The Rogue and I (17 page)

Garret had never met the infamous man.

Prim and proper James greatly disliked the arrogant duke from what Garret understood.

“Let’s go and let them hang each other,” Garret said.

Carlyle gave a strange glance at the men pressing together, shoving to get better views of the two peers as they pounded each other into the expensive carpet. But then he yanked his gaze away abruptly and nodded.

“Good idea old boy,” Carlyle said lightly, taking a long draw on his cheroot. “Let’s go crash a ball instead.”

“What?” Garret choked out, staggering back, trying to shove his friend away. But before he could significantly protest, Carlyle had him by the arm and they were heading out into the loud, London night and into a hackney. He realized that the only way Carlyle could have managed it was because he secretly wanted to go. But he damn well wasn’t admitting
that
to anyone. “I bloody wish the insects had gotten you, Carlyle. Indeed I do.”

Carlyle laughed, a cold, barely controlled sound. “Oh, so does everyone, old fellow.”

Chapter 18

Harriet had always loved parties. When she’d been younger, she’d simply been too poor to attend the elaborate gatherings of the
ton
elite. Gowns and transport for such events cost a fortune after all, but since her Uncle George’s financial success, she’d never missed a ball or party she’d been invited to. In fact, she’d often been the life of such gatherings. Or so she’d been told.

Now, standing with her rather intimidating Aunt Gertrude, she wished to the heavens she could send all the people doing their best not to stare overtly at her off to a rather innocuous end in Hades’ never-ending pit.

Unlike Emmaline, she was not an anathema. This she knew because all her invitations had kept coming. In fact, she’d received more invitations than she ever had before.

But, she was no fool. She knew why she’d been invited. She was a source of fascination. She’d survived the destruction of the Trent family and still had quite a fortune. The Duke of Huntsdown had left her unsullied. Somehow, he’d even managed to make it sound as if she’d been as wounded as the Harts.

It had made her want to kill the oh so terribly nice duke who’d asked her to be his duchess just a few weeks ago.

His audacity and imperious behavior astounded her. James had seemed like such a nice fellow. Nice fellow? The man was a vicious ass.

It had occurred to her that she should turn the continuing invitations down and hide in her townhouse as Emmaline was forced to do. They’d all considered going abroad. Italy had been mentioned. Emmaline had been adamant. They wouldn’t be run out of England. If anything, Emmaline had become a force as terrifying as a Cornwall gale. She took long rides in Hyde Park every morning dressed in a stunning crimson riding habit. . . The color of martyrdom as well as sin.

Emmaline had also insisted that Harriet go to these parties to show they were not cowed or humiliated. And so to do as her cousin wished, Harriet had danced almost every dance. She’d drunk a river of champagne and she’d forced herself to laugh at the weak jokes of the ridiculously inbred.

She’d had four proposals. Her massive amount of money, courtesy of her banished uncle, still made her quite desirable, it appeared. These people were sycophantic hypocrites.

Which made this all exceptionally disgusting in her eyes. These people were about as deep as a puddle on Rotten Row.

She’d yet to see
him
, of course.
He
apparently was in hiding for his own reasons.

Well, good riddance to him, in any case. Because if she actually came face to face with Lord Garret Hart she might strangle him with his own cravat.

Though she was loath to admit it, she had not had a good night’s sleep since that day he left her, gaping in the study, her family about her.

He’d actually thought she’d abandoned him for money. He’d thought so little of her, he’d believed without question that she’d taken money to give up the love of her life.

The idiotic goat of a man.

Really, someone needed to brain him with a cricket bat to adjust the man’s thinking.

“Harriet, that noise is unbecoming of a lady.”

Harriet stilled. And listened. Surely, Gertrude was hearing things?

Except Gertrude wasn’t old or in danger of losing her faculties.

So, she forced herself to focus then Harriet heard it too. A slight grinding.

Harriet winced. That was her? Was she truly grinding her teeth so audibly?

Apparently.

Immediately, she cleared her throat and tried to relax. Her muscles only seemed to tense further. Failing to ease her tight jaw, she spotted a tray of champagne making its way across the room.

