The Rogue and I (9 page)

Garret forced himself to incline his head ever so slightly in a bow. When he lifted his head, he bit out. “Which one is that?”

She merely smiled. “I’m afraid you shall have to ask her that yourself.”

When she turned, he reached out and grabbed her gloved hand, his own fingers catching on her diamond cuff. “I’m asking.”

She turned back to him slowly. “Under the circumstances, I don’t think you are entitled to an answer. Now, I must go and find my next partner.”

Like she had just burned him, he let go. She knew what game they were playing at. Each of them trying to draw the other out under this ridiculous guise of masks.

He marched off the dance floor. Once again, she had won. As he strode off into the crowd in search of a drink stronger than ratafia, he considered, as a military man, battles really weren’t that important.

War had been declared in full tonight. He’d lose as many battles as it took for him to win this damned war once and for all.

*       *       *

“Y
ou are particularly skilled at irritating my brother.”

Harriet whirled around, her skirts rustling on the stone terrace. Her eyes searched the darkness for the face of the figure just a few feet away from her.

Lights, hanging in lanterns overhead, beamed down on them, a soft yellow glow with just enough light to reveal the strong and affable face of his grace, the Duke of Huntsdown.

He stepped further into the light, his simple mask in hand. “Would you care to share the secret?”

She placed her own mask on the carved stone seat before the wide set of stairs that led down into the garden. How did one answer that question? How much did James know? She shrugged. “Your brother has a sense of self that is fun for me to play with. I see those things that will frustrate him the most and I point them out.”

“Because you’ve known him for so long?” he ventured sitting down on the bench.

Her mouth opened slightly in astonishment. She’d only met James a few months ago. It would have been possible that he had never heard of her brief and painful experience with his younger brother.

“Yes,” he said in answer to her silence. “I know most of it. I know what my father did and that you and Garret never found a good footing again.”

She frowned slightly, half amused. “Good footing.”

“I don’t know any other way to put it.” He hesitated for a moment. “Even so, you always seem to be so happy as if the pain of life hasn’t touched you at all.”

“Oh.” She smiled and glanced down at her hands. “I’ve always been a happy person, your grace. I was born with the disease and have never been cured of it. Despair is not in my nature.”

“I’m glad of it.” He shifted slightly on the bench and placed his hand down on the seat. “Will you sit?”

James was such a kind man. It was hard to understand why some young woman had not relieved him of his bachelor state.

“Of course.” She lowered herself with dignity if not grace. Smoothing her red skirts into place she said jauntily, “How could I deny such pleasant company?”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes glancing away for a few seconds. “I’m glad you find my company pleasant.”

She laughed. “Why, of course I do.”

“Miss Manning?”

She smoothed a hand over her curls, drinking in the cool late spring air. “Hmmm?”

“Do you think you could enjoy my company every day?”

“If we were so lucky to meet that often, I’m sure I would. You have far more sense and—”

“No,” he cut in quickly. “I am blundering this horribly. But I would like to have your happiness in my life every day. And perhaps you could enjoy my pleasantness. The two might go very well together.”

Harriet gaped. The Duke of Huntsdown, the descendant of the very title who had made her life hell in no uncertain terms, was asking her to be his wife. The fates were terribly rude to play such a trick. How she longed to say yes. But it would be the cruelest thing, for she would never love him.

Forcing a lighthearted laugh, Harry shook her head. “We should pleasant each other to death, your grace. For you should always be saying, yes dear, whatever you wish dear. I should always be laughing and saying in turn, no, no dear, whatever pleases you. Where should we be then?”

A sad smile tilted his lips. “A very unpleasant existence indeed. Of course, you are right.” He stared off into the distance, the wind rustling his dark brown hair. “There isn’t any man you might like better?”

“Why, no, your grace.” Taking a chance, she laid her hand on his arm. “I don’t think there will ever be a man who can induce me to marry now.”

“Now?”

“A poor choice of words. No marriage for me, your grace. I am too old and set in my troublesome ways.”

“I think some man would have a great deal of happiness from your troublesome ways.”

