He was the most unscrupulous Rogue in the Capital City.
She tormented him for months, toying with him the way a cat does a mouse.
Of course it was the only way the Thief of Hearts could seduce such a man. Ella Bandita flaunted her hypocrisy for the Rogue, throwing in his face the contempt she had for him.
The brutal manner in which she treated him was nothing more than the disdain he felt for his mistresses, the only difference between them being that her cruelty was more honest than his.
As a roué, he was gifted and liked to seduce in extremes.
Virgin daughters and treacherous wives were the ones he set his sights on.
All his mistresses were noble through birth or marriage, preferably both.
All of them were sought out in society, lovely to look at, charming to converse with.
The Rogue enjoyed the sensuous life and reveled in the softness of woman.
But it was knowing he had taken the honor of a highborn lady that gave him the most pleasure, for all his conquests were women who should have been beyond his reach.
He was of common birth, the son of a man who had no more schooling than any of us in this room.
But his father had made a fortune through a genius that can’t be taught and the sweat of his labor.
In his own way, the Rogue worked as hard as his father to cultivate the carefree elegance that gained him acceptance in society.
Like most men of his nature, he was more charming than handsome. His stature was average, his hair was thinning and his features were ordinary.
Yet his eyes twinkled like those of naughty children who got away with their mischief. He was impudent and bold, a favorite with the ladies.
As his reputation became notorious, he was eagerly received in the highest social circles.
The night he met Ella Bandita, the Rogue had just brought a seduction to a satisfying consummation.
She was the daughter of a Marquis who had made her debut at the start of the season. The courtship was long by his standards, for the girl fancied herself virtuous.
As fresh as she was in society, the Debutante had already heard of his notorious reputation and rebuffed him when he approached.
But the Rogue watched and waited.
The young lady hadn’t gone many paces when she turned back to see if he followed her with his eyes.
In that moment, the Rogue knew the Debutante had read romantic novels with far more attention than her holy books.
In her eyes, he saw she believed herself the heroine of her own grand love story; the lady with a pure heart who inspired the devil to repent his wicked ways and yearn for a life of goodness.
Her piety was vanity, a mask to cover up her longing for excitement.
The Rogue looked away abashed, his head fallen a touch lower. If he could have forced himself to flush, he would have.
It was all he could do to suppress his smile. This would be too easy, for she was a very silly girl.
She was also the daughter of a Marquis, and her father was known to be a fool. But he had extensive property and a seat in government, and that made the Debutante an immediate favorite.
The Rogue still had to court her for several weeks before she succumbed.
It was well past night and just before dawn when he left the Debutante’s rooms at her father’s country estate.
He’d enjoyed his night of love with her.
She surrendered easily to the ways of the flesh.
He whispered tender goodbyes on his way down the trellis to the ground while the Debutante leaned out the window, blowing kisses and bidding him adieu.
He finished dressing as he ran across the lawn to the woods where his horse was hidden.
His heart pounded when he sat on the ground to don his boots.
This was the part of seduction he cherished most, the sweet shiver before he truly made his escape. It always hinged on this final moment.
So long as he was never caught, his dishonor would be suspected but never proven and the delicate balance needed for him to seduce again would be preserved.
So the sound of galloping was alarming.
The Rogue jumped up and fled for his horse which took off at a run when he leaped on its back.
His stallion was fast and he was certain he would get away without being seen.
But the Rogue couldn’t believe he heard the gait of another horse behind him and pushed his mount hard.
He wasn’t used to running this fast and had difficulty staying balanced in the saddle, yet his pursuer kept up.
Fear made his heart pound in his chest.
He couldn’t understand how he’d been discovered.
The vague oblivion of the Marquis was legendary.
Then he realized if an outraged father were on his heels, he would hear some proof, irate shouting or shots fired at his back.
Whoever chased him couldn’t be the Marquis.
He heard her before he saw her.
Her chuckle was masculine in its lustiness, a laugh between brothers, but the tone was feminine.
Then he heard the click of a tongue, and his vision blurred when she passed. She stopped a few lengths ahead of him.
The Rogue reined in his horse, stunned when he saw his pursuer was not only a woman, but also a vagabond.
She wore patchwork breeches and an oversized peasant shirt, hair in tangled disarray.
She was young, riding in a saddle just like his on the most magnificent stallion he had ever seen. Her horse stood a several hands higher than his, and the girl looked down on the Rogue from her mount.
She smiled, her eyes glittering, and inspected him from head to foot.
His light brown hair, usually pulled taut to accentuate the contours of his round head, had fallen from the tie at the nape of his neck. His naked chest peeked from the shirt and his jacket was opened to his waist. His feet bruised and bloodied from running through the trees without his boots.
She brought her gaze back to meet his eyes and curled her lip in a sneer. Slowly the girl shook her head and kicked the flanks of her horse.
Then she was gone.
Instead of going down the road leading from the country to town, she disappeared back into the woods bordering the lands of the Marquis.
The Rogue stared at the empty space his pursuer left behind, feeling like she’d just made a fool of him.
It ruined the afterglow he usually savored on his ride home.
