The Rogue She Loved by Ella Edon
Chapter Two
Her kiss on his neck was soft and subtle as the fall of hourglass sand. His neck was dry, and her lips were wet, and his whole body came to attention when they met. He ran a finger up her spine and straightened as he allowed himself to get a good look at her, his eyes narrowed to drunken slits. Her dress was tight to her form; black silk without a hint of frippery. Her smile was a promise of a good time. Her eyes were a most peculiar blue, almost grey.
“What is your name?” Stephan asked, studying her.
“Sabrina, my Lord,” she said, dropping into a deep curtsy. “Do my kisses please you?”
Her accent had a slightly French affectation. He wondered if it was put on or genuine. To her question, he smiled and then nodded once.
She smiled in return and took his affirmation as an invitation to take up the vacant velvet chaise next to him. He breathed in the powdery musk of her perfume as she pressed her palm gently against his knee and sat with the perfect courtesan poise.
The hall before them was filled with groups of men playing games of chance, skill, and utter ruination. Here and there, courtesans prowled the room with feline grace, crooning and fluttering fans between them. This was the debauchery of the highest class, and Lord Stephan Andrews was completely at home.
The Denning’s gentleman’s club had built its reputation on two impregnable pillars: discretion and delight. On the first count, its reputation was well founded; secrecy amongst members was sacrosanct, and even word of who one had seen in Denning’s was not to be spoken of outside its walls. On the second count, Denning’s had no equal. It was a place where a gentleman’s every desire could be met with matching fervour. All that was required for admittance to its hallowed halls were there was the white token of membership stamped by Sir James Denning himself. Stephan had been in possession of one such token for many years now and had regularly used it in his misspent youth.
Coloured light gleamed on his empty glass as he raised it towards a passing waiter. Before he lowered it, it was full once more, and he allowed himself a generous sip to test the quality. As always with Denning’s, it was exquisite. He had been drinking all night but had a great deal of experience managing insobriety.
He watched as a group of men engaged in a raucous game of Whist, laughing uproariously, slapping the table, and calling out names. It was good to watch people be free. Denning’s was a place where anyone could be free.
He glanced over at Sabrina and considered that perhaps not everyone in Denning’s was free. He wondered if that was truly her real name.
“Sabrina?” he asked.
She inclined her head towards him with an inviting smile. “My Lord?”
“If money was no object at all if you had all the money you could ever require, what would you do with your life?”
“Excuse me?” she asked, leaning back.
Stephan drew in a breath. “If you didn’t need money, what would you do with your life?”
For a moment, she stared at him like he was mad. Then she wet her lips thoughtfully. “I suppose I would travel.”
Stephan smiled. “Where to?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, somewhere near the water. I’d quite like to go to Brighton.”
She seemed excited by the thought of it. As though she was on her way to Brighton there and then. It was the first moment in which she had lost her perfect womanly poise. Evidently, this was not the sort of conversation with which she was typically engaged with the patrons of Denning’s gentleman’s club.
Stephan threw back the last of his drink and raised his glass for another; a waiter quickly obliged.
“I hear Brighton is splendid,” Stephan said, taking a sip from his newly filled glass, “though I am not quite so fond of the sun.”
She laughed as though he had cracked a hilarious joke. It was perhaps the worst imitation of laughter he had ever heard, and when it came to false laughter, Stephan had bottomless experience. When you are a young Earl, all your jokes get all the laughs, and half the laughs are always wrong. Flattery, unfortunately, did very little to raise his spirits for the occasion.
He looked into Sabrina’s remarkable eyes. They had a gleam of hungry expectation. An expectation of how tonight was supposed to go. He knew it, too; in a way, they were both doing what they needed to get by for the day.
“Can I get you anything, my Lord? Anything at all?” her eyes now had a sinister gleam, and Stephan’s blood was finally beginning to rise.
He climbed to his feet, swaying slightly from the drink as he did so. “Shall we retire to one of the private rooms?” he asked.
She drew herself up to stand in front of him. At full height, she came only to his ribs.
“I think we shall, my Lord.”
Stephan offered her his arm as they turned in the direction of the private rooms.
The entrance door behind them was suddenly thrown open so hard it bounced against the wall. The sound caused Stephan to glance over his shoulder.
His eyes alighted on a handsome man, strong-boned with a thick obstinate chin. Pale with dark hair that took to curling about his head. Stephan cursed under his breath. If there was one man in the entire country who Stephan did not want to see, it was Thomas Dane, the Marquess of Plymouth.
The Marquess strode in with all the pride of a prince on his day of succession. The room seemed to hush in silence as he walked in. Many of them knew the history between Stephan and the Marquess, and he could sense them start to brace for drama. Hungry eyes fell on them, waiting to see how they would act around one another.
