The Right Kind of Rogue Page 2

  “Oh, that’s not much of a list,” Berkeley said with a snort.

  “I don’t expect the search to be a simple one, or a quick one.” The truth was Hart had no earthly idea who he was looking for. He only knew who he wasn’t looking for … someone like his mother. Or the treacherous Annabelle Cardiff. He wanted the exact opposite.

  Berkeley tossed the paper back onto the tabletop. “Knowing your father’s decided opinions on such matters, I’m surprised he hasn’t provided you with a list of eligible females from which you may choose.”

  Hart rolled his eyes. “He has. He’s named half a dozen ladies he would gladly accept.”

  Berkeley inclined his head to the side. “Why don’t you choose one of them then?”

  Hart gave his brother-in-law an are-you-quite-serious look, chin tucked down, head tilted to the side. “I’m bloody well not about to allow my father to choose a bride for me. Besides, after seeing you and Sarah, I hold out some hope of finding a lady with whom I’m actually compatible.”

  “Why, Highgate, do you mean … love?” Berkeley grinned and leaned forward in mock astonishment.

  “Let’s not go that far.” Hart took another sip of his quickly dwindling brandy. That’s precisely what confused him so much. He knew love matches existed. He’d witnessed one in his sister’s marriage. On the other hand, her choice had so enraged his parents, they still hadn’t forgiven her. Hart didn’t intend to go about the business of finding a wife in quite so dramatic a fashion. Love matches attracted drama. However, his parents’ unhappy union was nothing to aspire to, and he’d nearly made the mistake of marrying a woman who wanted nothing more than title and fortune before. It was a tricky business, the marriage mart, but he’d rather take advice from Sarah and Berkeley than his father. The proof of the pudding was in the eating, after all.

  Berkeley laughed. “What if you fall madly in love and become a devoted husband? Jealous even. Now, that would be a sight.”

  “Jealous? That’s not possible.” Hart grinned back at Berkeley. “I’ve never been jealous. Don’t have it in me. My friends at university used to tease me about it. No ties to any particular lady. No regrets.” He settled back in his chair and straightened his cravat, which was tighter than ever.

  “We’ll see.” Berkeley took another sip of tea. His eyes danced with amusement.

  “I was hoping you and Sarah might help me this Season. Sarah knows most of the young ladies. She also knows me as well as anyone does. Not to mention, the two of you seem to have got the thing right.”

  Berkeley glanced up. “Why, Highgate, is that a compliment on our marriage?”

  “Take it as you will.” Hart waved a noncommittal hand in the air. He avoided meeting Berkeley’s eyes.

  Berkeley settled further into his chair. “I shall take it as a compliment, then. I have a feeling Sarah would like nothing more than to help you with such an endeavor. She fancies herself a matchmaker these days.”

  “Will you two be staying in London for the Season?”

  “Yes. Sarah wants to stay and I, of course, will support her, at least as long as I can remain in the same town as your father without him calling me out.” A smirk settled on Berkeley’s face.

  Hart eyed the remaining liquid in his glass. “I’ll be happy to play the role of peacemaker to the best of my ability.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Berkeley inclined his head toward his brother-in-law.

  “Who else is Sarah matchmaking for?” Hart sloshed the brandy in the bottom of the glass.

  “She’s not merely matchmaking. No. To hear her tell it, she has an important mission this Season.”

  Hart set down the glass and pulled another section of the Times off the table and began scanning it. He’d talked enough about marriage for one day. Odious topic. “A mission? What mission?” he asked, merely to be polite.

  “To find Meg Timmons a husband.”

  Hart startled in surprise, grasping the paper so tightly it tore in the middle. Tossing it aside, he reached for his glass and gulped the last of his brandy.

  Meg Timmons. He knew Meg Timmons. She was Sarah’s closest friend, the daughter of his father’s mortal enemy, and a woman with whom Hart had experienced an incident last summer that he’d been seriously trying to forget.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Meg knew precisely whom she needed to enlist in support of her mission. The perfect person. The ultimate strategist. One Lucy Hunt. The young, dashing Duchess of Claringdon was a favorite of the ton. She was rich. She was beautiful. She was outspoken. And she was master of planning plots, the sort of plots that ended up matching couples together and ensuring weddings took place. The exact sort of plot that was in order if Meg was to have any chance at Hart. Meg had met Lucy through Viscount Berkeley, who was thick as thieves with the duchess and her set.

