If Wishes Were Earls (2 page)

“Oh, that is excellent news,” she said, catching up the hem of her gown, turning on one heel, and starting to march back toward the ballroom.

Roxley caught up with her about where the couple was still locked in each other’s embrace. Discreetly—well, as much as one could—he tugged her back down the path. “Where were you going?” he whispered as he dragged her away.

“I would think my plan was obvious. At least to a rogue like you. I was going to find the viscount.”

“Fieldgate?” Roxley couldn’t have sound more shocked.

“Yes. Is there another lascivious viscount by the name of Fieldgate that I’ve missed?”

Roxley’s jaw set as he marched her farther down the path, through the long column of plane trees that lined the way.

Harriet could only hope this was the path to ruin, much as the other young lady had found.

A very unladylike tremor of envy sprang up inside her.

“Why would you want that clod to take advantage of you?” Rowley was asking. No, demanding.

“Because I’ve merely been kissed—and that lady”—she said with nod over her shoulder—“who I believe is Miss Nashe—”

Now the earl’s head swiveled. “I highly doubt that’s—”

But then he must have realized that just as Harriet’s costume was so very memorable, so was the one Miss Nashe was wearing—of course minus the feathered hem that had caused her so much trouble earlier in the week.

“Told you,” Harriet said triumphantly once they were well out of earshot. “That is Miss Nashe and Lord Kipps.”

She held back an indignant
harrumph
. Lord Kipps had walked her down this very path and hadn’t tried to kiss her.

Then again, Harriet wasn’t an infamous heiress like Miss Nashe. Just plain old Harriet Hathaway. A spinster from Kempton. With barely enough pin money for just that.

Pins.

Oh, why couldn’t she have been born fair and petite like Daphne, or inherited a fortune like Tabitha?

Roxley was still glancing back at the entangled couple. “Then I suppose we can expect an announcement at midnight. Lucky Kipps. He’s gone and borrowed my family motto.”

“
Ad usque fidelis?
” Harriet said, thinking that “Unto fidelity” was hardly the translation for what was transpiring in the arbor.

“No, minx, our other motto. The one we Marshoms find more apropos.”

“Which is?”

“Marry well and cheat often,” he teased.

This took Harriet aback. “The Marshoms advocate cheating on their spouses?”

“No.” He laughed. “Unfortunately, we tend to love thoroughly and for life. We’re an overly romantic lot—we just make sure to fall in love with a bride with a fat purse. And when that runs out, then there is nothing left but living by one’s wits. My parents were a perfect example.”

“You mean your parents lived by cheating at cards?”

“Of course. If only to stay ahead of their debts.”

“Then it’s a terrible shame,” Harriet said, looking back at Miss Nashe and realizing how convenient it was that she’d found her countess’s coronet with that earl, and not Harriet’s.

“What is?” her earl asked.

“Kipps catching Miss Nashe’s eye before you could cast your spell on her . . . and her fat purse.”

Roxley shrugged. They had come to a stop by one of the larger trees. “Actually, I’m quite distraught about her choice.”

“You wanted to marry her?” Harriet reached out and steadied herself against the white trunk of the tree.

He laughed. “No, Kitten. I had no designs on the lady. But I wagered she’d corner Lord Henry.”

Kitten.
Harriet nearly sighed at the familiar endearment. It held so much promise. Like a daisy being plucked of its petals.

He loves me . . .

Harriet laughed, at him and her hopes. “You should stick to cheating at cards.” She put her back to the trunk, leaning against it, and letting the solid strength of the tree support her.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Roxley dug the toe of his boot into the sod.

Harriet glanced up. “Which was?”

He looked up at her. “Why the devil would you want to come out into the gardens with Fieldgate?”

“For the very simple reason that I want to be kissed. Properly, that is. By a man of some skill.” Harriet let her gaze drift back once again toward the house, her insinuation landing precisely as she’d intended.

Spectacularly.

“Kissed properly? Of all the insulting . . .” he blustered.

Harriet laughed again, and realizing he’d been lured into a trap, Roxley laughed as well.