The vein at Stephan’s temple throbbed as the Marquess immediately set his sights on one of the courtesans. A woman dressed in emerald green, holding a fan about her face, lowered it to swoon at the Marquess. He moved towards the courtesan, the entire room watching the display with interest.
As he finally approached the courtesan, he glanced directly at Stephan and grinned at him.
Stephan scowled. The Marquess was goading him. He had seen enough. He turned back to Sabrina and began to walk towards the private room.
The Marquess’ voice cut through the room. “What a wonderful feeling it is to have any woman I want.”
Stephan wanted to keep walking, but he found his body was tense all over. His teeth were gritted, and his free hand was curled into a tight fist.
“Are you well, my Lord?” Sabrina asked.
Stephan ignored her as he glanced over his shoulder. The Marquess stood with a woman on each arm and a wide, serpentine smile on his lips. He looked directly at Stephan, and he silently mouthed the words: ‘any woman I want.’
The anger was there. It was all over, hot and hungry. He pictured himself walking up to the Marquess and striking him, but his mind was filled with memories of her. Of the woman, he had once loved with every inch of his being. Maria.
He winced as the memories came flooding back. Everything about that night was still so shockingly clear in his mind. Maria’s silk shawl fluttered in the evening breeze. The tremor of shock he had felt when he found her ensconced in the Marquess’ arms. That unforgettable grin on the Marquess’ face as he fondled her. The way she arched her body against his, her head thrown back in a state of liquid bliss.
“Are you well, my Lord?” Sabrina repeated, calling him back to full consciousness.
The true answer was no. He was absolutely not alright. He wanted to set the Marquess right once and for all. It didn’t matter how many people were there or how many eyes were watching his every move. All the scandal in the world would have been worth the risk if only he could wipe that smug smile from the Marquess’ face. But deep down, he knew that was impossible. Even if he came to blows with the Marquess, even if he beat day and night out of the man. He knew that smile would never leave his face. The Marquess was the undisputed victor of the ultimate prize, and Stephan could never hope to level terms.
Resigned to his fate and still pulsing with anger, he turned to Sabrina. “Perhaps we should reconvene another time, I feel suddenly quite unwell tonight.”
She favoured him with a perfect curtsy and a knowing smile. “Another time, my Lord.”
He inclined his head and stepped out from the door.
He heard the Marquess call out after him. “Leaving so soon?”
A chorus of laughter from the other men in the gentlemen’s club followed that last remark, and it was almost enough to break what was left of Stephan’s restraint. By some effort of inhuman will and discipline, he kept walking and made it into his carriage.
Once inside, he leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. “Let’s go home,” he said to his coachman.
As they rode back towards the Andrews Estate, Stephan glanced out of his carriage window. He could still hear the echo of laughter at the Marquess’ last remark.
Rain began to fall, completing the city’s cruel jibe, and Stephan wished he had not decided to leave his home that night, that he had never set foot in Denning’s. Now the only thing on his mind was Maria.
She had been his first love. His only love. Remembering her face was torture, but it was a torment that he could not stop inflicting on himself for some reason. An unearthly beautiful woman with golden brown hair that shone in every place the light touched it. Her scent made every cord of muscle in his body pulse, and her laugh filled his ears with sweetness. She had neither rival nor superior in elegance and deportment and had a subtle way of making one feel at home. To her, he would have given everything. Anything. His heart had been set on marrying her, and he had told everyone who he cared to know what his intention was.
His mind threw him back to their story, and he recalled how everything had come to a painful end.
Stephan entered the masquerade ball with every expectation of seeing Maria. They had been courting for three months, and each month had been better than the last. In every way, she proved the embodiment of all he wished for in a woman. Their conformity of judgment on every matter of importance was proof to him that there was some truth in the often expressed belief that true love could be felt with one person if you looked hard enough.
He caught sight of her in the ballroom and immediately burst into a smile. She hadn’t seen him, and before he could reach her, she was lost in the throng of people. It took him a long while before he decided to go in search of her, for she did not resurface after his initial sighting of her. He entered the corridor and was entreated by the womanly waft of her perfume. He tracked the scent to the gallery where it was strongest and stepped inside. The room, for all intents and purposes, had appeared empty. He was on the verge of leaving when a single note of laughter stopped him in his tracks. He turned towards the terrace and saw Maria’s silk shawl fluttering in the night breeze. His heart lurched immediately. What if she was in some sort of trouble. He stepped out onto the terrace and froze. Only a few metres in front of him, was a scene he instantly knew he would never forget. His love Maria stood in the arms of none other than the Marquess of Plymouth. Her dishevelled petticoat left no mystery as to the object of their entanglement on the terrace, and the smile on the Marquess’ was as good as a confirmation that Maria had not been faithful to him. He knew he ought to alert them to his presence or put an end to it, but for reasons he didn’t completely understand, he found that he couldn’t look away. He just stood there in suspended awe, watching them enjoy one another. The Marquess noticed him and Stephan immediately knew that he had to walk away. He gathered himself and turn to leave. Maria had not seen him, but the Marquess certainly had.
