The League of Rogues: Books 1-3

Chapter 4-2

She belongs to me. I will have her.

Thomas Blankenship ascended the steps to his townhouse, seething. He knew what that fool Parr was up to. He means to play me against Essex in a secret bidding war. Well, I won’t play that game. She’s mine.

He pounded his fist on the door rather than use the knocker.

His wizened butler, Baltus, appeared at the door. “Welcome back, sir.”

Blankenship only growled and stamped past him into the hall. He shrugged out of his coat and threw it at the footman who waited by the stairs.

“Bring me brandy in my study, Baltus.”

The dimly-lit study reflected the remainder of the house. Years of grime coated the windows and fireplace. Dust layered the books on the shelves and ink stains splotched the worn carpet beneath his desk. He had more than enough money to keep his house clean and in good repair, but he rather liked the symbolic decay of his living quarters. It reminded him of his own life, and urged him to fight harder to claim what he desired. Emily Parr.

Blankenship threw himself into his chair and closed his eyes. His anger was a living, breathing creature, burrowed deep in his chest. Its bloody claws raked his insides and its beady black eyes fixed on his soul. He challenged the beast, pinning it inside the dark place in his head. He still had control, for a while yet.

The butler entered with a decanter of brandy and poured a glass, setting it on the counter.

“Will there be anything else?” Baltus wheezed.

“No.”

Blankenship wrapped a fist around the crystal and swirled the amber contents around. The rich color was like Emily’s hair. His thoughts drifted back to the girl. He had to possess her. Her mother had escaped his grasp, but Emily would not.

Nineteen years ago, when he’d been in his late thirties, he’d still made social rounds in pursuit of a bride. The simpering, delicate flowers of the ton hadn’t impressed him until he met Clara.

Clara Belarmy. Witty, intelligent and a true diamond of the first water. With auburn gold hair, eyes the color of succulent plums. She was an original.

He had loved her, like every other man. He spent a fortune in bouquets on her, danced more than one of those dreadful quadrilles with her. Yet she never turned her gaze his way. She always slipped off in the middle of balls to be with that young, idealistic fool, Robert Parr.

Yet Blankenship had held out hope she might consider him for a husband, given his wealth. He’d shown up on her doorstop, his mother’s ring fitted just for her. Clara hadn’t been available for visitors, and the butler turned him away. As he passed the window that faced the street, he caught a glimpse of Clara tucked in Robert’s arms, kissing him with wild abandon.

He knew what sort of woman gave her charms to the first willing man. A harlot.

After that he abandoned London’s ballrooms altogether. He focused on his business deals and harmed any investments Robert Parr made, forcing the young wedded couple to relocate to the country, where living expenses weren’t so high.

But it hadn’t been enough. He needed to wound Clara as much as she’d wounded him.

The news of her and Robert’s deaths left him cold inside. He ground his teeth at the memory. Without the fires of hatred to fuel him, he’d kept a loaded pistol in his study, ready to fill his mouth.

Then he learned of Emily.

How Clara kept the girl a secret he didn’t know. But, once he heard the girl had moved in with her uncle, he had to see her.

He began to visit Albert at his club, talking him into taking loans for investment opportunities. It was only too easy to convince Albert to invest with him and even easier to see that such schemes failed miserably. Parr had been forced to offer Emily up as a potential bride in order to settle debts. In a matter of days he secured an invitation to Parr’s residence.

Finally, Blankenship caught a glimpse of her, seated at a table in the small library, her hair undressed so that it hung in riotous waves the color of evening sunlight about her shoulders. She looked every inch the wanton creature he craved beneath him in his bed.

For a second, his youthful longing flared up, like a distant star, before night fell heavy in his hardened heart.

She was just like her mother. A tease.

Women like her belonged on their knees.

In his study, Blankenship’s lips curved in a lazy smile. Soon she would be his. Emily would wear the loveliest gowns, the most expensive jewels. The ton would know he was her master, and with her by his side, he would put those aristocrats in their place.

Each night, he would rip the clothes from Emily’s body, bend her over the nearest hard surface and plow her until she begged for mercy. He’d let her maintain a fiery spirit, just to keep things interesting. Punishing her rebelliousness would be intensely arousing. Having Emily under his control would ease the ache of losing her mother. It was only fair.

He palmed his aching arousal, groaning at the thought of digging his hands into Emily’s hair to force himself into her mouth. Her body would be a haven for his own longings and would make up for the years of dissatisfaction he’d had with other women when all he’d wanted had been Clara. If he pretended hard enough, Emily would be Clara, Clara would be Emily, they would be one and the same and his hunger for pleasure and for Clara would be sated.

Visions of Clara still haunted his closed eyes. He hadn’t always craved to hurt, to punish. If only he’d had Clara for his own, he would have been gentle, taken care of her. But she’d refused him, married that young buck, and dashed every dream Blankenship had.

Emily was the price of revenge for his shattered dreams. She would pay for her mother’s betrayal. She would bear his brats, secure his line and curry favor with the ton so that he could line his pockets with their wealth.

He sipped his glass of brandy and leaned back in his chair.

