The Rogue and I (4 page)

He cleared his throat in an attempt not to cringe at the vapid tones. Still, he often managed to ignore the simpering trills of the feminine sex when pleasure was imminent. There was also the added advantage that it would infuriate Harry if he were to pursue this young woman. . . If only he could recall her name.

Surely, it would be rude to ask at this moment. Instead, he supplied softly, “It is most kind of you to be concerned.”

She giggled again. Her mouth opened in a great expression of excitement as she was clearly ready to begin another diatribe on the stimulating subject of millinery.

Thankfully, the gods had their eyes out for him. A servant, his crimson livery almost garish in its quality, marched through the doors and announced in wobbly tones. “Mr. Forthryte.”

Garret rolled his eyes. John. The great idiot. He should have just run up to his rooms and hidden until a more appropriate moment to expose himself to the party presented itself.

James was going to kill the whelp. In a possibly bloody fashion.

Typical to form, John entered in bold strides, his russet-haired head high and his stance as arrogant as Nelson. The entire room turned towards the errant young man. All of them perfectly aware of his pointed rudeness at arriving so late.

And in such a state.

Could the boy make it any clearer that he’d been trysting with a local wench? Only if he had yelled it to the proverbial hills.

The lace cravat tied about his throat was crumpled. His shirt looked as though it might have seen a battle to keep it in place. His fawn colored breeches, thank God, though creased, were still intact.

For all he’d been wild, Garret couldn’t ever recall being so blatantly ungentlemanly. Surely, he’d rogered his share of young women after the famous Harriet had trodden so beautifully upon him, but even he had practiced a modicum of discretion.

John stared at them for a moment, not the slightest bit of contrition on his ridiculously angelic face. It was a damn nuisance that face. Women flocked to him like he was their savior, when, in fact, John was the path straight to hell. And a baby. The man’s seed was legendary. There were Forthryte bastards from here to Dover. . . France was also a country peppered with russet-haired angels.

Or at least so he had been told.

Finally, John swept an embellished bow and came up smiling. The same sort of smile that a vampire no doubt smiles before a bit of blood. “Do forgive me.”

From his deep tones, one might even believe he meant it. But the Hart brothers knew better of the black sheep. The man was a born liar. Or at least a well-taught one. And oh, how he had learned. Actors in Garrick’s company would weep at the beauty of his talents.

John crossed the room in a few short strides. With an exaggerated sense of gallantry, he took Emmaline’s limp hand in his large one. “Can you forgive such a cad?” Then he shook his head, causing the locks, yes, they really were locks on such a man, to fluff in burnished feathers. “No. No. I am unforgivable. To arrive so horribly late to such a beauty’s celebrations.”

The Hart brothers all simultaneously fought there gag reflex. But Garret was infinitely curious as to how Emmaline and family would respond to his sugary placations.

Emmaline looked up at John, a hint of confusion in her usually clear eyes. “Of course you are forgiven,” she said as any genteel lady must. “I only hope you are well and that your lateness is not due to some misfortune.”

“Your concern warms my heart,” John said, as sweetly as any vacuous puppy might. “But I am in as much good health as such a bounder as myself can be.” He patted her fingers lightly. “Now, even though you have, I know my dear brothers shan’t forgive me. I am always landing myself in trouble.” He smiled down at Emmaline, baring perfect, white teeth. “You see, his poor grace must always rescue me from ever so many scrapes.”

He said it with such charm, Emmaline laughed. “Well then, we must thank him.”

John’s smile widened. “Oh, I do. Every day.”

John turned to Emmaline’s father. “I must thank you, sir, for your kind hospitality. Not everyone would welcome me so graciously into their home.”

The entire room hushed at John’s blatant reference to his bastardy. Garret snapped his gaze to James, wondering how long the eldest Hart would allow this show to continue. He also couldn’t help wondering if his half-brother had been imbibing in local brew as well as the local women.

Mr. Trent nodded, but his shaggy, white brows were drawn together into one long caterpillar-like line of consternation. “Any friend. . . Ehm. Of course, I mean brother, of my daughter’s intended is a dear friend of this house.”

