What A Rogue Wants Read online

  What a Rogue Wants

  Julie Johnstone

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover Design by Heather Boyd

  Copyright © 2013 Julie Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashowrds.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  For more information: [email protected]

  www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com

  For my father who has been my loyalist and most supportive fan from the start. I love you.

  For my critique partners Samantha Grace and Aileen Fish. Words cannot express how thankful I am to have such wonderful critique partners and friends like the two of you. Thank you for all your many readings and all the support you both have always shown me.

  For my editor Sandra Sookoo who showed me how to really work a scene and helped me to dig deeper into my characters to make this a better book.

  ~Julie

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER JULIE JOHNSTONE TITLES

  WORLD OF JOHNSTONE TEASER

  London, England

  1804

  Lord Grey Adlard entered White’s gentlemen’s club, intent on one purpose―to find and wring the neck of Gravenhurst, his former best friend as of roughly twenty minutes ago. Before Grey got two steps into the entranceway, Henry, White’s stuffiest and Grey’s favorite footman, appeared.

  “Milord, may I take your hat and coat?” As usual, Henry’s droopy eyelids made it hard to gauge his reaction, but Grey bet his soggy state shocked the proper footman. Hell, it shocked him, and he was far from proper.

  He held out his dripping coat and hat, trying to ignore the water pattering against the floor from his garments. He looked like a damn fool. At Henry’s annoyed inhalation, Grey narrowed his eyes, daring Henry to say a word. After being forced to traverse down a thorny rose trellis and take an unplanned midnight swim in a freezing lake to escape the sudden appearance of Lady Julia’s irate father, Grey was in no mood for Henry’s reproach. “Is Gravenhurst here?”

  “Of course.” Henry took Grey’s coat with the tips of his fingers and eyed it distastefully. “Lord Grey, you are dripping on my floor.”

  Grey glanced at the puddle at his feet, his neck warming in irritation. His favorite shoes were ruined, not to mention his trousers. Tiny rips covered the front of the fine, black material. Gravenhurst would pay to replace these, if he decided to let the man live. “Sorry, Henry. Might I have a towel?”

  “You might. But first, you must promise no fisticuffs. I’d hate to have you and Lord Gravenhurst thrown out again.”

  Grey scanned White’s for Gravenhurst. He found the man positioned diagonally from the entranceway, one blond eyebrow raised, left foot propped leisurely on his right knee, coat off, cravat loose, drink in hand, and perfectly dry. The man deserved to be dumped in the lake. “Might I have that towel before I catch my death?”

  “Milord, your promise?”

  Henry’s brazenness made Grey smile. He preferred audacity over timidity any day. “You’re impertinent.” He said it to goad Henry. The man’s sharp-witted responses never disappointed.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “That’s it?”

  Henry’s mouth twitched upward in a faint smile. “I’m afraid so, milord. We’re very busy, and short-staffed.”

  Bollocks. There was no fun to be found anywhere tonight. “Fine. I promise no fisticuffs.” He dried himself with the towel Henry handed him. When he was as dry as he could manage, he handed the towel to Henry. “I’d like to remind you that my fight with Gravenhurst was years ago.”

  “All I remember are the broken chairs and tables, milord.”

  Grey eyed Henry. “Gravenhurst and I are now far too old and wise to engage in fisticuffs inside White’s.” Outside was implied, of course.

  “I agree with too old.” Henry’s eyebrows rose in challenge.

  Entertainment at last. “You know―” Grey ran a hand through his disheveled, wet, hair. “―I’m not sure why I put up with your insolence.”

  “I believe, milord, it’s because you know I’m right, and our verbal sparring amuses you.”

  “I’ll never admit such a thing,” Grey tossed over his shoulder as he strode away. He nodded to Lords Peter and Perkins, who gaped in return. He could count on those two dimwits to gossip all over Town about his appearance, which if nothing else, would cause his father a moment of discomfort. Grey smiled. The night wasn’t a total loss after all.

  He pulled out a chair and sat, his trousers smacking wetly against the wood. The candlelight from the center of the table glowed on Gravenhurst’s tan skin and light hair and made him look wicked. Fitting. No telling what the man was up to now. “Do not,” he said as Gravenhurst started to snicker, “laugh or say a word to me until I’ve had a drink or I’ll rearrange your nose for you, which might be an improvement to the crooked thing.”

  Grey grabbed the full glass Gravenhurst put in front of him and downed the liquor. A slow warmth started in his mouth and spread to his chest, pushing away a little of the iciness clinging to his damp skin. He would need a least two more drinks to warm himself and cool his irritation, but now he could talk civilly. Setting his glass down, he leaned back and allowed himself to relax for the first time in over an hour. “Your information was incorrect.”

