When You Wish Upon a Rogue Read online

  “If you don’t mind,” came the exceedingly dry, hauntingly deep, eminently masculine voice, “I’ll ask the questions here.”

  Chapter 2

  Henry Reese, Earl of Warshire, dropped his cheroot and ground it under his boot heel before making a slow, appraising circle around the intruder—a woman, if he wasn’t mistaken. He scrubbed his eyelids with the backs of his hands and blinked to make sure she wasn’t some sort of hallucination. Sometimes, when he’d gone for a week without any sleep to speak of, his brain deceived him. But she seemed real enough.

  Even in the dark, Reese could see her trembling like a rabbit hiding from a fox on the prowl. And yet, she raised her chin—a subtle act of defiance that was admirable, if ultimately futile.

  No, this woman was not his usual sort of vision. The grotesque monsters lurking in the corners of his admittedly warped mind were made not of flesh but of pain and terror. Their bony fingers had clawed at his soul and wrung it out until it was nothing but a shriveled casing.

  But the woman standing before him was slender, and the tendrils of hair that peeked out of her bonnet appeared to be fair—white gold. While there was no denying that she’d broken into his building, she smelled like the earth and wildflowers and springtime.

  In a tone that brooked no argument, he said, “Do not move.”

  He strode to the large picture window at the front of the building and yanked open the heavy, mite-filled drapes, bathing the room in pale moonlight. When he faced the intruder again, she gazed at him warily and clutched a pink reticule tightly in one hand. The gown she wore was the color of freshly sprouted grass, and the soft muslin clung to her willowy frame.

  “What are you doing here in my building?” he asked, fairly certain that a lie was about to spout forth from her mouth.

  She licked her lips nervously. “Actually, I wasn’t intending to come inside. I only wanted to peer in the window.”

  Reese narrowed his eyes and let his gaze travel slowly around the room. “You were window shopping,” he said, not bothering to mask his skepticism. “Simply strolling down an alley late at night, looking for a new waistcoat? Maybe a cravat or two?”

  “No,” she said, frowning. “Of course not. I’d heard that the shop was vacant and thought it might make a suitable location for my … that is, I…” She clamped her mouth shut before taking a breath and starting again—with more confidence. “I thought I might rent the space.”

  He arched a brow, intrigued—and, perhaps, secretly pleased that she’d managed to surprise him.

  “I’m Miss Kendall,” she said, thrusting a gloved hand toward him. “You must be Mr. Peabody.”

  Reese kept his face impassive and reached for her hand. Curled his fingers around her palm. Held on a bit longer than was strictly necessary. “A pleasure,” he growled, not bothering to tell her that Mr. Peabody, the elderly tailor, had turned up his toes over a year ago.

  “Are you a shop owner, Miss Kendall?” He walked to the smooth, old oak counter and lit the lamp there.

  She hesitated. “No.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, he sank into one of a pair of large leather armchairs and waved a hand at the other. “Care to sit?”

  She gulped and hazarded a look at the worn seat before perching on the edge. “I must apologize for intruding. I didn’t expect the door to be unlocked, and when it swung open, I…”

  “Decided to give yourself a tour?” he provided.

  “Something like that.”

  He reached for the snifter on the table next to him and took a swallow of brandy before offering the glass to her. “Care for a drink?”

  She recoiled as if he’d offered a vial of venom. “No, thank you.”

  “Well, feel free to look around. There’s a work area and storage room at the rear.” Reese had been killing time back there when he heard the door creak open and ventured out to investigate.

  She remained seated as she said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing here at this time of the evening? It’s awfully late to be working.”

  A lie hovered on his tongue, but he swallowed it and told the truth—or, at least, part of it. “I come here when I’m restless. When I feel the need to escape my house.” There was nothing worse than lying in bed, drowning in colorless shadows and unnatural silence while his body and mind battled for control. Every part of his physical being longed for sleep. Craved it like an addict needs opium. But his mind lived in fear of the moment he drifted off—when he relinquished control of his thoughts to the foulest of demons. They sat on their haunches, ready to charge into the void, swamping and suffocating him. He shuddered but pretended to merely shift in his seat.