“It would seem I only continue to increase in luck and friends.”

“How pleasant for you,” Harriet drawled.

Garret bit back a laugh. He couldn’t stand the woman, but no one could surpass Harriet for a properly sharp remark at the most inappropriately amusing time.

John, so used to winning over everyone around him, clearly missed her flat out sarcasm. He turned to her, flashing his beaming grin. “Why yes. It is very pleasant. And you! You shall be my dearest cousin, shall you not?”

Harriet coughed then managed a small smile, though she eyed him as if he were some strange multi-legged insect which had wandered into her parlor. “Yes. I supposed we shall have that connection.”

“Wonderful!” John threw his arms wide, the lace at his wrists and throat fluttering. “Come cousin, you must embrace me.”

“John,” Garret said so lowly one might have thought it hadn’t been said at all. An unreasonable feeling of fury fired through him. It wasn’t that John was rude to Harriet. It was a matter of family honor.

John lowered his arms, his lips turning into a sad little pout. “Ah. I see I must ask for forgiveness again. Whatever am I to do?”

“Perhaps you should travel with a priest,” Harriet said lightly, though her smile had turned brittle. “They do specialize in absolution. You could be forgiven again and again with no inconvenience to your brothers.”

“How clever of you, Miss Harriet.” Only this time, John’s jovial tone had disappeared, despite his affable expression. It had clearly tumbled through his head that this particular woman had not been seduced by his face. Or his practiced false flattery.

“John,” James said tightly. “Perhaps you would like to freshen yourself before you join us again.”

John’s shoulders tensed like a dog about to bristle, but then he laughed. “Certainly.” With a bow to his less than pleased audience, he turned and went from the room with just as much boyish arrogance as when he had entered.

The tension in the room didn’t dissipate. It was always a risk taking John out in public with them, but James was determined to wrap him into the folds of the Hart family tree, even if his branch was a bit rickety. Or rotten.

Finally, Garret could bear it no more. “Thank goodness for clever Miss Harriet or the poor fellow would never have stopped rattling away.”

A titter of laughter traveled through the room. And then Garret found himself doing something mad. Absolutely, fantastically mad. He lifted his glass high, the crystal winking in the afternoon light. “To Miss Harriet.”

The entire room glanced about, all of them clearly curious as to whether Garret was actually toasting his nemesis, then they all lifted their glasses and chanted, “Miss Harriet!”

Garret let his attention fall on the woman in question and felt his jaw try to drop. Through sheer willpower he kept his supposedly firm chin in place. She was staring at him as if he’d come from the moon, if such a thing were possible. Her stunning mouth was slightly ajar as if she’d been brained. Suspicion definitely lurked in her wild, blue eyes.

Garret shifted on his feet, wishing he had not opened that oh so dangerous door. He should have just made a bleeding comment about the weather to distract everyone. Now, he had to stop her from looking at him as if he were an ant that had sprouted a second head. He lifted his glass again and turned to the would-be bride and groom. “To the mad-capped pair set on their own doom.”

Edward threw him a ball-crushing stare, but Emmaline laughed, a tinkling sound that unfortunately did resemble a giggle.

To Garret’s relief, they all drank from their glasses and the conversation resumed. Just as should be done, Mr. Trent gestured to the servants for another round of champagne. Even so, he couldn’t quite help sneaking a look at Harriet.

She’d traveled over to her cousin and Edward.

As soon as she joined the couple, James crossed to them and they looked like such a merry group that he was tempted to be sick. Really. Who on earth fed off such ridiculous notions of happiness?

Surely, she didn’t. Not after what she’d done so long ago. But here she stood, chatting to the happy couple, pretending that her cousin and his brother were about to embark upon a Cupid induced bout of connubial bliss.

Even more perverse, out of the corner of his eye, Garret spotted James. The idiot was looking at Harriet with a strange, new interest. Strange being a mixture of emerging lust and fascination. Neither feeling being at all acceptable in Garret’s view.

He snapped his gaze back and forth from Harriet, gloriously cheeky and beautiful snake that she was, to his staid elder brother. There it was. The look. That terrifying look all males took on when contemplating the possibility of a future mate.