“Good God, Harry!” He pushed away from the tree. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Well, if you were to kiss me . . .
again
. . .”

“Which I won’t,” he shot back.

“If you insist.” Harriet did her best to appear indifferent, as if his quick retort was the least of her concerns.

“I do.”

Truly, did he have to sound so adamant? “But if you did—”

He paused. “Harry, you can stop right there. Kiss you? Once was enough.”

Harriet whirled around on him. “Aha! So you do admit to kissing me.”

His voice ran low, rumbled up from his chest, his words filled with longing. “How could I forget?”

She shivered, for it was longing she shared, one that resided in her heart, restless and tempting.

“But you are being ridiculous,” he continued. “If I were to ruin you, your brothers would shoot me.”

“If they were in a good humor,” she conceded. Actually, all five of them would most likely insist on taking a shot.

Unfortunately, Roxley knew this as well, for he echoed her thoughts exactly. “And since I don’t favor an untimely death by firing squad, I fear for tonight your desire to be kissed again is going to have to remain on the shelf.”

Like her life. Like her chances of ever being loved.

Passionately.
Her gaze slid back in the direction of the arbor.

Oh, it all seemed so patently unfair. And yet, a few months ago, she would never have considered such things possible. She had lived her entire life content in the knowledge that as a spinster of Kempton she would never marry, never be kissed, never . . .

And then, on that fateful day when Preston’s carriage had broken down in Kempton and she’d seen Roxley after all that time apart, she hadn’t been able to help herself, she’d begun to dream of the impossible.

So, after coming to London with Tabitha and Daphne, and seeing her two dearest friends find happiness in such unexpected ways—not just happiness, but
love
—she’d begun to hope.

And here she was, with the only man she’d ever desired, in this garden, under this moon, and why shouldn’t she want to be kissed?

Again. And again . . .

“No one would have to know,” she whispered. “No one would ever find out.”

“Someone always does, Kitten,” Roxley told her. He’d circled round the tree and now stood much as she did, leaning against the great trunk but on the opposite side, so the wide breadth separated them.

How she longed to cut it down, to make it so that nothing could keep them apart.

“There are no secrets in the
ton
,” he added.

Well, she didn’t care if the entire population of England, Ireland and Scotland knew. It wasn’t like she was an heiress with prospects, or anyone else was going to come along and claim her.

But the real question was, would he?

“Roxley?”

“Yes, Harry?”

She pressed her lips together every time he called her that. Did he have to use that horrid name? But taking a deep breath, she dove in. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“Not much,” he said. “If you haven’t noticed it is rather dark out here.”

She rolled around the tree, her fingers tracing over the rough bark as if seeking a clear path, until she was right beside him. “Oh, do stop being
him
. I deplore
him
.”

“Him? Who?”

“You know very well who I mean.” Harriet was losing patience with him. If he pushed her much further she would go find Fieldgate. “Stop being the fool all London takes you for.”

“But he’s quite a handy fellow, that fool.”

“He’s an annoying jinglebrains.”

“That’s the point, minx.”

“I know
who
you are.”

“Do you?” He’d turned a bit and whispered the question into her ear.

Her breath caught in her throat, so that she was only able to answer with one word. “
Yes
.”

Oh, yes, she knew who he was. The only man who had ever made her heart beat like this.

And then he moved closer, brushing against the hem of her gown, and Harriet clung to the tree to steady herself. “No one would believe you, Kitten.”

Kitten
. Not Harry, but Kitten. His Kitten.

Harriet looked up at the bit of the night sky peeking through the thick canopy of leaves overhead and spied a single star. A lone, twinkling light. And so she wished.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” she whispered.

It was an invitation, one she knew he desired. She’d seen his struggle for months now—this game he played, this role he lived. This capering fool. Society’s ridiculous gadfly.

But that wasn’t the man she knew. The man she’d kissed in Sir Mauris’s garden in London. The earl she’d known since they were children.

No, the one she loved, adored, desired, was the one with his gaze fixed on hers, his jaw set as if he were determined to do the right thing.