  “I see,” she said simply—and something in her perceptive blue eyes suggested that she did understand.

  He cleared his throat, leaned back, and stretched his legs. “As I was saying, you’re welcome to inspect the shop if you’re curious.”

  She shook her head and straightened her spine. “I’ve seen enough. Your building will suit my purposes perfectly.”

  Reese chuckled. “I’m afraid this place isn’t available to let.”

  Miss Kendall’s face crumpled. “Why not?”

  “As I’ve already explained,” he said slowly, “I use it.”

  “But you haven’t even heard me out,” she countered. “I only require the use of the room one evening each week—and I’m willing to pay a fair sum.”

  “How much?” Lord knew he could use the money, but the real reason he asked was because the amount she offered would provide a useful measuring stick. Give him an idea of how badly she wanted to rent the space—and what she could afford.

  She paused, probably unaware that her forehead crinkled. “What do you think would be reasonable?”

  The slight tremor in her voice said she was just shy of desperate—and that her coffers were nowhere near full. But she wanted to know his price.

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin, idly wondering when he’d last shaved. When one rarely slept, the days melted together like pats of butter on a hot skillet. “If I were willing to let out my building for one evening a week—which I’ve already indicated I’m not—I’d have to charge ten pounds.”

  “Per month?” she asked hopefully.

  “Per week.”

  “I see.” For an interminable, golden moment, she searched his face, then stood regretfully. “If I thought you might reconsider, I might attempt to negotiate, but I can see that you’re quite…” She paused, searching for a word.

  “Pigheaded?” he provided. “Mulish?”

  The grim line of her mouth softened into a half smile. “I was going to say ‘adamant.’”

  “Of course you were,” he said smoothly. “But pigheaded fits better.”

  “Thank you for your time.” Her eyes shone with a kindness that was damned disconcerting. Especially since he hadn’t been particularly charming. In the short time since she’d arrived, he’d done nothing but swill brandy, behave like a boor, and crush her dream of renting his building. To top everything off, he must look like he’d staggered out of a pub just before closing time. He dragged a hand through his hair, which was already standing on end. And he had no bloody idea where he’d left his jacket or cravat.

  He supposed he should say something gracious, maybe walk her to the door. But he didn’t want her to go. Didn’t want to be alone with his dark thoughts and insidious visions. So he continued to sit there morosely, the portrait of an arse.

  She took a step toward the door, then turned back. “May I ask you something else?”

  He shrugged as though he were indifferent. But on the inside, he was more like a stray dog, embarrassingly starved for a scrap of attention or compassion. “Ask away.”

  She tilted her head and frowned. “When was the last time you slept?”

  “Last night,” he answered reflexively. It was true enough—he’d drifted off on the sofa in his study for nearly an hour before bolting upright, drenched in sweat and sha
king like he’d gone for a midwinter swim in the Thames. Afterward he’d immediately vowed to avoid shutting his eyes again for at least a week.

  She leveled an assessing gaze in his direction before asking, “How long did you sleep?”

  He thrust himself out of the chair, crossed his arms, and paced the ancient wood floor in front of the counter. “I don’t see why that’s any of your concern, Miss Kendall.”

  “You’re right,” she replied—with more gentleness than he deserved. “It wasn’t my intention to pry. But my mother is prone to sleeplessness, and I recognized some of the signs.”

  He muttered a curse. Why should he give a damn that this young woman, a complete stranger to him, had just lumped him in the same category with her dear mama? “And what are the telltale signs?” he asked, his tone dry as dust. “What gave me away?”

  To her credit, she didn’t shrink in the least. “The shadows beneath your eyes, the slight tremor of your hands, and a general state of…” She hesitated, again perusing her mind for the correct word.

