The Right Kind of Rogue Read online

  “I know.” He let go of her hands and snapped his fingers. “I’ll come to the next three balls and dance with you.”

  “Pardon?” Her gold-flecked green eyes widened, and her plump bottom lip fell open.

  “Sarah told me you’re on the hunt for a husband.”

  The pink in Meg’s cheeks deepened. He wanted to reach out and stroke his thumb across her soft skin, to brush that spot just beneath her eye. He wanted to take her bottom lip between his teeth and—“I’ll help you. I’ll dance with you and get my friends to do so as well.” His friends were rogues, too, but they were well-connected rogues.

  “Oh, that is not necessary—” She shook her head rapidly and backed away from him, her slippers making scratching noises in the gravel.

  He frowned. “Unless you think it won’t help you.”

  She froze. Her eyes were wide as the wheels on his new phaeton. “Are you jesting? I’ve been the queen of the wallflowers for years. Any attention from you and your friends would be more than helpful.”

  “It’s settled then.” He grinned at her. “Now you must get back. You go around to the doors on the right. I’ll wait a few minutes and come back through the doors on the left.”

  Meg stopped and stared into his eyes for a moment before turning to leave. Reluctant to see her go, he couldn’t resist calling after her softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night at the Kinleys’ ball.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “My dear Miss Timmons,” Lucy Hunt said the next afternoon from her place on the settee in Meg’s father’s embarrassingly worn drawing room. The wallpaper was patched, the carpet threadbare, a brown water stain glared hideously from the ceiling, and most of the accoutrements that had once graced the room had been sold to pay Father’s debts, leaving the space sparse and tattered.

  “Yes?” Meg did her best to keep her hands steady as she poured tea for a duchess with twice-used leaves out of a chipped china pot. Lucy had arrived the minute calling hours had begun, surprising Meg and sending the entire household, which was unaccustomed to such esteemed guests, into a frenzy. A maid was sent scurrying to purchase sugar lumps, which they normally never indulged in.

  “Do you intend to tell me where you and Hart got off to last night for the better part of ten minutes?” Lucy lifted her chin and stared at Meg.

  Meg gulped and opened her mouth to reply, but Lucy continued, “Because while I was busily telling everyone you were in the ladies’ retiring room, lying through my teeth like a good chaperone should, I happen to know you were outside in the gardens somewhere, alone with him.”

  Meg sighed. Honesty was the best policy. She spent a moment fumbling with the teapot’s lid before admitting, “Hart took me out there to cure my hiccups.”

  “And?” Lucy drew out the word dramatically, her eyebrows conspicuously raised.

  “And it worked.” Meg pushed the silver bowl containing the precious sugar lumps closer to Lucy.

  Lucy ignored the offering and arched a dark brow. “What, may I ask, was the cure?”

  Oh dear. Honesty. Honesty. Honesty. Meg finished pouring the tea, set the pot on the tarnished silver salver, and took a seat across from the duchess. She left her teacup sitting on the salver. “He kissed me.”

  To Lucy’s credit, she didn’t even blink. In fact, her face remained completely blank. “Are you telling me that the dance I orchestrated last night turned into a full-blown kiss in the span of a few moments?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t exactly like that.” Meg splayed her hands wide as if to explain.

  Lucy cocked her head to the side. “I’m sorry. Didn’t you say he kissed you?”

  “Yes,” Meg admitted, lacing her fingers together and setting her hands in her lap. She was tempted to indulge by taking a lump of the forbidden sugar, but her mother would scold her unmercifully, if she dared.

  “Then it was exactly like that,” Lucy declared, taking a sip of curiously sugarless tea.

  “By the by, I didn’t particularly like that you forced Sarah into convincing Hart to dance with me. I don’t want to be pitied, Lucy.”

  Lucy nudged at a dark curl with her free hand. “The man kissed you. It doesn’t sound as if he pities you one bit. Besides, regardless of my methods, which are admittedly often messy and unconventional, you got what you wanted, didn’t you? A dance with Hart.”