Oh, he’d chosen the right costume for the night. Lancelot. A man conflicted by duty and passion.

And he told her as much, his words almost desperate. “Why did you have to grow up, Harry? Why couldn’t you have stayed in Kempton—stayed my impossible imp?”

“I still am.”

“Oh, you are, but in an entirely new and utterly impossible way.”

“Why is it impossible, Roxley?”
It certainly wouldn’t be if you would but kiss me.

“I promised your brothers I’d keep an eye on you.”

Harriet moved closer, caught hold of his lapels and did the impossible, even as she whispered, “Then close your eyes.”

Chapter 1

I have seen one night be the ruin of many a good man.

Lt. Throckmorten to Miss Darby

from Miss Darby’s Reckless Bargain

London, April 1811

Eight months later

E
very gambler knows the moment when his luck changes.

And not for the good. Luck is too fickle of a lover to whisper in a gamester’s ear to encourage him to double down.

No, when she turns her back on a fellow, he knows it. As sure as all the air in the room has rushed out.

Like a fish out of water, he suddenly finds himself grasping at anything that might return her bright favor to his dark and empty pockets.

So it was with Tiberius Maximus Marshom, the 7th Earl of Roxley.

Roxley, who took wagers that no one else would, and won  . . . The earl who always had pockets of vowels that only needed collecting was now dodging friends and ducking out of White’s to avoid the embarrassment of his current dire financial straits.

And his shocking turn of luck was what had brought him here. To the City. To the offices of one Aloysius Murray.

“So you see, my lord,” the merchant was saying, his hands folded atop a pile of notes, “you have no choice but to make my daughter your wife.”

The earl looked across the wide expanse of the man’s desk at a fellow he hadn’t even known existed until two days ago when he’d received Mr. Murray’s summons. Still, despite the gravity before him, Roxley could not resist smiling.

It was all he could do. A Marshom through and through, he knew he was trapped, but he was certainly not going to let this mushroom, this Mr. Murray with his most likely equally uncouth daughter, know that he had Roxley in a corner.

Mr. Murray pushed the papers across the top of the desk. “I’ve managed to buy out all your vowels, all your debts. You’re solvent, for the time being. I think a kindly given ‘thank you’ would be in order.” He paused for a moment and then added belatedly, “My lord.”

Roxley looked at the pile of notes and scribbled promises and realized that his hopes of reclaiming all that he’d managed to lose over the past eight months—his money, his position with the Home Office, his standing (what there had been of it)—was for naught.

His legendary luck was gone.

If he were inclined to be honest—which he rarely was—he could point to the exact moment when Fair Fortune had abandoned him.

Eight months ago. The third of August, 1810, to be exact. The night he’d kissed Miss Harriet Hathaway.

And since we’ve established that the Earl of Roxley possessed very little honesty, kissing had been the least of his sins that night with the aforementioned Miss Hathaway.

He’d demmed well ruined her.

But enough of contemplating an evening of madness—it wasn’t his insatiable desire for Harriet that had gotten him into this mess.

Oh, Harry what have I done
? he thought as he looked at his all his wrongdoings piled up atop this
cit
’s desk and knowing that no matter how much he . . .

Well, admitting how he felt for Harriet Hathaway was just too much honesty for one day. Especially this one.

When he was having to face his ruin. A reckoning of sorts.

If it was only the money, only his own ill-choices, that would be one thing. But there was more to this than just a gambler’s reversal. His every instinct clamored that this was all a greater trap, a snare, but why and how, he couldn’t say.

More to the point, he couldn’t let this calamity touch anyone else.

As it had Mr. Ludwick, his man of business. Roxley’s gut clenched every time he thought of the fellow—disappearing in the middle of the night with a good portion of Roxley’s money.

Yet Ludwick wasn’t the sort. And that was the problem. There was no explanation for his abrupt departure. None.

Further, the man’s vanishing act had been followed by the revelation of a string of soured investments. Wagers began going bad. Files for the Home Office stolen from his house. None of it truly connected, yet he couldn’t help feeling that there was a thread that tied it all together, winding its evil around his life.