  “You don’t say?” Gravenhurst replied, a smile pulling at his lips. “I thought as much when I saw you enter. So her father’s back in Town?”

  “He is indeed.”

  “Bollocks. I’m sorry, Grey.”

  “Think nothing of it. I almost broke my neck climbing down a rickety trellis and nearly froze to death swimming in their lake escaping, but don’t hold yourself accountable for giving me incorrect information.”

  “Seems to me being caught by Lord Blackborn in his daughter’s bedroom would’ve been the perfect opportunity to finally get your father’
s notice.”

  “I stopped wanting my father’s notice ten years ago. I’m perfectly happy being the invisible second son of the mighty Duke of Ashdon.” He ignored the inner twitch that always occurred when he lied. Someday, he’d master that reaction.

  “So your constant exploits are for―?”

  “Irritating him.” He wasn’t about to begin exploring why he acted as he did. He had an agreement with himself to never examine his actions toward his father. So far, the agreement had worked out perfectly. He raised his hand and signaled the server for another glass of whiskey. “It’s a perverse but enjoyable pastime. One I’ll not see ended by being snagged in marriage with a lady like Julia who beds all who take her fancy. That would irritate me, not my father.”

  Gravenhurst regarded Grey over the rim of his glass. “If you really want to shock and irritate your father, I have a way.”

  Grey leaned his elbows on the table. The sympathetic look on Gravenhurst’s face bothered Grey more than his wet state. Pity, even from his best friend, made him uncomfortable. “I want nothing more than to be the exact opposite sort of man than my stick-up-the-arse father. What’s this way you speak of?”

  “Marie Vallendri is now living in Golden Square. I propose we go there tomorrow, you meet her and invite her to your parent’s country party.”

  “That’s brilliant.” Grey slid his chair back and stood. “Father hates anyone French, and he’ll despise a former rumored courtesan of Napoleon’s, famous opera singer or not, dining across from him at dinner.”

  “You’ll really do it?” Gravenhurst’s face had gone pale.

  Grey chuckled. He hadn’t been sure, but now he was. Passing up a chance to shock Gravenhurst was out of the question. “Were you trying to call my bluff? Really Grave, you should know better. Pick me up at ten and we’ll make our way to Golden Square. By dinner tomorrow night, I expect Miss Vallendri to be my newest mistress and sitting at my parents’ table eating turtle soup.” Never mind he didn’t particularly want a new mistress. That wasn’t what this was really about. “If this doesn’t make my father want to secure me a commission and send me far from him, I don’t know what will.”

  “You’re sure this is wise?”

  “I’m sure it’s not, and that’s what makes it perfect,” Grey said and strode toward the door with as much dignity as he could muster over the squishing of his shoes.

  LADY MADELAINE ALDRIGE SCRAMBLED OUT of the hired hackney and tugged on her dearest friend Abigail Langley’s hand. “Do hurry.”

  Madelaine nearly careened down the steps when Abigail jerked her hand away. She whirled around to face her friend. “Why’d you do that?”

  The bright morning sun in her eyes made it hard to see Abigail’s expression, but her frown was apparent in her tone. “Look at these people.” Abby cast her voice low, though only God above knew why she bothered.

  “No one can hear you, Abby.” Madelaine raised her voice above the merry music drifting from Golden Square and scanned the perimeter of London’s art district. Vendors lined the streets with their wares and mulled about in small clusters while laughing and joking. The sight was glorious. Ladies strolled along the paths without chaperones or companions, couples sprawled in the grassy banks on blankets with picnics and art canvases clustered around them, jugglers performed by the spouting fountains and in the distance Madelaine could swear she saw a woman shooting an arrow at a target. Her heart nearly exploded with excitement. There was more to life than following societal dictates! It felt grand to be right about something for once.

  She rummaged in her reticule, fumbling in her impatience to find the coins she needed for the hackney driver. Once secured, she paid the man and sent him on his way before Abby changed her mind and forced them both to leave. Abby was a worrier that way. Her friend chewed on her nail, a sure sign she was having serious doubts.

  Madelaine linked her arm through Abby’s and led them toward the sound of a trumpet, or was that a saxophone? Who really cared? It was beautiful music filling the air. “Abby, do quit looking as if someone’s going to point at us and shout ‘frauds!’ Artists don’t give a whit about two women from Lancashire coming to explore a little.” At least she didn’t think they did. “We’re safe here. Free to roam around and do exactly as we wish. Artists live as they want without the restrictions of Society.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I read it in the gossip sheets, so it’s at least half true.”

  “I suppose.” Abby did not look convinced with her creased brow. “We cannot stay long. An hour at most.”

  Madelaine sighed. “I know.” Why couldn’t her one voyage into freedom and the glorious unknown be longer? “Now stop worrying. We’ll be back at the townhouse long before my father. He’ll never know we were anywhere but Bond Street shopping for ribbon and all the other ridiculous things girls are supposed to love.”

