The Rogue and I (3 page)

Lest she be caught in her own fascination by the idea of having his hard length at her disposal once again, Harriet turned from him. “Happily sir. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to feed upon your foolishness.”

“Ah!” Forced though it doubtlessly was, a bright, rich laugh escaped his lips. “Fool am I? It is true,” he said lightly, as if this were merely some game meant to entertain the onlookers. “Only such a kind fool would forbear such a creature as you.”

Harriet whipped around, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. “Better a creature than a carbuncle.”

“Have done!” James cried, stepping forward. Alarm creased his handsome face, clearly concerned he might physically have to restrain them like some bizarre societal referee. “Come, come make peace from this merry war.”

Harry quickly shook off her surprisingly intense pique and dipped a smooth curtsy, knowing it showed off her shoulders and posture to their most pleasing. “Happily, our relatives are not so merry as your brother and I. Therefore they shall be happily married.” She glanced at Garret from the corner of her eye. “Is that not so, my lord?”

“No woman could be as merry as you madam,” Garret acknowledged through clenched teeth.

“Then let us proceed into the house!” her uncle exclaimed, shaking his white head in exasperation. “Thank the gods they have given me a sweet tempered daughter.” His face broke into a grin. “Though he has given me such a niece that I might appreciate my sweet one.”

“Oh indeed, uncle,” Harriet jested, her mood lifting at the thought of the family that had so kindly taken her in when her own parents had died not three years ago. “It is why I try you every day.”

“Is that the only reason?” Garret drawled, stepping behind her.

Harriet threw him a crushing stare, desperately attempting to ignore his closeness. “I try you, my lord, simply because you are trying.”

“Birds of a feather then!” James exclaimed, an overly bright note to his deep voice as he marched forward. Quickly, he grabbed hold of Harriet’s arm. “Do lead us in Mr. Trent. We are eager for the wedding celebrations to take place.”

Harriet’s uncle swept his arm forward, allowing for the duke to walk before him. “Of course, your grace. We have champagne and quail eggs ready.”

“Marvelous,” his grace said. “Do the honor of guiding me Miss Harriet.”

She smiled at him. Why hadn’t she fallen madly in love with James? He was so kind, so thoughtful. Oh, no. She’d had to set her heart on the wily rogue of the family. “Certainly, your grace.”

With that, they all swept up the steps, a temporary silence about them as they paired up to travel through the halls and into the salon.

It only took a matter of moments before Harry glanced carefully at the duke. He seemed rather distracted, his lips pressed together as he manfully led her forward, though he did allow her to guide him towards the wide entrance of the gold and ivory salon.

Somewhere not far behind, that
man
was following. It was all she could do not to turn back and see what exactly his face looked like. No doubt, he was preparing another host of barbs. Well, she would be ready for them.

But why, oh Lord, why did he have to be so handsome? So virile? Once, he had simply been strong. In the years since he’d been gone from her life, he’d become a veritable physical fortress. The very breadth of him seemed designed to make women throw themselves forward and offer their bodies up to be awakened.

It wasn’t fair, for she knew she was no particular beauty. No doubt, he considered himself very lucky that he had escaped their relationship.

All the more reason to be a thorn in his side.

She smiled prettily up at his grace. “Have you enjoyed your return to England?”

James returned her smile as they marched towards a settee of striped white silk. A hint of sadness marred his features. “England is a place like no other and it gives me great pleasure to return to its soil.”

“Prettily done, your grace,” Harry said as she allowed him to seat her.

He remained standing, hands behind his broad back. “How so, Miss Harriet?”

It took all her control not to look behind him and glance at his brother. It would be all too easy, what with the merriment beginning to brew as her uncle went to the champagne bottles nestled in ice in their silver urns. Still, she managed to keep her gaze on the duke’s handsome, yet friendly, face. “Well, it seems to me that is a very well-prepared answer for my question. Do you truly mean it?”

He blinked. For a moment, it looked as if he might deny her comment. His brow furrowed and he smiled ruefully. “You are a very perceptive young lady. I am happy to return, but it is odd to be here amidst such lovely people when, but months ago, my brothers and I were treading in the mud fighting the French.”