“Then thank God you are free of me, for you should have realized how wrong you were. I will shock a man to death.”

“I will have to take your word for it.” Slowly, he rose and headed back towards the ball.

Harry picked up her mask and stared down at the painted devil face. She had meant it. There was no man for her now. She’d learned how foolish it was to place her happiness in the hands of anyone but herself.

Chapter 10

Edward swallowed the exquisite champagne provided by his soon-to-be father-in-law. It slid down his throat, sweet and cold. It, like everything about the Trents, was expensive. Money was never something he’d been terribly aware of growing up.

Now, looking around the ballroom, the decadence of the newly rich glared at him. Eight crystal chandeliers, likely from Ireland, hung from the gold encrusted ceiling. Each was enormous, as large as his Hunter, Black Heath. He had no idea of the value of such things, only that they cost an exceedingly atrocious amount of money.

If someone had asked him how much it would cost to keep his regiment in food and uniform for a month, he would have known the answer, but he’d never wondered about caviar or lobster. Or the gold fronded palm trees that had been placed about the room. Now he found himself wondering. The decorations were barely in taste.

It was something he knew instinctively as he peered at them from his momentarily quiet place by one of the tall, gold and cream columns along the sides of the room. Emmaline herself was dressed to perfection. A clear sign that she had elevated herself past her origins in trade.

Something her father had not quite, as yet, done. Still, he was a fine fellow of a man.

“She’s truly beautiful, that young woman of yours.”

John.

Edward plastered a pleasant expression on his face. John had been one of his father’s many bastards, but the old man had stipulated in his will, that this particular bastard was to be taken in. John was the child of his favorite and now deceased mistress, Madame de Longville. “Thank you. I think so.”

John patted him heartily on the shoulder. “Oh, everyone thinks so, dear fellow. Especially the men. Or haven’t you noticed. My friend, Conrade there, seems to have taken a particular notice of her merits.”

Edward scanned the crowd, finally spotting Emmaline standing across the room in her splendid white and pink silk gown. Her feathered mask was perched fetchingly on her upturned face and she seemed to be in absolute rapture talking to the man just inches from her.

Edward’s grip tightened on his champagne glass. “Yes, well. A beautiful woman often draws admirers.”

“Of course, of course. But you must watch this one. All the cads in the country will be trying for her don’t you know. Pretty, young wife, etcetera.”

“What exactly are you implying?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” John soothed, grabbing a glass of champagne for himself from a passing silver tray.

“Good.”

John stood in silence, bobbing slightly to the music. “Only,” he finally said. “Only she does seem to enjoy the attention.”

Edward slammed his mouth shut. His bride would never forgive him if he caused a scene, even in her good name, at this special event.

“I mean look at her, Edward.” John leaned in and whispered. “She’s preening for it. Conrade’s not doing a damn thing, but your young woman. . . Anyway, just thought I should mention it so you could get a strong hand in early on. You see, I know that kind of girl. Probably already tried to get you in the sheets.”

Edward went cold. “If you don’t stop, I will stop your mouth for you.”

“Do forgive me, Edward. Only trying to help my brother. I’ll be off then.”

In one fast gulp, Edward tossed back the rest of his champagne. He would not look back at her to see if what John said was true. He wouldn’t.

John was a sick-minded fool. It was just that. . . She had been smiling so delightedly up at Lord Conrade. Slowly, he allowed his gaze to trail back to the pair. Now, Emmaline was standing so close to the man, her skirts brushed the tip of Lord Conrade’s polished dancing slippers. A look of pure rapture lit her face.

A horrid feeling twisted Edward’s gut. Suddenly, he felt ill. It was damned tempting to march across the room and pull Emmaline out into the hall and ask her what the hell she was playing at.

But surely, he was just being a fool. Emmaline was only happy that it was almost the end of their engagement, not that a man as handsome or as powerful as Lord Conrade was paying her attention.

Yes. That was it.

