The Right Kind of Rogue Page 7

Lucy Hunt opened her mouth to make a retort but Hart stopped her. There was no point in continuing this inane conversation. “You’ve reminded me. I must get back to Sarah. She’s promised to point out the suitable ladies who are as pleasant and easygoing as their dowries are large. If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”

  As Hart walked away, he heard the distinctive sound of the Duchess of Claringdon sighing yet again. She may even have stamped her foot.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Meg took a deep breath. She and Lucy had discussed this in detail, but nerves were getting the better of her now that the time had come. She was sitting in the breakfast room with her parents, who rarely spoke to each other, even at meals. She pushed the eggs around her plate, counted three, and lifted her head to look at her mother.

  Her mother was gorgeous, or would have been if anger hadn’t settled into every line of her face. Meg could only suspect the reason for her mother’s unhappiness was because her husband had gambled away every bit of security they had. Father went out drinking and playing hazards nearly every night. Mother had long ago given up attempting to stop him.

  Meg’s childhood had been marred by frightening screaming matches between her parents on more occasions than she cared to recall. She had huddled beneath her blankets in bed but their voices had carried, far enough for her to understand what they fought about. Father couldn’t stop gambling and Mother couldn’t forgive him for it.

  Meg didn’t blame her mother for being angry with her father, but Meg had seen her father come home with red-rimmed eyes and regret on his face. Something had been clear to her always: Her father wanted to stop but was unable to.

  Still halfheartedly pushing the eggs around her plate with her fork, Meg glanced over at her father. He’d always been fun loving and quick to smile and joke and pat her on the head when she’d been small. He was handsome, her father, exceedingly so, blond with bright green eyes, though the years and the stress and the drinking hadn’t been kind. He had wrinkles near his eyes, but the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth reminded her of the man he once had been.

  She tried to imagine her parents when they were young. They must have been in love at one point, or so Meg chose to believe. Was there any love left between them? Had it ever been there to begin with? She couldn’t quite imagine them laughing together or holding hands the way she’d seen Sarah and Christian do. She wanted Sarah’s type of marriage, to a man she both loved and respected, and Lucy was going to help her get it.

  “Mother.” Meg forced herself to speak before she lost her nerve. “There’s something I wanted to ask you, ask both of you.”

  Her father didn’t so much as glance up from his paper. It was yesterday’s paper, brought home from whatever club or gaming hell he’d frequented last night. She wondered if he’d even heard her. Probably not.

  “What’s that?” Mother asked, taking a drink from a teacup that Meg suspected was laced with brandy.

  Meg straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “The Duchess of Claringdon has asked if I may be her … sort of … ward.”

  Her mother’s head snapped up, and a scowl covered her face. “Ward? What do you mean, ward? What sort of nonsense is that?”

  Her father glanced up from the paper. His eyes narrowed on Meg. “You don’t require another family, Margaret. What in the devil’s name are you talking about?”

  It was ironic that the only thing her parents seemed to agree on was making her life more difficult. Meg took another deep breath. “I wouldn’t be a ward … exactly,” she continued, cursing herself for bungling this important conversation. She shouldn’t have used the word ward. “Her Grace would simply, you know, oversee my clothing and be my chaperone and…”

  “She’s already spent far too much time with you as it is,” Mother snorted. “I’ve no idea why such an important lady as the duchess would take an interest in you of all people.” Mother downed more tea.

  “I don’t think you should get your hopes up, Margaret,” Father replied, turning his gaze back to his paper. “A rich lady like that might take an interest in a wallflower from time to time but she’ll bore quickly and soon be on to the next amusement.”

  Meg squeezed the napkin in her lap. She’d expected such insults, was prepared for them. “We’re friends, Father. The duchess has agreed to provide me with gowns and I intend to pay her back once I marry well and—”

  “Marry well?” Her mother’s voice dripped with incredulity. “What makes you think you’ll marry well?” Her voice took a biting tone. “Your father’s put an end to that. Even a duchess’s fine clothing can’t make up for the fact that you haven’t any dowry. I doubt the duchess has offered to provide you with one.”

