Free Romancing the Rogue by Kim Bowman

Devon’s marked silence as Philip told of his adventures at sea and a glorious victory over a band of pirates they’d encountered off the coast of India.
    The mention of her name made her cognizant of not paying attention. Philip looked earnestly at her and prompted, “Wouldn’t you say so, Miss Rosalie?”
    She couldn’t manage better than a weak smile. “I confess you’ve caught me daydreaming. What was that?”
    “I was just saying that my sisters are quite grown, especially Madeline. You have done a marvelous job teaching her, Miss Rosalie.” He smiled and leaned in for a wink. Ten years ago she would’ve been stricken with his dapper charm.
    Wilhelm caught her eye, and they exchanged smirks. Marvelous and teaching did not belong in the same sentence with those girls. “Your sisters are the loveliest in all of England, Lieutenant Cavendish.” The distinction seemed lost on him.
    He shot her his dazzling heirloom smile again, and Sophia became certain he was flirting. Why? Beyond all else, for all he knew she was a lowly governess. She couldn’t make sense of it. Perhaps he was merely vain and sociable, or perhaps he wanted to add her to his catalog of conquests. A man of varied tastes?
    The next-to-last thing she needed was an adventure. The last thing was a man.
    ~~~~
    “Because they adore you ,” Rosalie had told Wilhelm when he asked how she did it. “ They crave your approval. ”
    Like magic, his nieces had evolved into creatures he could take to a country reaping without embarrassment. The village tavern today, Almack’s tomorrow, at the rate they progressed.
    He turned over for the fifth time in as many minutes, too restless to sleep. Wilhelm tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the shadows on the canopy of his bed. He heard a rustle and a creak coming from the other room and wondered if she lay awake, too. A few nights ago he’d unlocked their adjoining door. He simply liked the possibility…
    At dinner, she must have felt his gaze studying the curve of her neck, following the sensuous lines of her bare shoulders exposed above her evening gown; she’d turned her chin and arched a brow at him. The dim light reflecting off the chandelier had caught the facets of her autumn-hazel eyes and made her playful smile appear a seductive invitation in the shadows. He’d wanted her then, besieged by a pang of desire he was ill-equipped to battle.
    A month — thirty-six days, 871 hours, 3.1356 million seconds since their truce, since she’d become the resident of the Scarlet Suite, sleeping only steps away from his own bed. She’d been his companion for most of each day and possessed his thoughts when she wasn’t at his side.
    He planned quips and anecdotes to tell her on the hope she would laugh. He plotted ways to coax her into accepting his touch, subtly working her as he did the Thoroughbreds he rescued from abusive jockeys: gently, patiently, building trust. Hopefully she didn’t notice how often he watched her; he knew every line and curve of her face, understood every nuance in her arsenal of expressions.
    He was a sodding fool. Pathetic.
    Hope and patience he had in spades, but at the rate he made progress with her? He didn’t have years and decades to win her over. And how could he protect her if she wouldn’t trust him? Just yesterday he’d seen her clutching her sides again, wincing and holding her breath. She was ill, she needed help, but until she trusted him, he could do nothing.
    The poets had never warned him about the practical frustration of caring for a woman.
    Wilhelm broke out in a cold sweat. Even the disconcerting telegram O’Grady had wired from London hadn’t unnerved him as much as Rosalie had that evening.
    Hours ago — the shame still burned him like it was only minutes — he’d lingered with her in the doorway of the Scarlet Suite. He’d been unconscious of his index finger tracing an L-shape down her throat and across her collarbone until she blinked and