The Rogue and the Rival by Maya Rodale Page A

before he had seen her. Three months passed before she agreed to take him as a lover.

    “I don’t care for bad lovemaking,” she announced to him after he had been shown into her bedroom. She was reclining on her large feather bed, dressed in some silky, lacy thing that seemed very easy to remove. Esme indicated that he should join her on the bed, and Phillip did not need much persuasion. She spoke with such a mixture of accents, it was impossible to discern her origins. Not that Phillip cared about her past at the moment. He was going to bed the best lover on the Continent.

    “Do you agree?” she asked.

    “Of course. Whatever you say,” he answered. Phillip knew that agreeing with whatever a woman said was the quickest way to get under the sheets with her.

    “Exactly,” she answered with a proud smile on her rouged lips. “Some men, they do not listen to what a woman says, and that is bad. Sometimes, she does not speak with words. But still, you must learn to listen, and to give her what she wants. And then, Phillip, she will give you want you want.”

    He didn’t understand, at first, how that made for a better romp in the sheets. But she was a legend, so he assumed that she knew what she was talking about. He wished they could stop talking, though.

    “What do you want?” he asked, forgetting to make his voice husky and seductive.

    “I want you to kiss me.”

    He did. It lasted a second before she stopped him. “ Non. A woman knows within seconds of seeing a man if she would take him to be her lover. A kiss, however, can change her mind. You, your kiss is too strong, too fast.”

    “It’s just a kiss.”

    “No, it is more. You kiss to dominate, to conquer, to obliterate an obstacle in your way. I am not a locked door you must break though; I am the key that will open that door. You must think of kissing as coaxing, convincing, seducing a woman to surrender. You must imagine, with every kiss, with every touch, that it is all you will ever have. Now kiss me again.”

    He did. Esme taught him how to kiss that night. Every night for a week, she taught him a great many things, too. She certainly delivered on her reputation as the best lover in all of Europe. All of Esme’s teachings had done nothing to prepare him for this. And even Esme could not compare to Angela’s kiss.

    And as he thought about it, comparing the kisses was like trying to compare the Sistine Chapel to a drawing done in the dirt with a stick.

    But Angela had cut the kiss short, Angela had stopped, and Angela had fled.

    Had he done something wrong? He hadn’t been able to think at all during that kiss, and maybe he forgot all the things he had learned from Esme. What if it had not been good for Angela? God knew that woman needed to be thoroughly and completely kissed. She needed to be reminded of what she was giving up with that vow of chastity.

     

    Though Angela sat in the first pew of the chapel, facing the statue of mother and child, she did not draw it tonight. Her sketchbook was open on her lap, and her pencil lay idle as she looked at the drawing she had started recently.

    It was just a rough sketch of bold lines and no shadows, depicting Phillip in the bath. She had outlined his broad shoulders and his back. She had drawn the line of his profile. (She was getting to know that broken nose of his quite well now.) His hair was slicked back. His mouth was held in the slightest smile. She had somehow managed to make him appear wicked and inviting all at once.

    Or perhaps she had just managed to draw him exactly as he was.

    “There you are,” a voice said, and Angela shut her book and turned to see Helena.

    “Right where I always am,” Angela said.

    Helena sat in the pew beside her.

    “Sometimes I wonder at how much time we spend in this chapel,” Angela said. “All the hours of one’s life in this one room, when there is a whole world just outside.”

    “And yet we don’t really tire of it,” Helena