Luncheon was a much quieter affair than breakfast.

Charles’s desire to kiss her had brought an issue to the forefront, and the gentlemen were still coming to terms with the danger that she presented to them. She was contemplating this amusing form of karma when a hand settled on her knee under cover of the table, heavy and possessive as it tightened then coasted up her thigh, gently pulling her dress up with it.

A rising blush on her face mimicked the heat that rose between her legs.

Her lowered gaze drifted in Godric’s direction. His right hand was conspicuously absent from the table.

“Are you all right, Emily?” Lucian asked. “You look a bit flushed.”

Emily shoved her bowl of soup away.

“I think the soup has overheated me.” She tried not to look at Godric.

The hand, which had paused while she answered Lucien, began to move back and forth along her thigh, fingers digging into the rumpled fabric of her dress, seeking bare skin. The sensation was so overpowering that she barely held her teacup without shaking. She dared not try to remove his hand.

Her only thought was of Godric’s body on hers, and his mouth on hers, kissing in sweet agony as he had at the lake that morning. Would she ever be free of such memories? Did she want to be?

The moment luncheon was over, Emily jumped out of her seat. All of the men looked up at her with concern.

“Excuse me!” She ran to her room. It was the only place in which she felt safe enough to hide as she fought off the unwelcome desire she held for her captor.

She climbed onto the massive bed and curled up on her side near the headboard, clutching a pillow to her chest. The heat had spread to her whole body, and she needed a moment alone to regain control.

Ashton appeared in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame.

“Am I not to have a moment’s peace?” she asked.

The room seemed to shrink as he strode in. Every movement he made was graceful, yet she sensed he calculated every action. He approached her vanity table, pausing to let a finger trail over the wood surface before it bumped into a silver hairbrush. Lifting the brush up, he studied it intensely.

He was the most polished of the rogues, yet for all of his barely concealed strength, a weakness shimmered in him. In his eyes, the way they softened on her when he looked up.

As though sensing her thoughts, Ashton set the brush down, and leaned casually on the bed post at the foot of the bed. He crossed his arms and stared at her, a silent challenge, not a threat.

“I’m not going to run,” she said. Not right now.

A corner of Ashton’s mouth curved up. “You’re too clever for that.” But he remained all the same. She sighed heavily.

“I am surprised you haven’t asked me about him yet,” Ashton said cryptically.

“Asked about whom?”

“Godric.”

“Oh, you must pardon me.” Her tone was light but sarcastic. “My usual curiosity has a way of waning when I’m held against my will.”

Ashton ignored the sarcasm. “Would you like to know about him?”

“Yes.” She wished she hadn’t replied. The last thing she needed was for Ashton to think she was interested in Godric, for if he told Godric, she’d fight even harder against his amorous advances.

“Godric has had a hard life, despite being a duke. His mother died when he was barely six years old.”

“He told me.” Emily said.

“I doubt he told you all.” A pause followed, as if Ashton felt Godric’s pain. “The deaths devastated his father so that he turned to drink. He was a harsh man when deep in his cups.”

“Did he hurt Godric?” Emily rolled over to face Ashton, her frustration and confusion gone. Godric’s tragic life wrapped her up as it unfolded.

“Often. Godric was more familiar with the cane than any other young man I knew at Eton. He used to laugh when his professors threatened to thrash him.”

“But I’ve seen Godric’s back. He has no scars.”

“Caning, if done well, does not break the skin but leaves only bruises and broken bones. Godric’s father was a master.”

She shuddered with sympathetic pain at Ashton’s words. She’d never been caned or even spanked. She’d been a well-behaved child, for the most part. But when she was nine she’d witnessed the canning of a neighbor boy and his screams still echoed in her nightmares. She couldn’t imagine the tall, muscled duke brutalized as a tiny boy. What had it been like for him? To have his only remaining parent strike out in despair and fury at the loss of the woman who held them together?

Emily had been fortunate to never know such abuse, and to discover that pain and torture marked Godric’s childhood was like breathing in smoke. She hated that Godric had suffered the way no child should.

“How is it possible that he is gentle, at least most of the time?” Emily asked.

“He has much of his mother in him, more compassion than cruelty. He could have become a brute like his father, but instead he became a champion for those who are abused. You’ve witnessed his tenderness first hand.”

She ignored that and tried to change the subject. “Then, why abduct me? Where was his compassion when you were all grabbing me and tackling me to the ground, drugging me with that awful laudanum! That was cruel, very cruel. Why didn’t he just confront my uncle?”

“He has no proof of your uncle’s crime except the loss of money. The way I understand it, he gave your uncle authority to access the investment account.”

“Dare I ask in what capacity these funds were given?”

Ashton gave her a devilish smile born of amusement. “It is nothing as horrible as you might have imagined. He invested money with your uncle in a silver mine that doesn’t exist.”

“Can’t he prove that then? Show that no such mine exists?”

“There is a plot of land that once was mined for silver, but it no longer is profitable. The investment papers are tied to that land. The only proof lies in the sum of money Godric paid your uncle and how it disappeared entirely.”