  “Irritability?” he offered. “Cantankerousness?”

  “I was going to say ‘anxiousness,’ but your suggestions are also apropos.” Her words might have stung, if not for the playful twinkle in her eyes. A bit more soberly she added, “A lack of sleep can take its toll on a person.”

  He shrugged as though he had only the vaguest sense of what she was talking about. As if his life weren’t a wasteland of paralysis and remorse. The last thing he wanted from Miss Kendall was pity.

  She pursed her lips in consternation, then looked up at him and beamed. Her wide, genuine smile was almost blinding, and he recoiled from the unexpected brilliance like a man emerging from a dark cave at high noon.

  Oblivious to the effect she had on him, she began rummaging through her reticule. “I may have something in here that will help.” At last, she withdrew a small pouch and held it up, triumphant. “Here we are.”

  “What is that?” he asked, not bothering to hide his cynicism.

  She held the herbs an inch below her nose and closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. “Valerian root for your tea. It’s a remedy for sleeplessness.” She naïvely thrust the dainty muslin pouch into his hands like it was the antidote to all that ailed him. She couldn’t possibly know that he was way beyond help—so far beyond it that he might as well have been in another realm.

  Reese sniffed the herbs and found them pleasantly earthy and fragrant. Idly wondered whether Miss Kendall’s skin would smell the same and simultaneously chastised himself for the errant thought.

  “I don’t drink tea,” he said curtly, handing the pouch back to her.

  She looked appropriately appalled. “Well then,” she said slowly, as if still coming to grips with this diabolical confession, “I suppose you could sprinkle some in your soup.” She held out the pouch with a brooking-no-argument expression. The same stern face his own nanny had used when she expected him to swallow a spoonful of castor oil—except that Miss Kendall was approximately one hundred times more lovely.

  “I appreciate your concern.” He shoved his hands in his pockets so she couldn’t force the bloody herbs into his palms again. “However, I have no use for quackery.”

  She narrowed her eyes at that—as if he’d issued a challenge. She tucked the pouch under her elbow and began tugging at the fingers of her gloves, pulling them off. The sight conjured all sorts of wicked thoughts, which only proved how demented he was.

  “Have you a kitchen, Mr. Peabody?” she asked briskly.

  Reese blinked. “Here? No. There’s a small stove in the back room.”

  “That will do,” she said brightly.

  He trailed after her as she strode past him, toward the room in the rear of the shop where he’d been lurking before she’d arrived. He’d lit a fire in the stove a few hours earlier, and when Miss Kendall spotted a kettle on a shelf above it, she turned toward him and arched a mildly accusatory brow.

  “I don’t use it,” he said.

  She continued to stare at him while she lifted the kettle and smiled smugly when she felt water sloshing inside.

  “I rarely use it,” he amended, shrugging.

  With an entrancing combination of grace and efficiency, she placed the tin kettle on the stove, rinsed out a chipped teapot, and polished a dimpled strainer. Reese sank into an armchair and watched, grateful for the distraction and—to his amazement—her company. For there were very few people he could tolerate for more than five minutes, and even fewer people who could tolerate him.

  While Miss Kendall waited for the water to heat, she moved about the room humming softly as she fluffed the pillows on a threadbare settee, organized the random pieces of crockery and dishware on the shelf, and stacked a week’s worth of old newspapers in a neat pile beside his chair.

  Once the room was mostly in order, she leaned over a small potted plant that looked like ivy but probably wasn’t and began tenderly plucking off its brown, shriveled leaves. Reese snorted to himself, thinking she’d have more luck resuscitating Marie Antoinette. “Why are you tidying up?” he asked.

  Her long, graceful fingers froze, and her gaze slid toward his. “Because it’s untidy.”

  “But it’s not your duty to clean.”

  She frowned at the gossamer layer of dust on the table holding the pot. “Apparently, it’s no one’s duty.” The comment would have sounded snide coming from most people, but Miss Kendall managed to make it sound like a compliment. “Besides, it’s more pleasant to pass the time in surroundings that are serene and free of clutter,” she said.

