The Rogue and I (24 page)

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked in mock offense.

“Well, we aren’t at the end of our story, now are we? Suppose our happily ever after is still at stake. Suppose—”

He immediately touched his index finger to her lips. “Perish any such negative thought. We shall have happily ever after even when we squabble like an old married people. For that is happily ever after, in my opinion.”

She kissed the tip of his finger then tilted her head to the side. “Old married people, eh?”

“Yes,” he said, tugging her up against him and folding his arms around her waist. “With our thirty-five grandchildren crawling about the lawn.”

Harriet widened her eyes and gasped. “My, you’re ambitious. How many children are
we
to have.”

“Oh, at least ten,” he said casually before he waggled his brows and cupped her bottom with his hand. “Let’s start now.”

A giggle escaped her lips. “I think that’s a very good idea.”

“Harry?” he said.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Lancelot. I love you too.”

The End

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L
ondon

It is an accepted fact that a young widow, even a decidedly proper one, should not—absolutely not—knock on an infamous bachelor’s door. For such shocking action might result in the permanent eviction of said young widow from the society of all but Yorkshire sheepherders. Even so, Kathryn Darrell had decided that an entire life already spent rusticating in the country was significant reason to cause the largest scandal the Season had ever seen and she was going to do it with more panache than any other lady who’d launched herself into sin. So, without allowing herself to think twice, she lifted her chin and rapped on the door of Number Six Belgrave Square.

Kate drew in a slow, calming breath. She had every right to feel uneasy. Spending months planning her own debauchery was one thing; executing it was quite another. She resisted the urge to glance back at her footman, Gregory, who waited with the coach. Instead, she kept her gaze firmly upon the dark blue door. The particularly brawny servant would only be a shout away if she needed.

While she intended to be bold, she was no fool. She’d more than enough experience with foolishness. And everything was running in perfect accordance to her plans. Plans she’d been forming for months. She’d set an appointment under the anonymous name of one Mr. Braithwait. Fortunately, nothing interfered with her scheduled drive to the appointment. Now, she was about to set sights on the handsome butler who would lead her up to his far more handsome master. She would finally step into a world distant from unkindness and castigation.

Footsteps echoed on the other side of the door. She stared at the beautifully carved double blue doors as if she could see who was on the other side.

A shattering crash echoed somewhere overhead, and just as she looked up to the first floor, the door swung open, exposing a tall rectangle of candle glow and the silhouette of a squat man.

Kate jerked her gaze back to the butler in the doorway and blinked. Handsome the man was not. Crusty. It was the only word that came to mind.

He peered at her silently. Tufts of his eyebrows jutted out over his myopic blue eyes. He blinked.

Kate waited, hoping to God he would say something. She doubted the words ‘I’ve come to bed your master’ would gain her admittance into the house, and suddenly she found that her lips were rather reluctant to carry out her plan. Kate mustered her most winning grin, the grin she used to coax rectors, stubborn sheep herders, and too tightly laced curmudgeons of both the male and female variety. “I’ve come to see His Grace.”

The butler coughed lightly, bringing his gloved hand to his lips. “No.”

Kate pulled back her chin before she could stick it too far forward, a terrible habit she’d never broken. “No, sir?”

“No, miss.”

“But—” Well, what a dratted nuisance! Couldn’t the fellow just let her in? What possible excuse could she give to gain admittance to the abode of her impending debauchment? “But I have an appointment!”

S
lowly, Cordelia opened her eyes and realized he was staring down at her. His gaze was half closed with desire. “I want you,” he whispered. “Without reservations. Once. Just once.”

And oh how she wanted him. Her husband. It was such a cruel twist of fate that the man she suddenly desired more than any other man she’d ever met before was the very man who she should hate above all others. He had abandoned her, after all. Yet, her body refused to hate him. She said nothing, but lifted her hand and traced the side of his face, wishing he wasn’t so handsome, wishing that he didn’t make her feel so utterly alive in his embrace.

He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the striped pink silk chaise and lowered her so that she sat facing him. Easing her down, he knelt directly before her on the soft rug. His fingers flicked at the hem of her skirt as he held her gaze, his eyes ablaze with dangerous passion.

“I have thought of nothing else since last night,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Nothing else but you.”

“I am not going to bed you and. . .” Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. His words were pure torture to her conflicted soul. It was imperative she remember it was her body he wanted and nothing else. And in fact, it was only his body she longed for. For she knew him not at all. “I do not believe such drivel, my lord.”

