The Rogue and I (8 page)

Love.

It was a ridiculous word alluding to an emotion that no human was truly capable of feeling. No. Not after what he’d done. Not after what he and Harry had done to each other.

Chapter 8

Five Years Earlier

Devonshire

Oh blast. Now she’d gone and done it. The words which had seemed so perfect in her head soundly positively ludicrous to her ears. She waited. Waited for him to laugh at her foolishness or to chastise her for her sinful suggestion.

He didn’t.

Instead, his gaze lowered to her lips, his amber eyes widening with a heat she had never seen before in a gentleman. How she longed to reach out, but she really wasn’t sure what to do.

Under his gaze, every bit of her seemed painfully alive. Stupidly, seemingly unable to control her errant brain, she found herself saying, “If you don’t kiss me, I shall have to kiss
you
. I shall make a muck of it you see. I have no idea how to go about a proper—”

In one quick movement, his hands were on her forearms and he pulled her to him. The boat bobbed wildly, but she ignored it, her only focus was him. On his strong arm wrapping about her, pulling her barely clad body against his.

With his other hand he cupped her chin. He lingered for a moment. “This isn’t wise,” he whispered. Then negating his own admission, he brought his mouth down on hers roughly. Hungrily. His hand slid from her chin to the nape of her neck, holding her steady for his demanding kiss.

Harriet held absolutely still. It was all too much. The feel of his muscles under her fingertips. It was shocking how they flexed and bunched. The softness of his lips mixed with the hardness of his kiss rendered her dumb.

Something rose inside her, a desire to claim him just as he seemed to be claiming her. For this was what it felt like, him laying claim to her mouth. To her soul.

She opened her lips slightly, inviting him unknowingly. His tongue slipped between her lips, caressing her. Probing her. The wild rightness of it sent her spinning. She stroked his tongue back with her own, opening her mouth wider, to taste more of him.

As though he might suddenly disappear like an apparition or a dream, she clung to him, holding him hard against her. The warm, tingly passion of it roared through her, the world a million miles away as they shifted and moved their faces to kiss deeper. It was as if he were trying to climb inside her.

Her hands slid up to his dark hair, twining in the damp strands. Slowly, his mouth moved down to her neck kissing her pulse. Harry’s head dropped back and her eyes opened to the bright, blue sky. Perhaps she had died and, in fact, she had been transported to heaven.

His firm lips opened ever so slightly and he nibbled at her skin as he worked his way down to her collarbones. Her breath came in a shaky rhythm. This was impossible. Shocking. Deliciously wicked.

If her mother knew what she was doing! In plain sight out on a lake. In a boat. What she was allowing to be done. Somehow the thrill of it, and the fact that it was him, shoved all care and morality from her consideration.

Carefully, he tugged at her chemise. Cool air brushed her breasts and, ever so gently, his mouth closed over her nipple. Harriet gasped in wonder. A perfect ache formed between her legs and throbbed with every flick of his tongue on her sensitive flesh.

She lowered her gaze to the top of his dark head. Her fingers were still entwined in his hair, encouraging his kiss. If she threw all caution to the wind. . .

“This is madness,” she whispered.

Slowly, regretfully, he pulled back from her breast. “Yes. It is.”

She smiled slightly at him. He looked as if the most marvelous sweet in the world had just been yanked away from him. “Making love in a boat sounds tremendously romantic but really—”

He grinned. “It would be terribly awkward.”

“And if we capsized you would just have to go about saving me again.”

He gazed down at her, tucking an errant lock of her hair behind her ear. “I like saving you.”

Her heart pounded with a ridiculous glee at his words. “Lucky for you then I get into all sorts of scrapes.”

Not answering, he pressed a light kiss to her lips then turned and bounded over the boat’s edge. He landed in the water with a great splash.

He gripped the edge of the boat and that silly grin of his was plastered on his lips as he blinked the water from his eyes.

Shaking her head, Harry couldn’t tear her eyes from him. He was so. . . wonderful. Alive and charming. Just what a man should be.

“You know,” she said wildly. “I think you are going to be mine.”

Her Lancelot just smiled up at her and said, “Yes. Yes, I think I am.”