  Her father gave her mother a withering glare and returned his attention to his paper.

  “Of course not,” Meg replied. “That would be inappropriate, but she’s offered to help and I’d like to accept her offer. It’s very kind of her.” Meg blew out a breath, prepared to make her final argument. “Besides, my prospects cannot possibly be any worse with her help.”

  Her mother’s scowl intensified, but she lifted her brows and shrugged. “I suppose you have a point.”

  “What exactly are your marital prospects this Season, Margaret?” Father asked from behind his paper.

  This was it. Her opportunity to mention Hart. To see if her parents had thawed toward his family in any way, to determine if there was hope.

  “Sarah’s brother, Hart, has been helping me. He’s come to a few of the balls and danced with me. I’ve garnered some attention as a result.” Of course her parents would already know this if they’d been paying any attention.

  The paper snapped against the table, rattling the silverware. “Hart Highgate? Highfield’s heir?” Father sneered.

  “Yes,” Meg said, forcing herself to meet her father’s gaze. Nothing but anger covered his features. The kindness had vanished from his eyes.

  “That young man is just like his father, cares nothing about anyone other than himself,” Father continued.

  “You’re one to talk, Charles.” Mother’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  Meg jumped in before they had a chance to go at each other. “He’s been helping me. He’s been quite kind.”

  “The Highgates aren’t kind,” Mother interjected. “They’re pompous and self-centered and—”

  It was no use. Meg needed to return their attention to the matter at hand. “Do I have your permission to allow the duchess to help me?”

  “Do whatever you like,” Father said from behind the paper. “But stay away from that Highgate lad. He’s a scoundrel.”

  “Again, you’re one to talk.” Mother set down her teacup, braced her elbows on the table, and steepled her fingers, staring at Meg across the dulled wooden surface of the table. “So, you’re willing to go into debt to a duchess on the small chance you might find some man willing to take you on as a burden for life?”

  Meg’s gaze reverted to her mother’s eyes. She swallowed the painful lump in her throat. Why did her mother hate her so much? “I told you. I intend to repay her.”

  Her mother’s sharp crack of laughter filled the room. “Isn’t that what your father says, every time he takes on a new debt? You’re more like him than not, Margaret.”

  “I’ve had enough of you for one day, Catherine.” Her father stood, tossed the paper onto the table, and stalked from the room.

  Meg watched him go. She didn’t care. The two of them could argue all day as long as they allowed Lucy to continue to help her and be her chaperone. Her father had already provided his permission.

  “There are men who might be willing to marry me, Mother. Not everyone puts all their attention on a dowry.”

  Mother shrugged one shoulder. “I suppose you’re right. I suppose your father’s name is still good for something. Some no-name fool might come sniffing around you after all if the duchess puts enough baubles on you.”

  Meg clenched her jaw. She would let that go, too, li
ke all the other insults her mother had heaped upon her over the years.

  “I need your permission, Mother,” she said in a tight voice.

  Her mother picked up her teacup again and took another sip. “Fine, I’ll allow the duchess to be your so-called chaperone, but don’t come sobbing to me when she tosses you over for another ward with more potential.”

  “Thank you,” Meg managed to choke out. She was just about to push back her chair and ask to be excused when another thought struck her. While she was being brave she might as well ask one more question.

  “Mother?” she ventured.

  Her mother cradled the teacup in her hands. “Yes.”

  Meg swallowed. She’d wanted to ask this question for years. She had to blurt it out before she lost her nerve. “What exactly happened between our family and Sarah’s family?”

  Her mother’s nostrils were pinched. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Do you really want to know, Margaret?”

  “Yes.” Excitement bubbling in her chest, Meg leaned forward, too. Was this really it? Would her mother truly tell her?

  “Then ask your useless father.” Mother stood, threw her napkin to her chair, and marched from the room.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Lucy, I still don’t understand why you thought it was a good idea to send Hart away last night and allow Sir Winford the dance instead.”