“Jack,” he said softly as if she hadn’t just made her position plain. “You must call me Jack. And it is not drivel. It’s the truth.”

Good God, his gaze was powerful, she wanted to tear her own away, but couldn’t. Not when his eyes seemed to speak more volumes about what he would do to her just awakened body than any words could ever do. In fact, his eyes seemed to have a direct connection to her soul and the wild heat spinning within her. “Truth though it may be, calling you by your given name seems. . . unwise.”

“But you must,” he tilted his head slightly, his dark hair brushing his forehead. “Because we
are
going to be intimate. Very, very intimate”

His hands traced over her slippers then he clasped her ankles, massaging his thumbs over her silk stockings. She gulped. “Are we?” she asked feeling most uncommonly stupefied.

In reply, he tugged her skirts up, sliding them over her knees, pressing them back to her hips, exposing her stockinged legs and her lace undergarments.

Shock and a most alarming anticipation held her frozen. She should move. She really should, and yet her damnable curiosity held her still. Yes. Curiosity should always be explored and she’d often wondered about the mating rituals of. . . She sucked in a shaking gasp as she realized that she was indeed going to see what he might do next.

D
uncan Hamish Fergus, the tenth Duke of Blackburn, loathed Sassenachs. Even more so, he loathed house parties thrown by said Sassenachs. He loathed everything about them. Whether it be the shrill giggling of the silly women, the arrogant chest-puffing of the gentlemen, or the way in which they shot every bird that flew through the air, he loathed them. And of all of them, he loathed his neighbor Lady Imogen Cavendish the most.

For some reason that Duncan couldn’t quite fathom, Scotland had become popular. Perhaps the lords and ladies of England had simply grown bored with shooting birds on their own land. Now, apparently sickened with ennui, every Englishman who could find a carriage to take him north had cast off their trews and donned a kilt. Knobby knees or no.

It was enough to make a Scots’ man weep.

All those bloody Englishmen apparently, given his frequent hearings and sightings of drunken, merry-making lords, had one destination. Lady Cavendish’s hunting lodge. Yesterday’s report of a particularly loathsome sighting had been the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

Duncan strode over the frost-covered heather, bent on confronting Lady Cavendish once and for all. He could have sent his man. Most would. But for once, he wanted to vent his full rage upon the ridiculous woman, who was as useful as a soft slipper upon a Highland ben.

He loved the Highlands in winter, silent except for the wild wind, bitter cold, and brushed with God’s own perfect snow. He should have been enjoying his solitude and management of his estates, not herding a Sassenach woman like a sheepdog worries an errant sheep. But he was. And he was going to give her a setdown that would have her running for London and all its sinful pleasures.

He gazed up at the crisp sky that was shockingly blue for the first week of December and the last week of the hunting season. It should have been full white, heavy with snow, or wicked gray full of slashing rain. But no. It had to be marvelously blue. Which of course meant that the idiocy of Lady Cavendish’s guests would only escalate above their already foolhardy state. Good weather meant excessive sport, and he’d be bloody damned if he was going to let another gun wander onto his estate without his permission.

He didn’t permit shooting for entertainment on his land. It was a damned foolish occupation, picking birds out of the sky because a man had nothing better to do. Almost any occupation was better, and certainly kinder to the animals that graced the land.

The gurgling of a rushing stream filled the air, and he headed down toward it. The silvery bit of water marked the end of his estate and the beginning of a small tract of land belonging to the Englishwoman. Why in God’s name an English widow would wish to have a small bit of the Highlands was beyond him, except for the fact she seemed to like to invite hordes of Sassenachs and behave as though her tiny patch of land was Sodom and Gomorrah.

It should have been a pleasant day.

He should have been out managing the herds of great Highland cattle.

He should have been speaking with tenants, assuring them that Scotland’s woes were behind them now that Parliament, in all its pompous wisdom, had decided to ease many of the cruel laws against the Northerners.

But it wasn’t.

Frankly, any day a Scot had to come face-to-face with a Sassenach since the Battle of Culloden was a bad one.

Just as he was about to swipe at an ancient and massive holly bush, despite its prickly leaves, he curved around the foliage and bashed into a soft form. His foot caught in the long hem of a cape, and he slipped on the wet grass.

A feminine yelp of dismay burst from said soft form, and just before he could land full bore atop the woman, he twisted his body, wrapped his arms around her slight form, and took the force of their tumble, landing on his back.

Every single one of her womanly curves seemed pressed against his body.

He held absolutely still. For surely, if he held absolutely still, his mind would stop the sudden riot that had commenced within his usually perfectly ordered head.

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