But who was pulling it, and why, escaped Roxley entirely.

Sensing the earl’s hesitancy, Mr. Murray pressed his case, pulling out a now familiar document.

The mortgage on Foxgrove.

The one property of his that wasn’t entailed. The one with all the income that kept the Marshoms afloat. Without Foxgrove . . .

Mr. Murray ran a stubby, ink-stained finger over the deed. “I’ve always fancied a house in the country. How is this village? This Kempton?”

“Kempton, you ask?” Roxley replied, wrenching his gaze up from the man’s covetous reach on his property. “Oh, you won’t like it. Cursed, it is.”

Mr. Murray stilled at this, then burst out in a loud, braying laugh. “I was told to expect you to be a bit of a cut-up, but that! Cursed, he says.” He laughed again, more like brayed.

Good God, Roxley could only hope Murray’s daughter didn’t laugh like that. But to keep Foxgrove . . . to keep his family out of debtor’s prison, Roxley knew he could bear almost anything.

And if he did his utmost to make this mushroom’s daughter miserable for the next forty years, he’d never have to hear that sound again.

That was, if anything, a small condolence.

“I have a mind to drive down next week,” Mr. Murray was saying. “Probably needs renovations like the rest of the piles of stones you gentry keep.”

Roxley ruffled at this. For his residences were his pride and joy. As had been his infamous luck that had kept them in good order. “Yes, well, currently my Aunt Essex lives at Foxgrove and she would be most put out to have strangers arrive at her residence.”

“Isn’t really hers, now is it?” Mr. Murray pointed out, once again running his ugly fingers along the edge of the deed.

He didn’t even want to think about it. Aunt Essex forcibly removed from the house she’d lived in most of her life. She’d have no choice but to move permanently to London.

Into the earl’s house. And without the income from Foxgrove, Aunt Eleanor in Bath, and Aunts Ophelia and Oriel at the Cottage would soon be forced to follow. All of the Marshom spinsters together. In one house. His house.

Worse than that, he’d have failed them. When they had once rescued him in his darkest hours.

He must have twitched as Mr. Murray chuckled. “Got your attention now.”

“Mr. Murray, you had my full attention when you sent me the list of my debts you were holding. But what I don’t understand is, why have you chosen to invest in me?”

Now it was Mr. Murray’s turn to still, as if he wasn’t too sure which direction to turn. But he had an answer at the ready soon enough. “Always fancied my daughter a lady, and a countess seems the right place to start.”

Roxley nearly asked if the merchant was planning on sending him to an early grave, if only to climb the noble ladder again and gain a duke for his daughter the next time around.

“And,” Murray added, as if suddenly finding the rest of his answer, “your situation is not unknown.”

Roxley sighed. That was the truest thing the man had said since the earl had entered his study.

His fall from grace and rapid descent into debt had every tongue in London wagging. Hadn’t he once told Harry as much?

There are no secrets in the
ton.

So the word had spread quickly that the Earl of Roxley was up the River Tick.

Worse, to those who’d lost to him over the years, it was a just reward to watch. And since that was most everyone, the entire
ton
seemed delighted by his plummet.

“It’s my daughter or the poorhouse with your aunts, my lord.” Murray smiled as he folded his hands atop what was the ruin of Roxley’s fortunes. “The choice is yours.”

A
fter the earl departed Mr. Murray’s study, a door concealed by a bookcase opened, and a tall, darkly clad figure stepped out.

“I did as you instructed,” Mr. Murray hurried to say. “But he won’t agree to the marriage, my lord, until he meets my daughter.”

“He’ll agree,” the man said with his usual supreme confidence.

A confidence that made Murray anxious. He didn’t like being part of all this. Blackmailing a member of the House of Lords. It was bad business all around.

But so was the man before him.

“I did as you said—” Mr. Murray repeated.

The man arched a dark brow and studied him. “Yes, you did. Perfectly.”

