Rogue's Honor (9 page)

A quick upturn of his lips told her he'd
noticed. "Very well, mystery lady, that will do for now, I suppose.
If you're not willing to go back, we'll have to find you other,
more permanent employment. Without references, however, another
governess position will be difficult to procure." He closed the
door, shutting out the rest of the world.

She couldn't stay, of course. She didn't
dare, now that he knew this much about her, now that she suspected
he was as drawn to her as she was to him. No, she would have to
slip away at her first opportunity and return home—and he mustn't
be anywhere near her when she did so.

"You've been very kind," she said, meaning
every word. "Even knowing so little about me, knowing that I was
hiding things from you. Thank you."

His smile warmed his eyes, warmed
her—dangerously and deliciously. "You're very easy to be kind to.
At first I may have acted out of simple pity, but now that I know .
. . er, know you better, it's more than that. I'd like to help in
any way I can—as you've helped me, and the denizens of this place.
You are a gallant young woman, Purdy."

His use of her assumed name served as a
much-needed reminder that he knew nothing about her—and that she
knew even less of him. They were from different worlds, and she
would soon be gone from his. There could be no future for their
budding friendship. The realization struck her with a sharp sense
of loss.

"I simply try to do what's right," she said,
as much to herself as to him. "The world doesn't always make that
easy."

"Well I know it. Instead, it places barriers
in the way of good intentions." He spoke as though to himself, but
then caught her eye again. "As you have discovered yourself," he
concluded, shaking off his sudden gravity with a smile.

She nodded. "But our good intentions will
triumph," she said with complete conviction. "They must."

Something kindled in his deep brown eyes,
capturing her. "Such an idealist," he murmured. "I like that."

Pearl became suddenly, acutely aware of how
alone they were, here in the close confines of his lodgings, how
near he stood. Not another person in the world knew where they
were. She continued to drown in his gaze, her heart thudding in
slow, heavy strokes.

"Do you?" Her voice sounded breathless to her
own ears and she felt herself swaying toward him.

"Very much." The spark in his eyes flamed
into something far more intense, though they held a question, as
well.

Without stopping to think how inappropriate,
how foolhardy, how—anything—this was, conscious only of her own
need, Pearl tipped her face up for his kiss.

His lips lowered to hers, first to gently
brush, then to explore and finally to claim. She responded, still
without thought, reveling in his strength, his masculine scent, the
sense of being cherished. Instinctively, her hands sought his
shoulders, while his clasped her waist. His mouth on hers felt like
heaven—like something she'd waited for all her life.

The one or two kisses a calf-eyed suitor had
stolen in a shadowed alcove when she was seventeen had been nothing
like this. This was real, a kiss between adults—and it stirred a
sharp longing in her for something more.

As though sensing her longing, he tightened
his grip on her waist, deepening his kiss, then slid one hand
slowly, sensuously up her back until his bare fingers rested at the
sensitive nape of her neck.

Pearl allowed her own hands to wander as
well, skimming along his broad shoulders and upper arms, then back
up until she threaded her own ungloved fingers through his
disordered dark curls. His slight moan elicited a similar one from
her own throat, a sound she vaguely identified as a growl of
desire.

Spanning the back of her neck with one hand,
he slid the other back down to her waist, then lower, pulling the
length of her body against his. A bulge in his nether regions
pressed against the very heart of her desire, igniting a need she'd
never known she had—a hot, burning need to become one with this
man.

When he moved the hand at her nape around to
cup the swell of her breast, it never occurred to her to protest.
Instead, she shifted to give him better access. She tilted her head
back and he trailed kisses down her throat, to the high collar of
her gown, then back to her lips. He released her breast to unfasten
the top button of her bodice.

A passion like none she'd ever imagined
roared up, threatening to consume her—consume them both. She wanted
this, more than anything she'd ever wanted. This was right. This
was real. This was—

"I want you, Purdy," he murmured against her
lips.

The alias was like a splash of cold water,
tempering her ardor with a sudden chill of reality. What on earth
was she doing?