  Yes. A visit to the duchess was necessary. Immediately. The Season was about to begin, and Hart might well find his bride at the first ball of the Season.

  Meg dressed in her best day gown, did what she could to clean her old kid gloves for the hundredth time, and put on her paste jewelry. She called for the well-traveled family coach and took her severely underpaid maid—one of the few servants her parents kept employed—with her to the duchess’s town house during calling hours the next day.

  The duchess greeted her warmly and welcomed her into the stunning mansion. Lucy was dressed in a gorgeous emerald gown, her curly black hair piled high atop her head, her unusually colored eyes—one was blue, the other green—sparkling. They settled in one of the glorious drawing rooms, where Meg and Lucy consumed tea and cakes and shared idle gossip.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” Lucy said. “One of the housemaids was missing for the better part of two hours last week before we got the notion to check the silver closet. Turns out she’d been accidentally locked inside.” Lucy clucked her tongue. “The door has a most unfortunate tendency to stick.”

  “That’s positively outrageous,” Meg replied with a laugh, trying to ignore the nerves bubbling in her stomach as if she’d drunk too much champagne.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Lucy took a sip of her heavily sugared tea. “I’ve asked one of the footmen to repair it, but he’s had little luck. We’re afraid we’ll have to replace the entire contraption. None of the housemaids will go near the thing. I cannot blame them.”

  Meg took a deep breath. She pressed her shaking knees together.

  One. Two. Three. “Your Grace,” she began.

  “No, no. We’ll have none of that, Meg.” Lucy gave Meg a sharp glance. The two had long ago established the informality with which they addressed each other. Meg had forgotten due to nerves. She nodded and gave Lucy a tentative smile while bringing her shaking teacup to her lips. “Yes, of course, Lucy. There’s something I need to ask you.”

  A catlike grin popped to the duchess’s lips. She moved closer to the edge of her seat and leaned slightly toward Meg. “Ooh, what is it? You know I adore it whenever anyone asks for my assistance.”

  Meg closed her eyes briefly and took another fortifying deep breath before she launched into her tale.

  “And so you see,” Meg finished after relating her entire story—minus the part about what had happened between her and Hart the night before Sarah’s wedding. “I am greatly in need of your help, and time is of the essence.”

  The duchess stood and paced. Meg anxiously watched her from the settee. Lucy took another turn about the room and tapped her cheek.

  “To begin with.” Lucy came to a stop in front of Meg, “I applaud you for coming to me first. As you may know, I’ve helped many people, but so few of them have asked to be helped. Such a pity. It’s a credit to you that you’re wise enough to know when you’re up against seemingly insurmountable odds and require skilled assistance.” Lucy grinned at her.

  “Do you truly think you can help me, Lucy?” Meg asked breathlessly. She had leaned forward so far she’d nearly toppled off the settee. Her knee was bouncing, her teacup
was jittering on its saucer in her hand, and she felt as if she might cast up her accounts at any moment.

  Lucy resumed both her pacing and her cheek tapping. “It won’t be easy. You’re dealing with a serious imbalance in station, a long-standing family feud, and a highly unfortunate lack of dowry.”

  Meg worried her bottom lip. She set the teacup on the table beside her so the telltale jittering would stop. “Yes. I know. I am prepared to—”

  “However,” Lucy interrupted, still tapping her cheek, “you are adorable. You are clever, and you are determined. Not to mention.” Lucy paused, and the catlike smile resumed its spot on her lips. “You have me helping you. There are two questions I must ask you. Two exceedingly important questions.”

  Meg held her breath. If Lucy would only agree to help her, she’d do anything, try anything, say anything. “What are they?” Meg asked, her stays biting into her too-full lungs.

  “First.” Lucy turned to face her and folded her arms over her chest. “I must know why you love him. Or at least why you think you do.”