Aunt Gertrude snapped her gold silk fan out and rapped Harriet’s knuckles. “You’ve had two.”

“Surely the third time shall be a charm?” she drawled. Really, she knew she shouldn’t. After all, she didn’t wish to become a bitter drunkard, but how else was she to bear the long evening?

Aunt Gertrude rolled her stunning, almond eyes. “The third glass puts you on the road to ruin.”

Harriet laughed. “Aren’t I halfway there?”

Aunt Gertrude pursed her lush, slightly painted lips. “No. But only because you haven’t been caught.”

Gertrude, unlike her name, was remarkably beautiful. A sensual woman of over forty years, she acted like a proper chaperone but if one used their imagination, it would be easy to envision her reclining on silken pillows with her hair down. . If one imagined very hard.

Gertrude arched a dark brow then smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle away from her emerald and gold gown. “My dear girl, if you’re fool enough to believe that all debutants are virgins or wives are loyal to their husbands, then I wish you joy of your ignorance. . . But then again you’re not a virgin now are you?”

Gertrude whispered this so low and behind her fan that Harriet realized immediately that it was a studied art. She gaped at her aunt.

Did she exude strumpet? Was that it?

And then the other part of her aunt’s declaration hit her.

She gasped. Her aunt had been unfaithful? Had she heard that correctly or was she reading far too much into Gertrude’s words.

“Are you saying you—“

“Lower your voice,” Gertrude said, her tones surprisingly rich. Then she turned her knowing eyes on Harriet. “What do you think?”

Harriet’s uncle, Lord Partridge, was dead. He had been for some time, having made it to a grand old ninety years of age. He’d married Gertrude when he was seventy which was why it was likely Gertrude had no children of her own.

It was also a good reason for Gertrude who’d been young and beautiful to seek a handsome fellow to warm her bed.

It had never occurred to Harriet to give much thought to her aunt’s fate.

After all, unlike Gertrude, Harriet had avoided marriage. She would never have to marry for money or security. Uncle George had seen to that.

Gertrude had had no choice. Her parents had scraped themselves just past poverty and shoved their beautiful daughter onto an old man who already had four sons.

Harriet had a sudden realization that Gertrude probably wouldn’t care if she drank a bottle of champagne and danced a jig with her clothes off. . . as long as she didn’t get caught.

It was an interesting realization.

Not getting caught all those years ago after Garret had abandoned her was the only thing that had saved her from ruin. And not sharing the extent to which she and Garret had gone in their brief return to amour had also apparently saved her.

It was the only thing she could grudgingly thank Garret Hart for. He hadn’t ratted her out to either the past nor present Duke of Huntsdown. If he had, she had few doubts her family would be accused of raising a pack of whores.

Garret might be a rogue, but he wasn’t heartless.

The thought only sent a wave of pain through her ravaged heart.

Why was fate so very unkind?

She glanced at the couples whirling across the floor, all bathed in the beautiful and flattering glow of white wax candlelight. How many of those smiling, bejeweled dancers were hiding heartache like she was?

“You need to have a bit of fun my dear,” Aunt Gertrude said softly but firmly. “Like you used to. . . Only this time. . . I think you should marry.”

Harriet snapped her gaze back to her aunt. “What?”

Aunt Gertrude waved her fan slowly sending her stunning dark curls gently waving about her face. “If you marry, you can do a great deal more and not worry so much about society.”

Well there was a certain logic to that. On the other hand, she had her independence now, didn’t she? “But my money allows. . .”

“Didn’t protect your uncle or Emmaline in the end,” Gertrude interjected brutally. “A powerful and permissive husband can. That’s what I wish for you, my dear.”

It was galling to know the truth of it. All the money that Uncle George had amassed had not saved him from the brutality of the pack of wolves that was London society. In fact, his lack of title or status seemed to have made him a greater target on his fall.

The
ton
seemed to take positive glee in his social downfall.

Could that befall her too? She shouldn’t care! Harriet drew in a deep breath and eyed the glittering surroundings and heard the notes of the orchestra as they played the latest music from Paris. Her pride told her that she could forsake all this and simply retire to the country and live a happy life.