  They stood on the sidelines of the Cranberrys’ ball. Meg was dressed in a gorgeous light-green satin gown with cap sleeves and a low V in the back. The gown had embroidered white flowers along the bodice and an empire waist. Lucy’s team of dressmakers had worked all day to invent the gorgeous creation after Meg had sent Lucy a note informing her of her parents’ permission. Meg had reiterated that she insisted upon paying Lucy back one day.

  Lucy had purchased Meg a new set of kid gloves and some bright-white satin slippers. The seamstresses had made her an adorable matching reticule with tiny white rosebuds scattered across it. After adding some diamond earbobs and a silver-and-diamond necklace, also borrowed from Lucy, Meg looked and felt like the veriest princess. She well knew it was all a show, an act staged by Lucy Hunt, but one that appeared to be working.

  After her dances last night with Hart’s friends, Meg had become downright sought-after. A steady stream of people stopped to greet her this evening, an occurrence that would have been unheard of last Season. The combination of new gowns and preferred dancing partners had changed her circumstances overnight. Ah, what power a duchess and a viscount wielded. It was truly fascinating.

  “Dear, we’ve been over this,” Lucy replied. “If Hart had won the dance, he wouldn’t have had a chance to miss dancing with you, nor would I have had a moment to discuss with him how entirely silly choosing a bride over a dowry is. You must trust me.”

  “I do trust you, Lucy, but—”

  “You hated to miss a dance with Hart. I completely understand. We must make choices for the good of our cause and not for a moment’s pleasure, however.”

  Meg squeezed the diamond earbobs to ensure they remained securely in place. Then she shook her head. “You should have been a general, Lucy. Your talents are completely wasted in the ballroom.”

  Lucy smoothed one dark brow. “Derek tells me that quite often. He says Waterloo would have been won before the Prussians arrived if I’d been there. But I disagree with you … my talents are not entirely wasted in the ballroom.”

  “No?”

  “No. As evidenced by the fact that both Sir Winford and Lord Highgate are on their way toward you. Do not look!”

  Meg did her best to keep her eyes on her champagne flute and pretend she didn’t know the two men were making their way toward her from opposite directions in the crowd. She desperately hoped Hart would get there first. She took one rebellious little step in his direction.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when Hart appeared at her side. He wore black superfine evening attire with a perfectly starched white shirtfront and cravat. An emerald winked from a pin in his cravat. “Miss Timmons.” He bowed to her. “You look as breathtaking as ever.”

  “You don’t have to dance with me tonight, Hart,” Meg said, hoping desperately that he wanted to dance with her regardless.

  “Nonsense. I promised you three nights of dancing and I am a gentleman of my word.”

  “Sir Winford is on his way over,” Lucy pointed out, sipping from her own champagne flute, probably to hide her catlike smile.

  “Sir Winford will have to wait,” Hart ground out. “This dance is mine.”

  Meg pressed her lips together to keep from smiling and handed her glass to Lucy, who eagerly took it. “If you insist.”

  “I do,” Hart replied, bowing.

  Hart offered his arm and they left for the dance floor before Lord Winford made it through the crowd.

  A waltz began and Hart pulled Meg into his arms. “Are you disappointed to be dancing with me and not Sir Winford?”

  Meg contemplated the question. The Meg of a week ago would have immediately said, No! Blurted it even. This Meg had been in Lucy Hunt’s company for the last several days and knew better than to be so unsophisticated.

  “Sir Winford seems quite nice,” she said instead. Her voice was perfectly even and calm, but her mind raced with worry. What if Hart decided Sir Winford was a good choice for her? What if he encouraged the match? Sarah had already done so on numerous occasions. The truth was, under any other circumstances Sir Winford would be an excellent choice for a husband. He was titled, wealthy, and handsome. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he was far from an old man. He seemed witty and pleasant. It was a deuced inconvenience, perhaps, that she was madly in love with Hart.

  “I don’t know him,” Hart said. Was it her imagination or had he squeezed her hands slightly when he said it?

