A Rogue of One's Own (A League of Extraordinary Women, #2)

by Evie Dunmore

When he made to reply, she shook her head. Because above all, she was frightened—the racing heart, the shortness of breath, it was fear. It seemed logical and natural that when there was a tender past, and a magical now, there would be a future as well. And there could be no future.

“I knew my father was a dastardly husband.” His gaze fell heavily upon the five boxes, now filled to the brim. “I had not realized all of them were.” “Not all of them,” she said. “It is a rather filtered selection. Contented wives do not write to us. Though, of course, they would be no less trapped if their good fortune changed.” He gave her a hard look. “It is abominable. All of this.”

What puzzled her most was that nothing had been missing from her life before him—how could he feel essential now?

“Funny, is it not,” she said. “You told me not to trust you, but I did. I told you to be honest, and you were not. We have both broken the rules.”

She was an inch from becoming his creature. So close to becoming someone who’d plead with their husband when he did not come home at night, who made excuses when they lied, who lied to themselves only so they could carry on orbiting around the fickle creature that was man. She was so close, when Tristan was neither the source of the food she ate, nor the roof that sheltered her, nor the name protecting her. She had a choice. And here she was, on the floor.

She had been so confident in her decision to never share her life with a man. So safe in her conviction that tender feelings and domesticity were for other people. The certainty had made it simple, had taken the sacrifice out of her work, which demanded that she remain alone, alone. Her sobs came uncontrollably like hiccups, sounding silly in the silence, but she could not stop them. She had been deluding herself. There had simply never been someone to tempt her enough. Until now.

And right away, she must have given whole chunks of her heart into Tristan’s careless hands, because now the inside of her chest ached, felt torn up and bloody. She must have held a hope deep down that despite what the world told her every day, she was just as deserving to be handled with care as the next woman.

“I understand society may secretly adore a rogue,” Avi said. “But they will cut one who turns against one of their innocents.” She gave a hollow laugh. “They will.”

The curious thing about causes is that they usually continue well without you. The question is whether you can continue well without them.

She had known she could resist a handsome, wicked, clever, unexpectedly tender rogue. She had known she could not resist a handsome, wicked, clever, unexpectedly tender rogue who had quietly held her in his affections half his life.

her like this the first time he had kissed her. She understood now that the first time his lips had touched hers had marked the beginning of the end of her old world. And she would never be able to go back to it.

Love, she was learning, was needing someone even when he offered nothing but himself.

“I must say,” she said after a breathless pause, “you are a terrible rake—a pretend rake. Next, you tell me you have been saving yourself for me all along.”

Because when a woman happened to acquire a rogue of her own, she might as well make good use of him.