Page 3 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

Lord Chesleigh’s chest rose and fell—not a laugh, precisely, but something like it. “You’re a great reader, I take it?” He gestured her toward a chair, not waiting until she had seated herself before sprawling in the one opposite.

She perched on the edge of the seat, curling her toes into the carpet to keep herself from sliding forward, conscious of the prickle of horsehair beneath her bottom. “I am.”

“Gothic tales, romances—I daresay those are your favorites.” The words were accompanied by another smile that wasn’t. Lord Chesleigh was not a handsome man. But striking, compelling. A man obviously accustomed to being found intimidating.

Her chin popped up, almost of its own volition. “Yes.”

“Your father approves of his daughter filling her head with such notions?” He tipped his head to one side, studying her. “No. If he did, you would not be sneaking out after bedtime. Hmm.” She could not decide whether she liked the way his black eyes glittered as they swept over her. “What will he do if he catches you?”

“I am not a child, Lord Chesleigh.”

“In some ways, certainly not. But in others?” He punctuated the words with a Gallic shrug. “You are evidently child enough not to have considered the ramifications of the predicament in which you find yourself.”

“In which I—? But you—do you mean to suggest that people will think we—?” Her cheeks heated. Hadn’t she just been thinking along those same lines herself? “Well, then, why aren’t you working to get the door open?”

“Why aren’t you?” He steepled his fingers over his chest and leaned his head against the chair’s high back, as if preparing to take a nap. “Some of us haven’t a reputation left to guard.”

“How dare you—!” She jumped to her feet and hustled to the door, stooping to gather the pieces of the broken door latch and then kneeling as she tried to fit them back into their places. It was no use, of course, since her hands were trembling with fury and she had no idea what she was doing.

He left her to fuss over it for perhaps five minutes, though it felt an eternity, before striding once more across the room and thrusting out his hand. With a choked noise, she laid the assorted pieces of metal on his palm.

He tumbled them over with his thumb, then once more tossed them aside before holding out his hand to her again. It took her a long moment to realize that he meant to help her rise. As soon as she was on her feet, he ordered her to fetch a light and knelt stiffly in her place. When she returned with the candle, he was trailing a fingertip over a set of thin metal implements in a leather case, a notch of concentration in his brow. Once he’d made his choice of tools, he tucked the case into his breast pocket and set to his task.

She held up the candlestick with determinedly steady hands and watched him work out of the corner of her eye. Surely he could get them free before anyone discovered her foolish mistake?

…Surely a gentleman shouldn’t know how to pick a lock?

He muttered under his breath all the while; she didn’t try to sort out the words. After a few minutes, he paused to shrug out of his coat and tossed the garment aside to join the broken pieces of the lock. If there were rumors that his tailor padded his shoulders to make them appear broader, Caro now knew enough to deny them.

At long last, she heard a soft click, and he rocked back slightly as the door sprang inward an inch or two. The breath that shuddered from her lungs nearly extinguished the candle.

He hoisted himself to his feet. “You sound relieved. Has my company grown tiresome, ma’am?”

She avoided his sardonic gaze. “I’m quite sure, my lord, that you must be equally pleased to be at liberty. You did not come to the library tonight expecting to have to break out.”

She’d spoken lightly, thoughtlessly. But hard on the heels of her words came a more somber truth, one that would have been obvious sooner if she hadn’t been so distracted. He’d come after midnight to a room he believed to be locked…prepared to break in.

Why?

Swiftly looking up, she saw the reflection of her belated realization in his eyes, and for the first time, she felt a frisson of fear. The candlestick began to slip from her suddenly sweat-dampened hand. He curled his fingers around hers to keep it from tumbling from her grasp, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, she heard footsteps in the corridor.

Without thinking, she reached out with her free hand to shut the library door again. Lord Chesleigh caught her other wrist in an implacable grip. One dark eyebrow arched skyward. “Once is enough for me, ma’am.”

“There’s a light in the library.” Oh, God. Papa’s voice. No hope of escape now.

“Caro?” Her mother that time, sounding worried.

With surprising gentleness, Lord Chesleigh nudged her toward the door as he opened it wider, so that as she stepped into the corridor, he remained invisible to the arrivals.

Among the search party were Lord and Lady Earnshaw and Miss Shelley, with whom Caro had struck up a friendship over the past week. Mama and Papa must have knocked at her door first, in hopes of finding their daughter, and gone next to alert their hosts.

“What are you doing here?” Papa demanded, leaning toward her with such a ferocious gleam in his eye that she had no choice but to take half a step backward.

“I couldn’t sleep. I came to fetch something to read, but then the d-door—” A shiver passed through her.

“I thought you told Wilson to see to that broken latch,” said Lady Earnshaw to her husband. Mama tutted and reached out to draw the woolen shawl more tightly around Caro’s shoulders.

But Papa would hear nothing of the excuse. “And what if word of this little escapade gets about?” he hissed, looking her up and down, his disgust plainly written on his face. “What will become of you—your sister—all of us—if the gossips learn you were running about Earnshaw’s house after midnight, half-naked? People will say you were meeting a lover. And who will want to marry you then?”