Page 4 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
Chapter 2
The brickagainst her back was cold, stirring the ache in her wounded heart, soaking the dampness into her soul.
A packet running daily from Portsmouth to Calais.And he’d quoted from the Sonnets. She sighed and rubbed her fists against her cheeks.
She could not leave. She must not cry.
His smell reached her before his footsteps, tobacco and leather, like her papa’s, and some subtle masculine scent unique to this man. She inhaled deeply and squeezed her eyes a moment.
Hold the waterworks, my Gracie.
When she looked, he stood more than an arm’s length away. The blood danced in her veins and her breath tightened. Tall and broad shouldered, she had seen that his hair was a thick tawny brown, and he was handsome as sin.
Everly, his name was. Son of Lord Shaldon, Carvelle had said. She made herself breathe and waited.
As did he, respectful, watchful. Not, she decided, drunk. That had been a feint, and why?
Because he was smart, because he could recognize evil. Which did not mean he was himself to be trusted.
She curtsied. “Lord Everly.”
“I do not wish to disappoint,” he said softly, “but I am only a mister. Mr. Charles Everly.”
The test had produced humor. Perhaps hewouldhelp her.
“And I am a simple miss. Miss Maria Graciela Kingsley y Romero.” She held out her hand.
“Señorita.” He bent over her white glove and kissed it.
Warmth bloomed where his lips touched silk, soaked through the thin covering, rippled up her arm, and, even after he'd released her, caused a shiver to tumble through her.
“You are cold.” He started to disrobe.
“No please. You must stay dressed.”We both must.
Or must they? Would a scandal in the garden with a notorious rogue, withthisnotorious rogue, cause Carvelle to cry off? He had implied that Mr. Everly was having an affair with a Duquesa. He had told Mr. Everly not to touchher, Graciela.
She thought of little Reina. And the witch’s rod, and she hugged herself tighter.
“Por favor, señor. Ayudame.”Please sir, help me.
Charley moved closerand took both of her hands. The thin gloves only amplified the chill of her. Fear had made her slip into Spanish.
He was looking for a Spanish woman, wealthy and beautiful. Not this Spanish woman, who he well knew was not really Spanish, but a product of an Englishman and a creole woman of New Spain.
He moved her into a thread of light and examined her again. A great deal of skin showed above her bosom. She didn’t look like she’d felt the other lady’s rod, not lately anyway.
“I will help you,” he said in Spanish. “Will you leave with me? I will take you directly to my brother and his wife.” His eldest brother, Bink, was in town. He and his wife Paulette would take in the girl and hold their curiosity until a later time.
She shook her head. “No. I thank you.” She had found her English again. “I did not arrive alone and I cannot leave without the others who accompanied me.”
That was news, and surprising, to boot. A villain generally dispensed with his victim’s allies quickly. “He will sack your servants as soon as you are gone.”
Again, that quick head shake. “There is a child. I am her guardian.”
A child. Lady Kingsley was going to the nursery. Children were the best of leverages, if one’s victim cared about them at all.
A window creaked somewhere above them. “Please,” she whispered, “I wish very much to meet your father. Can you kindly arrange it?”