As though to buttress that fact, the Marquess’ smiled a knowing, punishing smile while he buried Maria in his arms.
It was an incredible wound. A wound from which he would likely never recover. That she had betrayed him was pain enough, that all the Ton soon knew about it was a double helping, but the true twist of the knife was that she had chosen the Marquess of Plymouth for that great indignity. Even before that night, the Marquess of Plymouth had been Stephan’s rival during their years at University, they had never been fond of one another.
They darted past the triumphal arch which led towards the Andrews Estate, and a few moments later, the coachman drew rein, pulling the carriage to a stop.
His butler, Mr. Clarkson, arrived to pull open the carriage door.
“Welcome home, my Lord,” Mr. Clarkson said with a subtle bow.
Stephan began his dismount and was suddenly reminded of how much he had been drinking. He placed a hand on Mr. Clarkson’s shoulder, steadying himself.
“Thank you, Clarkson,” he said.
Mr. Clarkson, ever the professional, went ahead of Stephan, making sure that every obstacle and obstruction was cleared from his drunken path as he strode into the house.
“Should I draw up a hot bath, my Lord?”
Stephan shook his head. “No.”
“A pot of tea then, my Lord?”
“Brandy,” Stephan said, swaying with effort. “Bring brandy up to my bedchamber.”
Mr. Clarkson looked at him as though he had announced he was the devil.
“B-Brandy, my Lord?”
Stephan nodded. “Yes, Clarkson, brandy.”
In Clarkson’s eyes, he saw that the man wanted to protest but was caught by his commitment to duty as a butler. Whatever Stephan said, Clarkson would obey no matter how much he personally objected. No doubt the brandy would be watered down, but Clarkson would do the needful.
Clarkson couldn’t understand his pain after all. Seeing the Marquess had brought all the worst memories rushing back, and the only remedy he knew for chasing pain away was to be found at the bottom of a good bottle of liquor.
He stumbled up to his bedchamber and collapsed onto his bed face first with arms outstretched.
A knock sounded at his door.
Assuming it to be Clarkson, he muttered, “Come in.”
It wasn’t Clarkson at all. Standing in the doorway with hands on her hips was his younger sister Amy. His vision was blurry from the drink, but he could still see that she was not impressed with him at all.
“I can smell the liquor from over here,” she said, stepping inside, “and you wanted Mr. Clarkson to bring you more drink.”
Stephan sat up with a smile. He cared for very few people in this cruel world, but there were none he cared more for than his sister Amy.
“I can’t believe Clarkson betrayed me,” Stephan said, trying to focus.
Amy gave him an exasperated look. “He didn’t betray you, he conveniently made a noise as he walked past my bedchamber and when I asked him who the brandy was for, he told me what I needed to know.”
“Sounds like a betrayal to me,” Stephan said.
“All for your own good, dear brother.”
A knock sounded at the door, and the siblings simultaneously said, “Come in.”
Mr. Clarkson appeared with a tray containing a pot of coffee and a single porcelain cup. He smiled sheepishly as he shuffled into the room.
“I’m sorry, my Lord, I was about bringing the brandy when Lady Amy-”
“Spare me, Clarkson,” Stephan said, raising a hand. “I know how you both conspire against me.”
“It is our duty to take care of you as Lord of the Manor, and that means making sure you don’t drink yourself to an early grave,” Amy said, pouring out a measure of coffee. “Drink this.”
Stephan obliged. To be truthful, the first sip of coffee seemed to shift him towards sobriety. The trouble was that he wanted to be as far from sobriety at that moment as possible.
“You sound just like Mother when you talk like that,” Stephan said.
She gestured to Mr. Clarkson. The butler, knowing his part, shuffled out of the room.
Amy turned her eyes on him. “Please talk to me, dear brother, whatever is the matter to have you drinking so recklessly. I know you are fond of a good cup, but this is unseemly.”
Stephan let out a heavy breath and stared up at the ceiling. Amy was his sister, the one person who understood a semblance of his pain. The one person he could always talk to.
“I saw the Marquess. At Denning’s,” he said.
Amy’s face fell. “Oh, dear.”
Stephan nodded. “My mind has been full of Maria. I just wanted to… I wanted to forget.”
Amy drew in a deep, contemplative breath, and she put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Sometimes a heart is broken so that it can become stronger in the broken places. To love more completely when the real thing comes along.”
Stephan laughed. “I’ll never love again.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh yes, you will, and next time, you’ll be loved in return.”