  Meg leaned forward. “Yes, but—”

  “Look, dear, it’s a fact. Sometimes you need to make a thing happen before it is wanted.”

  Meg furrowed her brow. “Pardon?”

  Lucy shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes a thing becomes wanted due to its having happened.”

  Meg leaned forward and picked up her teacup. “With all due respect, Your Grace, that sounds insane.”

  “Does it, dear? For example, when I first met my husband, Derek, I wanted him to go away immediately, but he wouldn’t go. He was convinced he needed to marry Cass out of some misguided sense of honor to Julian, whom we all thought was dead at the time, but that is not the point. The point is, Derek wouldn’t leave, and the more time I spent in his company, the more I realized I wanted him for myself. Which made everything horribly complicated but that, also, is not the point at the moment.”

  Meg pressed a fingertip to her temple, determined not to lose track of her point. “I don’t want Hart forced into anything.”

  “A dance hardly hurt him, dear. Not to mention, he obviously enjoyed it if he kissed you afterward.” Lucy winked at her, her eyes twinkling.

  Meg set her cup back on the salver and lifted the sugar bowl in her hands. She offered it to Lucy. “He was only trying to cure me of hiccups.”

  “Ridiculous. I’ve never heard of that particular remedy. I certainly wouldn’t kiss, say, Lord Cranberry if he began to hiccup. I must commend Hart on his ingenuity, however. It was quite a good ruse to steal a kiss.” Lucy hesitated for just a moment before waving away the sugar.

  Perhaps Lucy was right. Would Hart have kissed anyone else who had hiccups? “I want to be clear,” Meg said. “I’ve asked for your help, but I want Hart to fall in love with me and ask me to marry him willingly.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Dear, what do you expect me to do? Truss him up like a hare and deliver him to you upon an altar? Even I don’t have that sort of power or influence.” Lucy narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Although I admit I had not considered such a scheme, and it does have a certain efficiency about it, doesn’t it?”

  The look on the duchess’s face was positively frightening, as if she were truly considering it. “Lucy, you wouldn’t—”

  Lucy waved a hand in the air, dismissing the thought. “Let’s concentrate on the details. After he kissed you, did he say or do anything else promising?”

  Meg blushed. “In apology, he did offer to dance with me at the next three balls. To help me find a husband.”

  Lucy grinned from ear to ear. “Excellent. Why didn’t you tell me that earlier, dear? It’s precisely what we need of him.”

  Meg pressed the balls of her hands to her eyes. “What do you mean? I don’t want Hart to help me find a husband. I want him to be my husband.”

  Lucy took another sip of sugarless tea and winced. Meg eyed the sugar bowl. If the duchess didn’t use the stuff, perhaps they could return it and get their money back.

  Lucy cleared her throat. “I mean him showing an interest in you has already helped, has it not? After your dance with him last night, did you or didn’t you receive two other offers to dance from other gentlemen?”

  “It’s true, but—”

  “But what, dear? This is what you’ve been waiting for after all these years. Didn’t I tell you your circumstances would change if you did things differently? You’re finally getting the attention you deserve.” Lucy set down her teacup and rubbed her hands together with obvious glee. “At some point, I must get permission from your parents to act as your chaperone, but for now it sounds as if we need to get you another gown … or three.”

  CHAPTER
TEN

  By God, Hart actually found himself looking forward to the next ball, a turn of events he never would have guessed a short twenty-four hours ago. After the Hodges’ ball last night, he’d gone home, dismissed his valet who could barely stand, climbed into bed, and tossed and turned. He couldn’t sleep, thinking about Meg Timmons of all people. He’d even had an entirely indecent dream about her, her petal-pink lips, her gorgeous thick blond hair, and her sparkling bright-green eyes. In the span of one day, she’d gone from his sister’s friend to a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. How the devil had that happened?

  She was funny and unexpected. The first time he’d kissed her he’d half expected her to demand marriage. The second time he’d seen her struggle with her confusion and do her best to shrug it off. She wasn’t one for histrionics or drama. He’d learned that about her that night in the park. Unlike his mother, Meg hadn’t shrieked or carried on. She hadn’t called for smelling salts or raised her voice in an attempt to convince him she was right.