Though her body thrummed an insistant
protest, she forced herself to pull away from him. "I . . . I'm
sorry," she panted. "I never—"

He released her at once, self-awareness, even
guilt, fighting with the desire in his eyes. "Oh, Lord. Purdy, I'm
sorry." He raked a hand through his hair, making it stand wildly on
end in a way she found oddly endearing. "I've subjected you to the
very thing you were escaping.

She couldn't suppress a smile. "You were no
more subjecting me than I was subjecting you, so you need not
apologize. Believe me, what I escaped was nothing like that." True
enough! "Still, I fear this is . . . unwise."

He swallowed visibly, though his eyes seemed
to devour her—despairingly, she thought. "Unwise indeed. First
thing tomorrow, I'll begin making inquiries about a position for
you, and for a respectable place for you to stay while we search.
And I do apologize, Purdy. I . . . I knew better."

"So did I," she replied, pulling her gaze
away from his smoldering one before it could reignite what she'd so
reluctantly broken off. "Let's . . . not speak of it any
further."

She felt rather than saw him nod. "What say
you to some dinner and an early night? Tomorrow we must accomplish
more than we managed today." Moving away from her with obvious
reluctance, he went to the sideboard and began pulling out the
makings of a simple meal.

Though her eyes followed him hungrily, Pearl
seated herself at the table. "Is there something I can do to
help?"

He turned and almost caught her staring. She
had to will her color not to rise. "Do you think you can shell
these peas?" he asked, clearly remembering her clumsiness with the
orange that morning.

She chuckled, finally getting her unruly
passions under control—for the moment. "As you've guessed, I've had
little experience in the kitchen, but I believe I can manage to
shell peas without doing myself an injury."

For a few minutes they worked in
companionable silence, she shelling the peas into a pot for boiling
while he unwrapped a couple of meatrolls he'd bought in the market
earlier. Once the peas were boiling, he deftly peeled the remaining
orange from breakfast.

"The bread isn't as fresh as it was last
night, but it should still be edible," he commented, cutting a few
thick slices. "Now."

With a flourish, he set out bread, cheese,
meatrolls, orange sections and the bowl of peas, as well as two
plates of fine china that again made Pearl wonder about this man of
contrasts. Belatedly, she realized that she could at least have set
the table while he worked. Two days among the working class had not
been enough to cure her habitual assumption of rank, it seemed.

"Thank you," she said graciously, in an
attempt to compensate for her uselessness. "It looks
wonderful."

Though the fare was as simple as she'd had,
devoid of French sauces or elegant garnish, Pearl found it
delicious. It was said that hunger was the best sauce, she
reflected—not that she'd had the chance to put it to the test
before. And more than one sort of hunger was at work here.

Even with the table between them, she could
feel a physical link to this man humming through her blood. Though
she knew it was madness, she wanted nothing more than a repeat of
that kiss, that embrace . . . The sooner she left Luke St. Clair's
company, the better, obviously!

Partly to distract herself, she asked, "Last
night you mentioned that your last employer had been generous in
his will. What sort of work did you do for him?" The question was
more blunt than she'd intended, but this might be her last chance
to assuage her curiosity about him.

He took his time chewing and swallowing a
bite of meatroll before answering. "I, ah, tutored his son briefly,
then worked as his personal manservant. He preferred to have few
people about him, so I was able to make myself indispensable."

She forced herself to focus on his words
rather than his lips. His answer seemed reasonable, but she had the
distinct feeling he was telling her less than the truth. Only fair,
she supposed, considering how little he knew about her. "And you've
lived here since he died?"

"More or less. I can pick up a living here,
of sorts. In addition, I can occasionally help people whose lives
have been destroyed, directly or indirectly, by the nobility."

"Like your mother's," she said softly. No,
she certainly did not want him to know the full truth about
her.

Though he frowned in apparent surprise, he
nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose I'm still trying to repay her, to
avenge her, in the only way I can."

