While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(38)

His attraction to her had simmered since their first meeting, even though she was not to his usual taste. Poppy Fairchurch was much too difficult a female, and he did not make it a habit to pursue prickly women. Why bother with those who did not look upon him with invitation? Miss Fairchurch was all barbed words and glares.

Nor did he waste time on women attached to other men. There were too many available lasses eager for his company. Why trouble with the minor few who were not?

Because she’s a challenge. He shoved aside that annoying whisper wending inside his head. That was too pedestrian for him. Weak men ruled by base desires would want her for such a reason. Struan was not weak. He did not need the conquest of a woman to inflate his ego.

So then why do you want her so badly?

For a while, when he first arrived in London, he’d considered marrying. He set his sights on one female in particular—the Duke of Banbury’s sister, Lady Aurelia. She was comely and her family’s lauded position in Society had appealed to him for wholly self-seeking reasons. It would have been nice to rub Autenberry’s face in the fact that he’d wed a duke’s daughter.

He’d moved on from her, however, when it became apparent that her heart lay with another. Since then he had lost the whim to marry some blue-blooded chit simply to aggravate his half brother.

Although what better way to irk him than to seduce his woman?

Inhaling, he rubbed at his jaw where stubble was starting to grow and gave a small shake of his head. He was lying to himself if he wanted to pretend that was his motivation. There was no revenge plot tangled up in his hunger for her.

She belonged to Autenberry, and that fact should have repelled him. He didn’t long for anything his brother possessed. He had made it a point to feel that way. Struan had amassed wealth enough that he would never want for anything. He was as rich as Croesus. In good health and possession of all his teeth. He didn’t need anything his brother held claim to—especially his latest paramour.

And yet she was different.

She wasn’t a title. Or something as intangible as prestige. She didn’t symbolize acceptance into the ton. In fact, she would never bring him status.

He stared up at the house, at the window he knew to be hers, as if it held the answer to life, the secrets of the universe.

She was in there now, readying for bed. Presumably with her sister.

Would you follow her and finish what they’d started if she resided alone?

He imagined himself walking through the front door and up the stairs as if he had every right. He envisioned himself striding unannounced into her private room, invading her sanctuary and stripping off her clothes. Invading her.

Would she demand he leave?

Of course she would, but he could persuade her otherwise. It wouldn’t be too difficult. He’d tasted her lips, felt the hitch of her breath and the press of her body. She was ripe for it. He could have her. Whether she realized it or not, she wanted him, too. She’d responded to him. She was a woman of intense passions. And he could have that passion for himself. He could. At least for one night. He could satisfy this need for her and move on.

He gave the building one last look and turned away, tucking his hand casually inside his pocket. He only had to decide if he would do it.

Was he so lacking in conscience that he would take his brother’s woman?



Poppy spent a miserable night tossing and turning in the bed she shared with her sister. She could still feel Struan Mackenzie. His lips. His hands. The way his brogue rumbled on the air, the sound infusing her body with heat.

If it wasn’t too late when she returned home, she would have dragged out the hip tub for a bath. Perhaps that would rid her of the memory of him—if she could scrub him off her body. By the time she fell asleep dawn was already tingeing the sky.

It was the only excuse she had for sleeping in so late. An hour and a half hardly amounted to a good night’s rest. She hurriedly stabbed the pins into her hair. There would be no time for breakfast. She would have to go directly to the shop.

She had just finished with the last button on her dress when the door to her chamber was flung open—no thanks to Bryony. Her sister had left it unlocked after she stepped out this morning to visit the washroom. Bryony squealed at the sudden intrusion from where she sat in front of their dressing mirror, dropping the ribbon she had been trying to weave into her plait.

Poppy spun around to face their flush-faced landlady. The woman might be a busybody, but she had always granted them a semblance of privacy and at least knocked before entering their rooms.

“Mrs. Gibbons!” Poppy planted her fists on her hips and leveled her with a stern look. Boundaries. They needed to discuss their boundaries.

The lady practically danced in place, indifferent to Poppy’s disapproving stare. “Come! Come at once!” She waved her hands furiously. She looked fit to apoplexy.

“What?” Bryony jumped up to her feet from her chair, evidently sensing something epic was on the verge of transpiring. “What is it?”

“A grand carriage with a footman riding in the back! Heavens! It has a coat of arms on it. I don’t know the house, but I’ve never been very good at keeping such things to memory.”

A sinking sensation started in Poppy’s stomach. Something epic indeed.

“It stopped here?” Bryony hopped and clapped, catching some of Mrs. Gibbons’s enthusiasm.