If she were brutally honest, she liked this life, even if she didn’t care for all the people. Spending the rest of her days in some remote corner of England obsessed with sheep sounded absolutely terrible.

Marriage
.

She’d been so determined to avoid that noose. . . Except to one particular infuriating man. But she needed to stop having those fantasies that somehow, after even all these years and terribly hurt feelings, she’d get to marry him.

It wasn’t going to occur.

“How do I even know this husband would be. . . Er. . . Permissive?”

Gertrude gave her a delighted, slow smile. “We’ll start a list shall we?”

Suddenly there was a titter of gossip. It went through the crowd standing about the ballroom like a wave and even the dancers on the floor started craning their heads, looking this way and that to find the object of interest.

Gertrude snapped her fan shut. “Well this should be amusing.”

“What? What should?”

“Brace yourself, my dear.”

Harriet was rather tired of bracing herself. It seemed she’d been doing it for several years. And if she had to brace herself, it meant only one thing. One of the Hunts had entered the ballroom.

She prayed it wasn’t Edward. Because if it were, she’d go up to him and challenge him to a duel herself. No matter how Emmaline had tried to seem all right, Harriet had heard the poor girl sobbing into her pillow nearly every night.

Harriet resisted the urge to go up on tiptoe. She wasn’t going to be that obvious. So, instead, she turned to her aunt, giving the approaching Hart her back. Perhaps she should simply make for the garden then the coach.

“Don’t you dare bolt!” Gertrude commanded. “It will only add to the gossip.”

“So would a pool of blood on the floor,” she said tightly.

Gertrude snorted. . . Harriet suddenly wondered if she’d received several slightly socially scandalous traits from this particular aunt.

After a long moment, Gertrude snapped open her fan. “It’s Lord Garret Hart.”

Harriet cursed under her breath.

“Now, now dear.” Gertrude gave her a sly smile. “The best way to irk him is to appear completely unaffected by his presence.”

Unaffected?

She was going to turn into a pool of nerves at any moment. The last time they’d seen each other had been one of the most earth-shattering moments of her life. It wasn’t fair that he should be here now.

But when had life ever been fair?

“My, my,” Aunt Gertrude purred.

“What?” Harriet demanded.

“He has quite a delicious friend with him.”

Harriet couldn’t help herself. She craned her neck and looked.

Gertrude tapped her with her fan. “Don’t be obvious, my dear.”

Harriet’s mouth opened. My, my indeed.

Garret was a god among men. It was undeniable. But he was a cheeky, rogue. A man who was delicious, slightly dangerous, but all in all good humored. . . When he wasn’t breaking her heart like an absolute arse.

The man beside him? He was a different sort of dangerous altogether.

Harriet felt a slight chill go down her spine. “Who is that?”

Gertrude’s smile deepened. “I met him years ago when he was little more than a boy. That is the Earl of Carlyle, my dear. . . And he definitely belongs on our list.”

“What?” she yelped. “He certainly does not.”

“Oh come now. Imagine getting into bed with that a few times a week.”

Harriet stared at the man then felt her cheeks go up in flames. No. No. She had no desire to climb into bed with a man who looked like he might as soon chomp her to bits as make love to her. She had a rather certain feeling that he viewed women as conquests, not as people.

And she had no desire to put her hands into the fate of a man who looked like he might try to raid her
fortress
rather than gain peaceable entrance
.

There was also the simple fact that the Earl of Carlyle was here with
him
. A strong indicator the two might be friends.

She hoped beyond all possible hope that the two men who were so damnably attractive and full of arrogance that the entire room was following them with their eyes would simply head to the card room or find ladies to dance.

Instead, as if targeting her like a shooter on a hunting party, they swept towards her.

Lord Garret’s eyes widened slowly but then his face hardened.

Lord Carlyle on the other hand? A wicked grin slowly parted his lips.

The earl gave a sweeping bow and held out his hand before her. “Medusa, I presume?”

A sound, not quite human, trumpeted from her throat. Medusa? Medusa? She dragged her gaze from the simply gorgeous Earl of Carlyle’s and she narrowed her gaze upon the apparently unapologetic Lord Garret Hart. Oh, if this was how it was going to be, this night was going to be a night the
ton
never forgot.