  Reese grunted. He could row to the center of a glass-surfaced lake on a windless day. He could meditate in the middle of a peaceful, ancient forest. No amount of tranquility on the outside would ever calm the tempest raging inside him. But Miss Kendall wouldn’t understand his particular brand of misery. What could a vibrant, beautiful young woman know of war and terror and shame?

  When the teakettle began to whistle, she reluctantly left the plant she tended and set about preparing two cups of tea.

  “I told you I don’t drink tea,” he said, acutely aware that he sounded like a crotchety old curmudgeon.

  “You did.” She deftly poured, then handed him the larger of the two cups. “I’m hoping that you’ll indulge me and try a taste. I’ll even join you, just to prove that there’s no hemlock or eye of newt mixed in.” She perched daintily on a wooden stool, lifted a cup to her pink lips, and tilted her head. “Not bad, but you may prefer to add a lump of sugar.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said gruffly. “Wouldn’t want to mask the flavor of toad and newt.”

  She raised her teacup, amusement shining in her eyes. “Cheers, Mr. Peabody.”

  Shit. He’d forgotten she didn’t know who he was. But it didn’t matter. “Cheers, Miss Kendall,” he said, before taking a drink of the earthy, potent, but oddly soothing tea.

  They sat and sipped their tea in comfortable silence for a while, and when she offered to pour him some more, he agreed—just so she might stay a little longer.

  When she rose to clean her cup and the teapot, he stood, but she waved him back into his chair. “Finish it up,” she urged. “And if you nod off, don’t worry about me. I’ll let myself out.”

  He chuckled at that. “I won’t fall asleep,” he said confidently. “And the hour’s grown late. You should permit me to walk you home or secure you a hackney cab.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said, “but thank you.”

  He opened his mouth to insist, but thought better of it and contented himself with watching while she ran a dishcloth over the small table where the plant sat, lifting the pot to dust beneath it. Then she retrieved the cooled teakettle and carefully poured water into the thirsty, cracked soil. The sickly plant only had three yellowish leaves left on it, but it looked grateful nonetheless, perking up under her ministrations.

  “You have a green thumb,” he said, his voice sounding unexpectedly groggy to his own ears. �
��Do you enjoy gardening?”

  Her face took on a dreamy, ethereal quality. “Very much so. There’s nothing more satisfying than watching a garden grow and change and thrive.”

  “I can think of a few things more satisfying,” he said, half-amused, half in awe.

  “Plants give us food, medicine, and beauty,” she said. “For me, they also bring a sense of peace—a tangible connection to nature. A feeling that I’m part of something bigger.” She paused and shook her head. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” he said sincerely. It seemed important that he knew one true and important thing about her—before she walked out of his door and his life, never to return again.

  “And now,” she said playfully, “I think you should tell me something about yourself. Just so that we are even.”

  “Fair enough.” He swallowed the last drops of his tea as he searched his mind for something to tell her. Something true and important, like she’d told him. Something that wouldn’t send her running for the hills or scare the devil out of her. “The only time I feel free is when I’m riding my horse. Not trotting around town or through the park but galloping across wide-open fields and jumping over rushing streams. When the wind licks at my face and billows my coat behind me. That’s when I can forget, briefly, who I am and what I’ve done.”

  Jesus, he hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud. But he didn’t regret it. Miss Kendall deserved to know that much. Deserved to know he was unworthy of spending time with someone like her.

  But if his words gave her pause, she gave no indication of it. She merely continued to fawn over the plant as she said, “Then I’m glad you have your riding. We all need an escape now and again.”

  He wondered what she needed to escape from. Fear, drudgery, fate? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but it seemed his brain and mouth weren’t working in tandem. So he sank back into his chair and allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. His eyelids twitched, and though he strained to keep them open, they fell with the inevitability of a stage curtain at the end of act two.