notes, despite his final, curt letter. And then he’d had a moment of fear she would not. But he’d squashed that. He didn’t want her perseverance. Didn’t deserve it when he’d hand her ruination instead of her desired harmless adventure. With a single question about his past liaisons, she’d sparked thoughts, desires, and fantasies best left alone—especially if he hoped to have any chance at change, at rejoining his family.
The plants rustled. Nathan must be about. Damn. The earl would likely eye Cass’s wilting flower bed and offer suggestions about soil and watering routines, and Cass would listen and try to follow instruction. But soon, he’d bore, and the plants would wither, and—
“I did not take you for a gardener, Lord Albee.”
He froze, unable to turn around and face the voice behind him. He squeezed his eyes closed and pretended he didn’t hear it. He must have imagined it. What would Miss Cavendish be doing here, after all, talking to him in person after he’d more or less told her to give up?
“What is it you’re tending to?” Her voice again, closer.
Damn, but she moved on soft slippers. He stood slowly and turned, and there she was in a simple muslin gown of pink, coiffure curling dark tendrils around her cheeks, shy smile, spring-green eyes containing oceans of emotions he lacked the intelligence to understand.