*     *      *

T
he Present

The Trent Estate

Harriet absolutely loved masked balls. It was the perfect opportunity to get away with a great deal. And tonight? Well, she had plans to make Lord Garret’s life pure hell. She was certainly dressed for the part.

“Cousin, I cannot believe you’re really wearing that!” Emmaline gasped with perfect horror.

Harriet preened before one of the tall hall mirrors, worthy of Versailles what with all the gold filigree. Red silk and silver cloth clung to her body. The bodice was a second skin, baring a fair amount of her breasts and all her shoulders with just the barest red silk straps about her arms. The skirt was a cascade of slick, red sin and silver ruffles which went perfectly with the diamond cuffs about her red gloves and the sparkling neckless at her throat. The mask was the piece de resistance. A red leather and diamond devil mask. Her rouged lips curled in a wicked grin. “It suits me, does it not?”

Emmaline merely shook her head in a disapproving, motherly fashion. Most of her face was hidden by white feathers. A vision of a swan, all perfect elegance, her gown shimmered white and soft pink, bedecked with feathers. “All I say, is don’t be tempted too much. You know what they say, sometimes a person becomes the mask.”

“How perfect. Just what I had in mind.”

“My darlings!” Uncle George entered with Meredith on his black clad arm, the girl in a gorgeous, green silk gown, no doubt some viney homage to Eve. After all, she had a ripe apple tied to her wrist.

Uncle George, maskless as of yet, took one look at Harry and rolled his eyes. “Really, my dear. You do know how to try this old man.”

Harry laughed gaily. Her uncle had been the dearest of souls. One of the only people who knew the events around herself and Lord Garret. She quickly crossed to him and placed a kiss on his cheek. “If I did not, you should be very bored indeed.”

He harrumphed. “Now, we must all be very nice to Mr. John Forthryte’s friends.”

“He is such a foul fellow!” proclaimed Harriet. “My goodness, if he had been any more sweet at supper we should have had to add him to the rather biting lemon tart.”

Her cousins and uncle chortled. She linked arms with him and Emmaline, the four of them beginning to make their way to the ball already completely underway. The sounds of laughter, dancing feet, and the orchestra filled the hall.

Harriet glanced at her uncle. “You are far too kind. I swear that man and his friends have such a horrid temper about them that I suffered from heartburn the whole night until just now.”

Emmaline tapped her with her fan. “He is worse than Lord Garret then?”

“What? Why, no one could be worse than him. Perhaps the two are perfectly suited to each other. One surly fellow and one vacuous fool. Yes,” she said, pleased with her own plans. “They should do well together.”

“So, my dear, if they were combined, might they form the perfect man?” her uncle inquired.

“Why Uncle,” she teased. “Didn’t you know, the perfect man is a myth professed by all mothers in an attempt to convince their daughters to find him? I think it more likely we should find a unicorn before we find a perfect man.”

Her uncle let out a soft guffaw. “I certainly never shall marry you off, wicked girl that you are. So, whatever shall I do with you?”

“Oh, you shall let me make your tea, bring you hot water bottles in your old age, and keep you hopping with what I shall do next.”

“But have you no desire for a man?” piped Meredith, making it clear that she couldn’t wait to find one of her own.

“Why, I think there is no man for me,” she replied.

“There you are!” called a deep, male voice. Usually, it was impossible to be sure of masked revelers’ identities, but Harry was fairly certain of his.

The tall, dark-haired fellow strode towards her, his black evening coat cut to perfection over his ivory and gold waistcoat. A simple, black mask rested across the upper half of his face and he had slicked his hair back. The man looked very devilish indeed. He held out his white gloved hand and bowed beautifully. “You madam, are mine.”

Harry paused. Those words. Those words echoed like thunder in her head. A momentary temptation to turn and run fluttered through her. But she would not be swayed. She took his hand firmly and smirked. “No sir, I believe you are
mine
.”

Chapter 9

The minuet was a mistake. A damn, blasted mistake. Garret took her hands with his and began the intricate steps that fairly ensured that she would be in his company alone for the next odd moments.

“I wonder, sir, if we have any similar acquaintance?” she piped, brightly above the sugary tones of the immense and overly-dressed orchestra.