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

Surely his brother had learned from his own unfortunate venturings?

But James had done far more stupid things than setting his interests on a conniving strumpet. No matter how false she was. Or the fact that she could pull a man to her like a blasted siren. After all, that’s exactly what she was. A siren. And what happened when men heard the siren’s song? They bashed their brains out on the blooming rocks.

No.

He wouldn’t permit his brother to be as foolish as he once had been. No Hart would ever be in her clutches again.

He’d die first, his own brains bashed out on her frigging siren’s beaches before he let his brother suffer such a fate.

*    *     *

D
evonshire

Five Years Earlier

Good gad! Not only was she going to look awful, she truly was going to die. And the coffin really was going to have to be closed. Harriet blinked at the murky depths, pain squeezing her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Bubbles fluttered out of her nose and she fought a gasp.

Water rushed into her mouth. Her hands bashed at the water to no avail. Not only did she have little idea how to propel herself back to the surface, her skirts, yards of printed cotton, pulled her down towards the tangling plant life.

The long, slimy fingers of grass wrapped about her ankles, like hands of the dead in Hades underworld claiming her. She looked up, her hair floated in golden tendrils above her. Far away was the whitish surface, the sun sparkling on the bobbing top.

In one mighty, last attempt, she kicked against the imprisoning grass and tried for the surface.

Her lungs screamed with pain and she inadvertently opened her mouth. More gritty water gushed in. Unbearable, searing pain whipped at her lungs as the thick liquid filled the small organs.

This was to be all then.

She was going to die at nineteen without experiencing any of the world. Or having fallen in love. It seemed a great crime.

A shadow passed over the bright surface. Something large darted towards her. But she couldn’t quite make it out. Suddenly, she realized it was a man.

She couldn’t really see him, her vision growing as muddy as the bottom of the lake. Strong hands grabbed her and tugged her upward, but then she sank back down.

Blinking drunkenly, she tried to see his face, but couldn’t make it out, his own long, dark hair flowing before his face. In a few short movements, he yanked at her clothing. She felt light, like one of those miraculous balloons that took to the sky and floated over the countryside.

He grabbed hold of her. His hard body pressed tightly against hers. Then they were rushing to the surface. They broke to the air and Harriet tried to suck in a breath but couldn’t.

It all happened quickly. He shoved her up and into the bobbing boat. It tilted sidewise and then he was in beside her.

His face, beautiful lines with magical, amber eyes, was frantic. He twisted her, so she faced down. Before she knew what was happening, her corset clunked to the bottom of the boat. She coughed and spat up a noxious amount of brownish water.

“Get it all up,” he commanded, pounding her back.

Under his enthusiastic ministrations, she almost bounced her face against the grainy boards at the bottom of the small boat. But at last she was able to draw in a full breath. Slowly, she turned back to him. “Th-Thank you.”

He beamed down at her, white teeth glinting in the sun. His wet, dark hair flicked about his face in thick, dripping strands. “You’re most welcome.”

Good God, he was beautiful. For the first time in many years, she found herself wishing she had been born with her mother’s stunning looks. As it was, she was fairly average in the facial department.

His white shirt was plastered to his body, making it eminently clear he spent a great deal of time exercising outdoors. The only place she had ever seen a similar musculature was in the British Museum in Lord Elgin’s collection.

She lifted a limp hand. “How do you do. I’m the Lady of Shalot.”

He stared at her blankly for a moment. Then his eyes snapped with amusement and he laughed, a full, bright and marvelous sound. He took her wet hand in his big grasp. “Sir Lancelot, at your service.”

She frowned up at him. “Actually, I’m not sure I like that.”

He settled back on his haunches on the low bench, his hand still grasping hers. “Whyever not? Lancelot is a deucedly fine fellow.”

She smiled, unable to really do anything else in his warm presence. Oh, and the feel of his slightly rough skin against her own? It was. . . Well, it was delicious. As a matter of fact, she thought she might hear the proverbial violins swelling. “You see, it all ended badly between the two.”

“Ah. Yes.” He frowned, clearly recalling the intricacies of the story. “She drowned and all that.”