Avenge.
It seemed an odd word choice.
"She must have been a remarkable woman."

Now he smiled, with a wistfulness that tugged
at her heart. "She was. A true lady in everything but birth."

Pearl caught the implication that her lack of
noble birth elevated his mother even higher in his eyes. Luke's
clear animosity toward her class pricked her pride, putting her on
the defensive. "Perhaps birth—or lack thereof—has little to do with
nobility of heart," she suggested.

The wistfulness in his eyes changed to
something more cynical. "If anything, noble birth seems to preclude
nobility of heart, at least in my experience."

Pearl shifted uncomfortably in her chair,
trying to frame an argument, but he spoke again before she could.
"You are a perfect example, Purdy. I've never met anyone, except
perhaps my mother, who so clearly evinced nobility of spirit. Yet
you're as common as I am, are you not?"

She swallowed, trapped. "My . . . my mother
was a gentleman's daughter," she offered as a nod to the truth. She
couldn't bring herself to say more, dreading the condemnation in
his eyes.

To her surprise, his smile forgave her—and
caused her pulse to race again. "Mine may have been as well," he
admitted. "But the true nobility, the peers of the realm, are in a
class apart—and they flaunt it whenever they can, to the detriment
of those they consider beneath them."

Though his words were harsh, his eyes were
not. They held hers with a gentle seeking that snatched her breath.
Though she wanted to deny his words, she responded only with an
uncertain nod. He seemed to consider it enough, for he reached
across the table to take her hand in his—again, bare flesh touching
bare flesh. Her senses pulsed with awareness.

"This may sound trite," he said, still
holding her gaze and her hand, "but I believe we are kindred
spirits, you and I. Perhaps it was fate that threw us together
after all."

Pearl's heart began to hammer so that it
seemed impossible he would not hear it. Fate? She didn't believe in
fate . . . did she? And how could hers, Lady Pearl's, lie with this
man's? Impossible! But the idea appealed to her on a primal level,
even while her reason told her it was absurd.

When she did not answer, Luke rose, her hand
still in his. Mesmerized, Pearl stood as well, their bodies only
inches apart. This time, when he took her in his arms, she would
not call a halt, she decided. People would believe the worst
anyway—why should she not have this moment of bliss?

Instead, he brought her hand to his lips with
the courtliness of royalty.

"You've shown me a side of life I'd nearly
forgotten," he told her, then touched her fingers with his kiss—a
gentle brush that sent flame licking along every nerve in her body.
"Thank you."

She managed to summon a smile, when what she
wanted was to feel his lips, his hands, upon her. "And you have
shown me a side of the human condition that I sorely needed to
learn about. For that, as well as your unselfish help to a stranger
in need, I thank you."

For an instant his grip tightened, and she
thought he would pull her back into his arms after all. She was
ready, more than ready . . . He released her and bowed.

"A noble spirit indeed. But even so strong a
spirit as yours must be tired after a day like today. Rest, and
we'll start fresh in the morning." He turned from her to stack
their plates and cutlery in the washtub.

She knew she should offer to help, but now
that the moment of madness had passed, she fully understood just
how dangerous it was for her to get too close to this man. Instead,
she went to the divan and unfolded the sheets, spreading them out
in preparation for another night on its unyielding surface. When
she finished, she turned to find him regarding her with a smile and
a steaming pitcher.

"I was remiss last night, but here is hot
water and a basin, should you wish to wash before retiring. My
apologies for not thinking to offer them before—I am unused to
guests."

"Pray don't mention it," she said quickly.
"But thank you." A wash sounded heavenly. "I'll . . . see you in
the morning." Even as she spoke, however, she knew her words were
false. By morning she must be gone, or she would be lost
forever.

* * *

Luke settled himself in bed, intending to
thoroughly examine the bewildering mix of emotions that had
assailed him over the past few hours. He needed to analyze his
feelings, decide just how important Purdy had become to him in one
short day and evening. Instead of a dispassionate analysis,
however, he found himself reliving those amazing few moments of
passion.