  Meg blinked rapidly. She had not been expecting such a question. Why did she love Hart? She just did. It was a fact, like how the sun rose every morning and set every evening. No one had ever asked why before. Sarah was the only other person who knew Meg’s feelings and Sarah had certainly never questioned them. Sarah loved him, too. She understood.

  Meg cleared her throat. “Well, let’s see. He’s handsome, he’s charming, he’s witty, he’s friendly, he’s good at absolutely everything he does.”

  “Yes, those are all true, dear, but there must be something deeper.”

  Deeper? Deeper? “He’s impossibly good to his sister, he treats his servants like treasured friends, and I’ve never known him to pass by a beggar without tossing along whatever coins are in his pocket.” She sighed. Who wouldn’t love Hart Highgate?

  “All outstanding qualities,” Lucy agreed. “But there must be some reason why you fell in love with him. Out of all the men you’ve ever met. Why him precisely?”

  Meg bit her lip. “I’ve loved him since I was sixteen,” she offered lamely.

  The duchess crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, you said as much, dear, but I still need to know why.”

  “Does it truly make a difference?” Meg searched Lucy’s face. She’d heard Lucy could be difficult to work with in such circumstances, but she certainly hadn’t been expecting to be quizzed so thoroughly.

  Lucy shook her head back and forth slowly. “Oh my dear. It makes all the difference in the world. We love others for many reasons, but if you love Hart merely because he is handsome, rich, and dashing—and believe me, he is all three of those things, I agree—you will not have the type of solid foundation that true love is based upon. I am a romantic at heart but I only wish to help people who are in love for the right reasons. You must understand.”

  Meg took yet another deep breath. She searched her memory, all the way back to when she was sixteen. She bit her lip and met Lucy’s piecing gaze. “Very well. I actually do know why I love him. I’ve always known. But if I tell you, you must promise not to tell anyone.” The idea of sharing this story with Lucy felt awkward … uncomfortable even.

  The duchess shook her head emphatically, and one of her black curls popped loose from her chignon and bounced along her forehead. “I would never laugh at love.” She said the words so solemnly, Meg believed her.

  “Very well.” Meg folded her hands in her lap and gazed at the coffered ceiling, contemplating where to begin. “When I was sixteen, Hart accompanied Sarah on a visit to my father’s house one day. They were on their way elsewhere and I’m certain Hart must have been bored senseless by being forced to stop and pay a call on his sister’s little friend. But he sat in the drawing room and acted polite while I did my best to impress him with my tea-serving skills and my vocabulary.”

  Lucy smothered a grin. “You continue to be adorable. What happened?”

  “I was the veriest silly thing,” Meg admitted, her face heating at the memory. “Red spots on my face, blushing too much, giggling far too often, that sort of thing.”

  “And Hart was kind to you?” Lucy prompted, sympathy clearly written across her fine features.

  Meg swallowed hard. It was not a memory she liked to dwell on. She’d long ago stuffed it inside her journal and otherwise attempted to forget it. “My mother discovered that Sarah and Hart were in the drawing room with me. Father was supposed to be there with us, but he was still in bed after a night of gambling.”

  “Egad.” Lucy knew all about Father’s gambling. Everyone did, but they never admitted it in polite company.

  “That’s not unusual for Father,” Meg replied, shame making her voice thin.

  “Go on, dear,” Lucy said kindly, reaching down and patting her hand.

  “Mother stormed into the drawing room and ordered Sarah and Hart to leave. I was so embarrassed I wanted to expire. It was soon after our parents’ falling-out, you see, but until that day I hadn’t realized they were that angry with one another.”

  “The rumor is that your father owes Sarah’s father a gambling debt,” Lucy said quietly. “Is that true?”

  Meg swallowed and nodded. “I’ve heard the same thing but only through gossip. My parents never told me the details. I only knew I wanted to die from shame that day. Mother said she wouldn’t have the Earl of Highfield’s rich, entitled little brats in her home.”

  “No!” Lucy gasped.