At least, he thought it was brightly. He was having trouble tearing his damned gaze away from her physique let alone listen to the actual words coming from her slightly painted mouth. Her skin was ivory, so white, so untouchable.

Once, he had touched it. It had been nearly as familiar as his own skin. Perhaps even more so. God, how he’d adored it. His mouth had kissed the valley between her breasts. He knew the color of her nipples. Were they still petal, nearly translucently, pink?

“Sir?” she said loudly, piercing his reverie, as he twirled her under his arm.

Nodding like an idiot to show that he had, indeed, been listening, he said, “Em. Oh, yes. I’m sure we do.”

“I’ll say a name and you shall say yea or nay.” Her lips were locked in a mischievous grin.

He arched a brow, completely wasted under his black leather mask. This was not going at all as he had planned. He’d been certain that he would be in charge of this new advance into enemy territory. After last night’s debacle in his doorway, he’d been determined to retrieve the upper hand. But with her damned sally,
You are mine
, his brain had buggered off.

Her eyes lit up behind her red devil mask. “Lord Garret Hart!”

He ground his teeth together as they promenaded down the long hall, tripping neatly to the music. Before he could decide if it were a wise tactic or no, he said, “Why of course, who has not? War hero. Friend of Nelson and that young fellow Wellesly. Brilliant man really.”

A peel of laughter, nothing like a giggle, more like a gong of wild amusement, issued from her slender throat. “Oh, sir. You have been terribly misled.”

She bounced closer to him, her breasts bouncing right along with her. “He is a poor, poor fool.” She batted her lashes at him. “I assure you. All society says so.”

He dragged his eyes from her bosom, clasping her hand at her waist and one above her head. They began to turn. It was all he could do not to drag her out into the hall and throttle her. . . Then perhaps turn her over, rake his hands into her skirts and. . . He forced the image of her pale arse poised and ready for him out of his head. There was no way in hell he was about to allow himself to rise past half-mast on a bloody dance floor. “Now, it is my turn to be sure
you
are mistaken.”

She pursed those lush lips and shook her head, sending her honey blonde curls to caress her neck. “Impossible. Why his brother, the duke, constantly must take care of him. And really, whenever his grace wishes to be amused, he asks for his fool to be sent.”

Garret glowered down at her, attempting to wither her with one of his stares. “His fool being?”

Completely unaffected by
the look
, she continued, “Why Lord Garret of course! The man does make one laugh, but really it is out of pity.”

Garret’s grip tightened on her and, for a moment of true indiscretion, he yanked her body against his. The silk of her gown slid along his waistcoat and her thigh pressed firmly against his. That wicked mouth of hers opened with shock. For one brief moment, her eyes flared with passion. Passion for his body, if not for him.

He tilted his head to the side. “Now, do tell me who your source is madam?”

She lifted her chin up, exposing the line of her throat. “Why my own eyes and ears, sir,” she purred. “I’ve seen the man at his idiocy again and again.”

“And you? You must be acquainted with Miss Manning?” he probed, his voice laced with artificial joviality.

She hesitated. “I must confess I am only acquainted with her cousin, Miss Emmaline.”

He grinned down at her, a predatory grin, for he had no stronger desire than to devour her whole on the spot. “Then I must warn you off the connection.”

“Really?” she trilled, though her bravado dimmed considerably.

“Sad girl,” he said lightly. He paused then added, “No one seems to want her.”

Pain blazed in her sharp, blue eyes. For a moment, he was certain that he had rendered her completely defeated. Surely, a triumph? Which was exactly what he’d been aiming for. But he didn’t feel triumphant. In fact, he felt like someone had just drove a ramrod into his stomach.

She drew in a quick breath and pulled back from him, following the steps, by circling around him. “You are mistaken. She has had five proposals of marriage in the last year alone.” She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Or had you not heard?”

He tensed.
Five proposals?
If this was the case, why the hell hadn’t she taken one of them? Surely she was bluffing. But such a fact might be easily disproved. Harriet was far too smart to claim such a lie, if it was a lie. Which meant other men had been eyeing her. “No. I had not.”

“Modest young woman, Miss Manning.” At that moment the music faded and the muted applause of gloved hands surrounded them. Harry lowered herself in a deep curtsy, her breasts on perfect view. “Apparently, she’ll only yield to one man.”