“Now the matter of that other issue . . .” The one that had brought Murray to the attention of this very dangerous stranger.

The man shook his head with a negligent toss of dismissal. “No. Not yet.”

“But I—” Then Murray stopped as the man’s brow arched upward.

Roxley’s last man of business, Ludwick, had gone missing. Never been found. Nor had Roxley’s money. Murray had known the man personally. Ludwick had always seemed an honest sort and certainly not the kind willing to embezzle a fortune and leave his wife and three children behind.

Murray looked up and met the other man’s gaze. A cold shiver ran down his spine, as if this fellow could read his thoughts, the questions behind his silence.

“Yes, you have done all I’ve asked,” the man assured him ever so smoothly. Like a knife in the dark sliding between one’s ribs. “You bought up all of Roxley’s debts and you’ve cornered him into this marriage”—he paused for a second—“to your delightful daughter. But our agreement will be concluded when he, and those accursed relations of his, are driven to ground and give me what is
mine
.”

The malice in that one single word left Murray with the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to soil his own drawers. He chose his next words carefully.

Very carefully.

“You must despise the earl quite a bit to go to all this trouble.” He waved a hand at the pile of notes on his desk—debts and misfortunes, Murray had no doubt, orchestrated by this deadly foe. “You must truly hate him, my lord.”

“Hate Roxley?” the man laughed. “How droll. In truth, I count him a friend.”

E
ight long months. Harriet tapped her slipper impatiently. Eight months since that unforgettable night at Owle Park and the even more memorable day which followed. When she’d discovered Roxley had fled.

Deserted the house party.

Abandoned her.

She could continue to list his failings, but that, she’d discovered over the fall and winter that had followed with not a single word from him, hardly served.

It only reopened the wound that had torn her heart in half.

She did her best to hold the broken parts together, yet it was as if the wound was still fresh and new, filled with festering doubts.

Oh, why had she agreed to come to London?

As much as she wanted to know why Roxley had abandoned her—oh, bother, she
must
know—she wasn’t too sure she wanted to hear the truth.

But there had been Lady Essex, arriving at the Pottage and insisting that Harriet travel with her to London and Harriet’s mother happy to oblige.

The two of them had packed her traveling trunks and shoved her aboard the Marshom barouche before she’d had a chance to rally a decent objection.

Certainly the truth wasn’t an option.

Maman, Lady Essex, I have no desire to go to London and face the man who ruined me.
Oh, yes, that would have been well received.

So here she was, about to do just that—see Roxley—and whatever would she say to him?

Perhaps she could ask this Madame Sybille everyone was fawning over—a mentalist or some such nonsense. All Harriet knew was that the lady had all the matrons buzzing when she’d arrived tonight. Perhaps this mystic could read her future and reassure her that Roxley’s desertion was naught but a misunderstanding.

Harriet made an inelegant snort that drew a few censoring looks. Well, honestly, she didn’t need some charlatan’s advice, she needed help.

Glancing around, she pursed her lips. Where the devil was Tabitha? Or even Daphne, for that matter. They would know what to do.

Of course, that would also mean telling them . . . Harriet didn’t know if she could bear the shame of it.

And then, as if on cue, there was a ruffle of whispers through the crush of guests.

Harriet had to guess that not only was Tabitha here, but her infamous husband as well.

She glanced at the steps leading down into the ballroom to find the happily married Duchess of Preston standing with her arm linked in the crook of her husband’s elbow. Tabitha had defied all conventions and won the heart of the most unlikely of rakes.

Speaking of rakes, the duke and duchess had not arrived alone. Preston stepped aside and was joined at the entrance by his uncle, Lord Henry Seldon, who grinned at the matrons who regarded him and his bride with abject horror.

Daphne’s happiness rather defied the oft-repeated admonitions to young ladies all over proper society that nothing good ever came of a runaway marriage.

The former Miss Daphne Dale, now Lady Henry, flaunted evidence quite to the contrary. For not only was she gowned in a most fetching silk, her slightly wicked smile said her runaway union was very satisfying . . .