  Meg was intelligent and perceptive, quietly explaining why she thought Sarah should not marry the marquess. Even when Hart had disagreed with her on how to oppose the match, she’d evenly accepted his position. He liked a woman who was calm and reasonable. He was surprised by a woman who was calm and reasonable.

  For a moment last night after their kiss, he’d seen her cool reserve slip. She had been not just surprised, but affected, and that’s when he’d realized he’d been a cad. Hence his offer to help her tonight, and perhaps the reason why he was looking forward to attending a ton ball. Not only that, but he’d gone to his favorite gaming hell last night to rouse his most respectable friends. First he beat them all soundly at faro, then demanded they help him as payment. Besides, they all owed him a favor or three and he bloody well would call in the favors for Meg’s sake.

  It was only because ton events were so exceedingly dull. Since he had to be there in his own quest for a wife, concentrating on helping Meg was something to pass the time. That was all it was.

  Truly.

  And so it was that the popular and charming Duke of Harlborough, Earl of Norcross, and Viscount Wenterley all danced with Meg Timmons at the second ball of the Season. She was already a smashing success before Hart even had a chance to ask her to dance, himself.

  “Is your dance card too full for an old friend, then?” he asked, coming to stand next to her near the back of the room. Her cheeks were pink and she was breathless from the reel she’d just finished with Wenterley. She wore a bright-turquoise gown with matching pearls at her neck and ears. Her hair was straightened once more and she looked like a goddess again. She still smelled like strawberries. He’d always liked strawberries.

  She turned to him, a smile on her face. It was nice to see her smile. Where was she getting these gowns? Her father was penniless, everyone knew that. He suspected the Duchess of Claringdon and his sister had a hand in it. Apparently, they were doing their best to help Miss Timmons find a husband. Why did that thought make him uncomfortable?

  “Never too full for you, my lord,” Meg answered brightly, her small white teeth flashing.

  Hart straightened his cravat. “I take it you approve of the chaps I sent your way, then.”

  She folded her gloved hands together in front of her. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I—”

  “No.” He put up a hand. “No thanks are necessary. I owe you a favor.”

  Her gaze shifted to the floor. “One you’ve repaid with interest. I’ll be indebted to you forever.”

  She lifted her head and their gazes met. Hart didn’t want to look away. The kiss they’d shared burned in his memory. Both kisses, actually. His confounded body hardened in response.

  Their gazes swung away from each other when Lucy Hunt marched up with a man hovering at her side. “Meg, dear, allow me to introduce you to Sir Michael Winford.”

  Ah, his suspicion about the duchess helping Meg had been correct. Hart narrowed his eyes on the man. Tall but still nearly two inches shorter than Hart, Sir Winford was a decent-looking chap, he supposed, if one preferred thin, pale, blond sorts.

  Meg curtsied to Sir Winford. “A pleasure.”

  “No, Miss Timmons, the pleasure is all mine,” the knight replied with an overly familiar smile that made Hart narrow his eyes further.

  Lucy glanced at Hart as if she’d only just noticed him standing there. “Oh, Lord Highgate, do you know Sir Winford?”

  “No,” Hart replied tightly. “We’ve not met.”

  The two men exchanged pleasantries before Lucy interjected, “I believe Sir Winford was about to ask Miss Timmons to dance.”

  “I was about to ask Miss Timmons to dance,” Hart replied, his jaw clenched.

  Lucy’s smile was full of teeth and obviously fake. “Will you excuse us for one moment, Sir Winford?”

  “By all means, Your Grace.” Winford bowed to the duchess.

  “Lord Highgate, might I have a word?” Still smiling like a loon, Lucy pulled Hart aside. They made their way to the nearest wall, several paces from where Meg and Sir Winford remained. Lucy’s smile faded as soon as she turned to Hart. “Surely you see the logic in allowing Meg to dance with a man who might actually offer for her, my lord.”