  “I do love ribbon.” Abby twirled a strand of her brown, curly hair around her finger.

  Madelaine patted her friend. “I know, darling. I can’t for the life of me figure out why. You’re so sensible in every other way. But because I love you so, I left you all my best ribbons in your room.” The fact that it had been an utter relief to leave the ribbon behind didn’t matter. Abby had a gift for twining ribbon in her hair while Madelaine had a knack for somehow getting it knotted in her hair. “You won’t forget me, will you?” Madelaine’s throat suddenly ached with emotion.

  Abby clutched Madelaine’s arm tighter as they strolled toward the first row of vendors. “I would never forget you, Maddie, with or without the ribbons. But next time I see you, I daresay you’ll be a proper lady, likely betrothed to a handsome man you meet at Court, and you’ll probably not wish to talk to the housekeeper’s daughter any longer.”

  Since she’d never been very good at being a proper lady, Abby’s prediction wasn’t likely to come true. She held in a sigh. She wanted a husband, but she didn’t want to pretend to be someone she wasn’t to get one. Yet, she knew she was odd, and her father wanted her married, no matter the pretense she employed.

  “I’d never forget you,” Madelaine swore as she stopped under a pretty tree blooming with pink flowers. Perching on the ledge of the stone wall that surrounded Golden Square, she inhaled the unfamiliar sweet scent. “Let’s sit for a moment and take it all in, shall we?”

  Abby nodded and sat beside Madelaine. The sadness that had pressed against Madelaine’s chest since her mother’s death felt lighter here in the square. The lightness was short lived. Tomorrow Father would deposit her at Court where he demanded she find a proper husband to marry. Not even her usual stalling tactics had talked him out of it. “No dallying,” he said. No pressure there. It was only her mother’s dying wish that Father had zealously embraced. She pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples.

  Tomorrow she would be a lady-in-waiting to the queen, manipulated like a puppet by the queen’s dictates. Even if by some miracle Madelaine found a man who suited her, that wanted her in return, the queen’s opinion could sway any match to be denied or accepted. She prayed the queen liked her. If not, life could be intolerable. She couldn’t botch it this time. She’d failed her mother in life, but she would not fail her in her death, nor would she cause her father any more pain and sorrow than she already had. Failing to find a husband, after he’d used his friendship with the king to secure her a position with the queen would mortify her father.

  Somehow, she would become a proper lady, though the idea of spending the rest of her life only concerned with sketching, embroidering, and the pianoforte made her clench her teeth. Thank God she had today to do as she pleased. It might be her last ever.

  “Come on.” She stood and brushed her skirts off. “I want to eat sticky treats, look at scandalous art, and wander over to that group shooting arrows.”

  “The gypsies?” Abby’s voice hitched.

  “They’re not going to rob us. It’s broad daylight for goodness sake.”

  Abby stood
and shielded her eyes. “We can do as you wish for one hour. I won’t have us coming in after your father. There’d be the devil to pay if he found out we disobeyed him.” That was an understatement. “You might be leaving for Court tomorrow,” Abby continued. “But I have to go back to your father’s house and live as his servant. I can’t afford his wrath.”

  “Neither can I,” Madelaine muttered. The last fight she’d had with her mother was ever present in her mind. Fresh regret pierced her heart and made her rub at her chest as they walked toward the smell of gooey rolls.

  “THIS TRIP HAS BEEN A bloody waste,” Grey growled as they made their way out of Marie Vallendri’s townhome and into the bright sunshine of Golden Square. “Who am I going to shock my father with at dinner tonight since Miss Vallendri already has a lover?”

  “How about that chit right there.” Gravenhurst pointed toward a band of gypsies who’d set up a shooting booth.

  “I said I wanted to shock my father, not give him a death fit.”

  Gravenhurst chuckled at Grey’s side. “Look closer. See the tall, pretty brunette? From my experience women with curly hair have rousing personalities to match, and the chit may be dressed as a proper lady, but she wouldn’t be in the art district if she was. She’s ripe for adventure. I say go pluck her.”

  “I like your thinking.” Grey studied the woman. “She’s pretty enough but see how her mouth is puckered in disapproval. She’s not here of her choosing. Likely she’d faint if I propositioned her.”

  “You may be right. Perhaps you should select a new mistress from Madame Landry’s women.”

  “I think not,” Grey said, distracted by the sudden shouting from the group of gypsies. As he moved across the square and closer to the group he could hear wagers being bantered back and forth between the men and women alike. The excited buzz of the crowd was like a drug. He stopped by a sleek-haired gypsy with keen black eyes who struggled to take the money shoved at him while scribbling wagers in a little book.