  “I’m afraid it’s true.” Even after all these years, the memory brought an avalanche of shame. She busied herself with another sip of tea, hoping the cup might hide her cheeks, which were doubtlessly red. “I have every reason to suspect that Mother had been drinking as well that particular afternoon.”

  “What happened next?” Lucy asked, searching Meg’s face.

  “Hart and Sarah stood to leave, of course. It was clear they both felt awfully sorry for me.”

  “And Hart did something?” Lucy asked, taking a seat next to Meg and patting her hand again.

  “It wasn’t until they were nearly out the drawing room door that Mother turned to me and said, ‘Don’t think they actually enjoy your company, Margaret. They’re only here to lord over you and show you how much finer their clothing is. How much more costly their fancy carriage is. You are not good enough for the likes of them and you never will be.’”

  “No!” Lucy’s face was red with anger now. Her nostrils flared and her pupils dilated.

  “Yes,” Meg breathed. As long as she lived she’d never forget what happened next. “Hart turned back, and, completely ignoring my mother, he looked me in the eye and said, ‘Don’t listen to her, Meg. She’s an unhappy person. You’ll always be good enough for us.’ Mother scoffed at that and Hart turned to her and said, ‘Madame, say what you will about my sister and me, we can take it from your venomous lips, but if I ever again hear you say anything as awful to your daughter as I have just witnessed, I will make you wish you hadn’t.’”

  “He didn’t,” Lucy breathed, pressing a hand to her chest.

  “Yes, he did.” Meg had loved him for it ever since. He’d never paid much attention to her before or since, but in that moment he’d been her hero. The only person in the world who had ever stood up for her. Her mother constantly berated her, blamed her for not finding a husband, not being pretty enough or smart enough.

  But something had changed in Meg in that moment that Hart had stood up for her. She’d actually believed it. Believed that she was good enough and that she was worth something. When Hart stood up for her, she’d realized. She was good enough. She was worth something. Sarah, of course, had apologized and squeezed Meg’s hand and left quickly with tears in her eyes, but Hart’s words rang in her memory forever.

  “Very well,” Lucy said, dabbing at her suspiciously wet eyes with a handkerchief she’d produced from her pocket. “I can see you’ve got reason to love him. I love him a little, too, for doing that.”

  Meg sw
allowed again and shook her head to clear the unshed tears from her eyes. “What is the second question?” she asked, ready to change the subject.

  “Second question?” Lucy echoed, her eyes clouded with confusion.

  “You said you had two questions to ask me about Hart.”

  “Oh yes, thank you for reminding me, dear. The second question is simply, what does Hart think of you? Have you any reason to suspect he might return your admiration?”

  Meg’s shoulders slumped. She set down her teacup once more and furrowed her brow. What did Hart think of her? “I’ve no idea. You would have to ask him.” More blinking. She squared her shoulders, determined to keep her emotions under control.

  “You have no clue? No inkling?”

  Meg splayed her hands wide, her worn reticule bobbing around her wrist. “I assume he thinks I’m Sarah’s friend. These days he rarely seems to notice me at all … except…” Oh no. She hadn’t meant to say that last word aloud.

  Lucy, of course, pounced. The woman resembled a cat in more ways than one. “Except…?” She eyed Meg down the length of her patrician nose.

  Meg worried her bottom lip again. There was no help for it. She was going to have to tell the duchess. She wanted to sink through the settee and pull the fine Persian carpet over her head. “Except for the one time that…”

  Lucy slowly raised her brows and tilted her head to the side, staring at Meg. “Except for the one time that…?”

  Meg scrunched up her nose. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered them with her gloved fingers. “Except for the time that he kissed me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Pardon!” Lucy nearly shouted, her voice reaching an octave Meg hadn’t heard before.

  “Shhh!” Meg pulled her hands away from her face and gave Lucy an imploring, be-quiet glare.

  Lucy plunked her hands on her hips but thankfully lowered her voice. She dropped to the floor next to the settee and knelt in front of Meg. “Except for the time that he kissed you?”

  Meg nodded so vigorously that two of her blond ringlets bounced free from their pins. She hastily tucked them behind her ear. “Yes, yes. But it wasn’t at all how you think. He didn’t know it was me.”