“Of course.” She couldn’t imagine it, herself. The very idea of separating herself from her home, from peace, and launching herself into war was as elusive to her as quicksilver.

He glanced back at Garret, his face suddenly tight with concern. “It is not always easy to adjust after such trials.”

A sense of guilt washed over Harriet. “Do forgive me. I’m sure you don’t wish to speak of it.”

The duke swung his gaze back to her and he laughed. “No. Not truly. Though when in London it is all anyone ever wishes to speak of.”

She lifted her brow slightly. “And who would wish to bring London to the country?”

“Not I.”

A maid quickly crossed over to them bearing glasses of champagne. Harry took her crystal flute wishing just a little that it wouldn’t be entirely inappropriate to take the bottle rather than the glass.

The duke glanced down at his glass. “It does seem we are about to have a toast.”

“Or ten,” rumbled a rather gruff voice.

Harry narrowed her eyes. “Pardon, but did someone say something?”

“Going deaf so soon, dear lady? Then of course, it happens with the years.” Garret threw himself down onto the settee next to her, the tails of his long, dark coat fluttering over her skirts.

She scowled at him, flicking the fabric off her lap.

“That look shall not frighten me away, Miss Harriet. I know it already only too well.”

“Garret,” his brother hissed in warning.

“Yes?” Garret asked, his eyes innocent as a newborn pup. “I am entirely innocent of any wrongdoing.”

Harry snorted.

It was a terribly unladylike sound that had both gentlemen and her cousin turning and glaring at her. However, it was Emmaline’s glare of doom that had her pulling in her claws. Her cousin would never forgive her if she ruined the wedding festivities.

No blood,
her cousin mouthed.

“Whatever are you implying with that most intriguing noise?” Garret asked, his strong fingers playing at his crystal flute.

Harry’s gaze dropped to that ridiculously strong grip about the delicate glass. Nicks and scars marred his once perfect hand. Only. . . Only it did seem, to her growing fluster, that those marks only improved the masculinity of those talented fingers.

“Miss Harriet?” the duke prodded.

She blinked several times, wondering if Garret’s fingers would rasp roughly now against soft skin. “Hmm?”

“Woolgathering?” Garret drawled. As though he were perfectly aware of what she was thinking, he caressed his fingers ever so slowly along the cut glass, tracing the intricate patterns as he might trace a woman’s—

“Your grace,” her uncle called. “A moment.”

The duke bowed slightly to her and headed across the room, a concerned expression on his face as he glanced back at them.

Harry shifted on her seat, waiting till they were decently alone. “I do beg your pardon, your voice.” She opened her mouth in an exaggerated yawn, then patted her lips delicately. “It was sending me right off to sleep.”

Garret’s mouth pressed together in a thin line, his dark eyes probing. “Are you implying that I am boring madam?”

She gasped in mock surprise. “Oh, dear. How clumsy of me to suggest such a thing.” She batted her lashes at him, wishing her own lashes were as long as his black ones. “No. Of course not.”

He hesitated for just a breath then lowered his gaze to her mouth. “I recall a time in which you found me most stimulating.”

She recalled it too, the blasted man. ‘Twas a recollection that still could send heat blooming to her most intimate places. Her body just could not grasp, as her mind had done, that it should despise the specimen of male perfection before her. “Hmm. I think you must be mistaken. Men in general are not stimulating.”

His lips twisted into a mock grin. Delight was evident in his suddenly lilting voice. “You prefer women do you? That isn’t how I recall you. Though I find the idea of you in a lady’s company most. . . intriguing.”

Heat blasted her cheeks as she realized what he was saying. The fact that she had given him the means to say it galled her past bearing. She twisted suddenly, ready to spring to her feet. Before she could gather her skirts and make her escape, champagne sloshed over the rim of her glass.

Splattering straight onto his groin.

“Oh!” she exclaimed in mock horror even as a secret dose of sheer delight coursed through her. Ha! The supercilious man looked as if he had wet himself. “Allow me to fetch someone to help you.”

Gently, he grabbed her elbow, keeping her seated beside him. “What if I wished you to help me instead. After all,
you
did attempt to baptize me with liquor.”