Edward placed his empty glass down and headed for the card room for a stronger drink. He wouldn’t let the fact that she
had
come to his room sway his thinking. John was wrong. Emmaline was an angel. She would never descend like so many other women had done before her.

*     *      *

F
ive Years Earlier

Devonshire

“It is Camelot,” Harriet murmured in complete astonishment. It mightn’t be an actual fortified castle, but it was just as grand.

She’d heard of such palaces. Everyone talked of Blenheim. She didn’t know anyone who’d seen the likes of it though. Not once in her nineteen years had she seen such an establishment. It towered over the land like St. Paul’s or Westminster did over London.

As opposed to those two edifices surrounded by the busy, little lives of everyday people, this. . . dare she say house. . . separated itself from any who might deign to walk underneath its hallowed shadow.

Unless, of course, one was born to it.

Born to it she certainly was not.

There were two matched towers at each end of the monstrosity that loomed obelisk-like over the center part of the house, which curved like an elegant fan, glittering with its diamond paned windows. A massive set of stairs descended from the front of the house down to a large, manmade lake. Poseidon rose from its center, his trident held in triumph.

“Come along then.” He tugged at her hand, pulling her towards the entrance. Waggling his brows playfully, he teased, “We must get you inside before the servants think I’ve ravished a pretty young maiden.”

For the first time in what she had always thought of as her bold existence, Harriet pulled back. She didn’t belong here. She belonged in a five room house in Cheap Street. Or a cottage. Certainly not this. “I—I should go home.”

He looked down at her, his expression curious. “Whyever when you are here now?”

How could she explain it under his clear obliviousness to her position? Clearly, he assumed all women rescued from untimely ends were daughters of duchesses. He couldn’t possibly realize her station. Otherwise he’d send her round the back, a pat on the head, and a recrimination not to go floating on other people’s ponds.

“Are you one of the servants’ children?” she asked quickly, thinking he would hurry her around to the back. Maybe that’s exactly what it was. He was the favorite son of the housekeeper and the man who lorded over this grand palace had taken a liking to her savior and sent him to the best schools. She closed her eyes, praying that was the case.

“Servants?” he repeated. “No, my dear, no.”

“Then you are?” she asked, her own voice low now with trepidation.

“I’ve been a very bad sort, haven’t I?” He turned formally to her and bowed. “Allow me to present myself, Garret Hart, second son of the Duke of Huntsdown.”

Harriet’s hand went slack in his.
Second son of the duke
.

“You did realize you were on Huntsdown land this morning, didn’t you?”

She shook her head dumbly. She’d never been on a peer’s land before. All her life she’d lived in towns until just recently when her father had sent her and her mother to live with friends at the cottage while he sorted out his financial difficulties.

“Well, you were. And now, let me take you into the dratted old mausoleum.”

“Mausoleum.” She stared up at the palace, more beautiful and daunting than anything she’d ever seen.

“Mmm. Built by a real rascal, my great, great grandfather, his grace, the first Lord Hart and Duke of Huntsdown. Of all things, he started out as a soldier for hire.” Lord Hart gestured towards the beautiful collection of stones which seemed next to nothing in his eyes. “Made an absolute pile of funds pleasing William of Orange, then that ridiculous Queen Anne. Our family has become quite boring ever since. I do think great, great grandfather would be most disappointed in our lack of adventurer’s spirit.”

“You don’t seem to have done too badly,” she said hollowly, wondering where, exactly, her own spirit of adventure had gone off to.

“Ah yes. Well, the last dukes have been damned clever about choosing their estate and business agents.”

“What exactly does your father do?”

“The duke?” Lord Hart looked down at her as if she had cake for brains then he threw back his head and laughed. “He bosses people about in the House of Lords. It’s the only thing that makes him happy. Bossing people about. What does your father do? I suddenly have my doubts that it’s hunting, dancing, and wasting the people’s money.”

Harriet swallowed back a sudden sense of embarrassment. She loved her father dearly. He was a magnificent and kind soul who could tell a story better than any Irishman. Well, he was an Irishman of sorts. But he’d made a muck of his finances. “He works in the city.”