  Hart clenched his jaw more tightly. Damn. He couldn’t argue with her. “I do, indeed, Your Grace.”

  “Good then, it’s settled.” She turned and nodded in Lord Winford’s direction, another ridiculous smile plastered to her face.

  Hart watched over Lucy’s shoulder as Sir Winford offered his arm to Meg and escorted her to the floor. A footman walked by carrying a tray full of brandy glasses. Hart grabbed one, his eyes still trained on the couple heading off to dance. Meg glanced back. Was that a reluctant look she gave him? Was she wishing she’d been able to accept his offer instead? Or was Hart a fool to think it?

  He remained standing next to the duchess, clutching his brandy glass tightly as he watched Meg and Winford twirl around the floor. Why in the devil’s name did it bother him so much that she wasn’t dancing with him instead? He’d only come here tonight to dance with her, and roust his friends to do the same, in an effort to assist her in finding an eligible match. Sir Winford was obviously such a match.

  Hart had done his duty. He should get back to his affairs, namely finding his own blasted wife. He was about to excuse himself when Lucy Hunt sighed and said, “They look good together, don’t they?”

  “Who?” Hart tossed back the rest of his brandy.

  “Miss Timmons and Sir Winford, of course.”

  Hart glared at the dancing couple. “I suppose.”

  “She’s had a hard time of it, you know,” Lucy continued, her arms crossed as she stared at the couples on the dance floor.

  “I do know. I’ve met her mother.” Why did Hart want to crush his brandy glass in his fist? What was happening? He was normally lighthearted and jesting. Looking for fun and finding it. Anger was a foreign emotion to him.

  “She’s a gem. It’s such a pity we live in a Society that so highly values things like dowries over people’s dispositions.”

  “It’s the world we live in,” Hart ground out. Why was the Duchess of Claringdon lecturing him on how wrong Society was?

  “Still … it’s a pity.” Another sigh from Lucy. “It seems Sir Winford, however, may be willing to overlook such a thing. Wise of him. I do so admire wisdom in a man.”

  “Sir Winford was recently made a knight over some business dealings he procured for the Crown. He’s hardly good ton.” Hart clenched his teeth. “Marrying into the Timmons family would be a step up for him. Even with their scandal.”

  “It would be indeed,” Lucy agreed, her nose lifting ever so slightly as if she smelled something that didn’t agree with her.

  Was it Hart’s imagination or was Lucy Hunt side-eyeing him?

  “He’s quite wealthy in his own right, however, and hardly needs a paltry dowry when choosing a bride.” Lucy sneered the word dowry as if it we
re something awful.

  Hart returned her side-eyed glare. “As you well know, Your Grace, there are many dowries that are far from paltry.”

  “Yes, but when one is already vastly wealthy, what does a dowry matter, really?”

  Hart snorted. “Try telling that to my father.” Had he suffered a head injury? Was he truly speaking to a duchess about whether dowries mattered? They both knew they mattered a great deal to people in their world. What the devil was Lucy Hunt getting at?

  “Or my father, for that matter,” Lucy agreed with yet another sigh. “I’m merely making the point that those of us with brains in our heads should know better than to choose the person we intend to spend the rest of our days with based upon something as inconsequential as a dowry.”

  “Seems to me your husband was quite wealthy and in possession of the title of duke when you married him,” Hart countered, giving her a tight smile.

  That didn’t even give the duchess pause. “A mere coincidence, I assure you. I seem to recall Sarah telling me after she ran out of the church and you followed her to the coach, she said your mother and father would never forgive her for slighting a marquess for a viscount and you said, ‘Who cares if they forgive you?’”

  Hart narrowed his eyes on the duchess. How the hell did the duchess know about that? And why in God’s name was she bringing it up now? “Indeed I did,” he replied. “But Berkeley is a viscount and vastly wealthy to boot.”

  “Meg is one of the kindest, sweetest, most gracious young ladies I’ve ever encountered and she shouldn’t be penalized for having a drunken lout who’s awful at gambling for a father.”

  “Agreed, and I suspect someone like Sir Winford agrees as well.”