“I—I—” Harry found herself ready to babble. There was not a chance in Christendom that her hands were going anywhere near the vicinity of his groin.

“You were trying to save me from my sins were you not?” He eyed her slowly, his gaze trailing over her face and then blazing over her plumped breasts. Slowly, he lifted his gaze back to hers. “Come, cleanse me.”

A peep of indignation sprung from her lips. He had never been quite so outrageous. Not before. Before, he had been experienced. . . And yet, innocent for all his prowess. “That would hardly be appropriate.”

“Since when have you given a blast for propriety,” he breathed quietly.

“You—You—” The sudden image of her helping him out of those snug, dark breeches flashed before her. She already knew his legs to be strong. . . And his—

A long laugh rumbled from his throat, that dark seductive look replaced by one of amusement. “Oh, my dear Miss Harriet, always a pleasure to get the best of you.”

And with that the bounder stood and crossed over to Meredith.

Harry gaped as he bent and beamed down at her busty cousin, who was pushing her bosoms out at a preposterous angle.

A growl rumbled out of her throat.

Emmaline glanced in her direction. Quickly, she shook her head.
Don’t
, she mouthed.

When Harry narrowed her eyes, a look of sheer panic widened Emmaline’s eyes.
Please
, she mouthed again so exaggeratedly it was amazing the entire room didn’t believe her to be having a fit.

Harry looked down morosely at her remaining champagne. If she drank it now, there’d be none to toast. Then, no doubt, Lord Pompous would run about calling her a drunkard.

A spinster drunkard.

It was still tempting to toss the remainder back and wave at the maid like some old parliamentarian who survived on brandy and mistresses alone.

She managed to resist, digging her fingers into her palm to relieve the growing tension in her muscles.

If he thought he had gotten the best of her, he had no idea what was coming to him.

As if he heard her thoughts, he looked back at her with those dark, dangerous eyes. For one single moment, he raked those eyes over her body, full of memory.

Harry sniffed and turned away. Indignation raged through her. How could she have allowed him to affect her so? She knew him for the liar he was. Well, if he wanted to play a game of mock seduction, she’d be more than happy to oblige.

She’d have him running for the hills.

Breeches in hand.

Chapter 3

He shouldn’t have done that. But, God, it had been fun.

Garret stood, nodding politely at the buxom young woman’s wooly utterances. Something about ribbon, he felt sure. But his thoughts were still entirely on Harry. His marvelous, horrifying Harry.

No.

Harriet.

He no longer had the right to call her Harry. She’d yanked that from him quite brutally one night five years ago. The memory of standing in his father’s study, listening to the words that had stolen the last of his boyhood beliefs in love threw cold water on his fond memories of
that
woman.

She had ripped his heart, and the last of idealistic beliefs, to shreds. He would not regret a few words that made her feel discomforted.

He wouldn’t.

She deserved far worse. Dragging through the muddy streets of London was actually too good for her. Yet, to his growing irritation and intrigue, she looked better for their barbarous exchange.

Her cheeks were flushed with fury and she kept snapping dagger glances at him. Those fiery looks were so cutting, one might have thought she was envisioning his emasculation at this very moment. It was the one thing that kept him from imagining her slender hands and passionate mouth about his cock.

The fact that she, no doubt, would damage it rather than make love to it, helped him divert his wandering musings. He shuddered at the possibility of what she might now do to him as opposed to what she had once done. But God, she was stunning. Stunning in a way that no other woman could ever hope to be.

“Are you chilled?”

“Pardon?” he asked, on instinct. He really had no idea what the young woman at his side was saying.

“Chilled?” The chit, he couldn’t recall her name, gazed up at him with large, rather unintelligent, yet warm, and, he had a niggling feeling, willing, eyes. “Would you care to stand nearer to the fire?”

Garret shook his head. In truth, he’d grown quite warm from his sparring with Harriet. “No. Not at all.”

The girl giggled. . . Why did girls have to giggle so profusely in his presence? It was something he didn’t understand. He’d been a captain on the battlefield. How exactly did he inspire such sounds?