  Meg concentrated on keeping her tone light. “He owns an estate in Devon, a town house on Leicester Square, and a great many horses, from what I understand.”

  “Told you all that in a span of a dance, did he?” Hart had the faintest hint of a sneer in his voice.

  “No.” Meg shook her head. “Lucy’s been researching him.”

  Hart’s brows lifted. “Lucy approves of him, then?”

  “She likes that he’s not worried about my lack of dowry.”

  “That is commendable.” Hart’s jaw remained tight.

  Meg glanced at her slippers. At least she was dancing properly this evening. She had yet to step on his feet. Thank God for small favors. “Hart, I … have you and your friends to thank for my sudden change in circumstance and…”

  Hart stared into the crowd over Meg’s head. “Seems you have the duchess to thank as well. I imagine your jewels and gowns have something to do with her.”

  Meg blushed and hoped neither of the earbobs was missing. “It’s true.”

  He lowered his gaze to hers. “You look beautiful, Meg. You should never have had to wear rags.”

  A lump formed in Meg’s throat. She tossed her head. Was he remembering that day when she was sixteen and he’d stood up for her as she was? “I resisted Lucy quite a bit before agreeing to wear the gowns she’s had made for me.”

  Hart searched her face. “Why?”

  “I don’t…” Meg glanced away into the crowd. The lump grew larger. “I’ve never wanted to be pitied.”

  “Pitied?” Hart’s brow furrowed. “Is that what you think? Let me assure you, no one is pitying you.”

  Meg forced herself to stare at his black-clad shoulder. His familiar scent enveloped her senses. The lump in her throat was so large, she was nearly choking on it. “But no one looked twice at me before I began wearing these gowns, before you danced with me.”

  He leaned down slightly to catch her eye. His breath caressed her ear when he spoke. “Sometimes it takes a bit of polish to get fools to see a diamond in the rough.”

  Meg pressed her lips together. She met his gaze. “Is that what I am? A diamond in
the rough?”

  His eyes scanned her face. Her décolletage? “You’re a diamond, without question.”

  She barely had time to contemplate that loaded statement when he asked, “No hiccups tonight?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Nary a one.”

  “A pity.” His grin was downright roguish.

  By God, was he flirting with her? She’d never been flirted with by a handsome, young gentleman. By any gentleman, for that matter. She needed to think of something equally flirtatious with which to reply. “I can fake a bout of hiccups if you’d like.” Oh dear Lord, had she actually said that? Aloud? She was a complete hoyden.

  “No need,” Hart replied, the roguish grin still on his face. “There are other reasons to go out into the gardens. Like, say, a walk.”

  Butterflies winged through her belly. This was the type of moment she’d dreamed about for years. Years. Her journal brimmed with such dream-worthy exchanges. “Are you offering, kind sir?”

  He straightened to his full height, and the side of his mouth ticked up into a half smile. “I am indeed.”

  “What about Sir Winford?” she ventured.

  “Sir Winford is not invited.”

  The music came to a stop and Hart let go of her hands and lifted his arm in an offer of escort.

  Meg’s fingers shook as she settled them on his warm sleeve. “By all means, lead the way.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Five minutes later, Hart was strolling down the footpaths in the Cranberrys’ garden, with Meg next to him. She had sneaked past Lucy and Sir Winford, who were obviously looking for her. Hart and Meg had decided to break apart and exit the house from different sides. Meg made her way out of the French doors on the right of the patio and Hart met her outside. He’d gone into Lord Cranberry’s study and left through a similar set of doors there.

  Hart glanced down at Meg, still marveling at the beauty he’d only noticed recently. By God, he needed to pay more attention to things. To people. While he watched out of the corner of his eye, the cool night air lifted the ringlets at her temples. She’d had her hair straightened, but the tiny curls remained. He was tempted to reach out and touch them. Instead he kept his hands innocently folded behind his back as they strolled down the graveled path. Tiny twinkling candles lit their way, and the scent of jasmine floated in the air. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the scene was entirely … romantic. Not that he noticed such things. Ever.