To Ruin a Rake (23 page)

His eyes widened. “Just how the hell much did he offer you?”

“He committed two thousand pounds before several witnesses—to the
Hospital
.”

“Bloody hell, woman!” he exploded. “No man gives a sum like that without expecting his bed warmed for it!”

Horrified, she gaped at him for a moment. “He’s a married man! Married to one of my friends, in fact. Even if he weren’t, I am appalled that you would even suggest I might engage in an illicit liaison for money like some common dockside strumpet!”

“If he is married to your friend, then why bother with him when she could just as easily have helped you?”

“She did,” Harriett answered through clenched teeth. “It was Dorothy’s idea to donate the funds. He told me so himself.”

Manchester stared at her. “Don’t avoid the issue. You were clearly trying to endear yourself to him. I was there.”

“So what if I was?” she said, cornered and not liking it one bit. “The man has several unmarried friends. Did it not occur to you that I might want him to introduce me to some of them? No. You immediately thought of the worst, the lowest, the
crudest
possible motivation for my congeniality.”

“You don’t want to marry any of his friends.”

“Why not?”

“Because they are all like him.”

She crossed her arms and pressed her lips together in triumph. “Including you? You named him friend, so I must assume that puts you among their ilk.”

“I have known John since he was a boy. He has always looked up to me.”

“Indeed? Well, it seems to me young ‘John’ learned a great deal from observing you,” she bit out. “I know all about his affairs and mistresses. The phrase ‘birds of a feather’ comes to mind.”

“I don’t know why I bother talking to you,” he muttered. “You are as difficult to reason with as the north wind.”

“Then why don’t you stop trying? Heaven knows all I’ve wanted since the moment we met is for you to leave me alone,” she said, flinging the words at him like knives and hoping they were sharp enough to drive him away.

“That’s not all you’ve wanted, and we both know it.”

The quiet truth hung on the air between them, a tangible thing. Harriett stood, paralyzed, as he came closer.

“Lord Russell doesn’t make you feel this way, does he?” he asked softly, moving to within mere inches of her.

She ought to have been outraged, but she couldn’t dredge up the anger—because he was right. “Lord Russell is devoted to me,” she said, her voice faint in her ears. “And you, Your Grace, cannot presume to know how I feel about anything.”

“Perhaps not, but I can venture a very good guess at the moment.”

He leaned toward her, and her whole body strained upward of its own accord, the craving of his closeness like some dreadful thirst that could only be assuaged by his kiss. As his lips covered hers and his arms wrapped around her, something inside her eased.

Heaven help her, she’d wanted this that day in the cemetery—to hold him and be held, to feel his strength against her, to feel the breath and life in him and have it drive away the cold and the grief and the ache of loneliness.

Drugging warmth spread into every limb as he gentled his hold, as his mouth moved over hers with sudden, unexpected tenderness. It was as if the sun had come out to shine full upon her, filling her with blessed heat that sank right down into the marrow of her bones. She hadn’t realized how chilled she’d become until he’d touched her and set her ablaze.

Though her desire for the man in her arms—for her arms had indeed risen to return his embrace—was insistent and demanding, part of her registered that it wasn’t only lust she was feeling. Every bit of her, every last infinitesimal mote, knew a sense of completion unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

For the first time ever outside the Hospital walls, Harriett felt as though she
belonged
.

When Harriett’s hands crept up to cradle Roland’s face, the shock wave of her touch rippled throughout his entire being. He could hardly breathe for the sudden tumult in his chest. Her slender fingers stroked the hair at his temples, grazed the planes of his cheeks, and her smooth palms cupped the sides of his jaw. So soft and tender was her touch, like feathers brushing against his skin.

The kiss they’d shared at the masque had been different, tempestuous, almost defiant. But there was no defiance here, only a slow surrender to sweetness. She was pliant in his arms. If he were to open them, she would fall. He tightened his hold a little, the ache of desire intensifying as her soft form molded to his own.

After a long, blissful moment, he pulled back—not because he wanted to stop, but because he
had
to. If he did not, they would both be in serious trouble. And not because of the chaos stirring in his breeches, but because of the chaos stirring in his breast.

Of a certainty, her response to him was instinctual and had nothing to do with what her heart desired. Unfortunately, his own heart had just betrayed him by deciding what
it
wanted—what it could not have. Acute, physical pain struck him as he looked down and saw tears streaming from beneath her lashes.

His plan had gone all wrong. Watching her with Russell today had quickly grown from being unpleasant to downright unbearable. Seeing her flirt with John had just about driven him mad. He’d wanted to punch the man. And now she was crying. He didn’t have to ask why. He could think of only one man for whom Harriett Dunhaven would shed tears, and he was far beyond the reach of any fist.

Jealousy. He’d teased her about trying to incite him into it just now, not realizing that he was already the victim of its cruel caprice. He waited until she regained her balance before releasing her. Her eyes were glazed, bewildered, as if she’d awakened from some dream to find reality completely different.

It was. They were enemies. She loathed him.
And
I am not her William...

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he truly meant it.

She stared at him, saying nothing.

“I—I shan’t make excuses for my behavior,” he continued, struggling for composure. She began to back away, and he panicked. “No, Harriett, please. I must—”

But it was too late. In a flash, she’d turned and fled.

He could go after her, but it would likely result in a scene and lead to embarrassment for them both. Besides, he didn’t have any solutions to offer for a problem he was only now realizing existed. An odd sensation flooded him as he watched her run, a sort of tearing deep inside, followed by yawning emptiness.

As she vanished from sight, all of his strength bled out. Bending over, he gulped air as though there were not enough of it in the world to fill his lungs. A stone bench beckoned in the shadows. He sat and waited until his heart had slowed, hoping his thoughts would settle themselves along with it. They didn’t.

When he at last rose, the moon was a good deal higher in the sky than it had been when he’d come out with Harriett. He was stiff and had no idea how long he’d sat there staring into the night.

Going into the house, he could not help looking for her. His eyes sought her out, but found no trace. He had to leave and quickly, but wanted to see her beforehand—
had
to see her—if only to assure himself she was well. It was a shallow excuse for his need to lay eyes on her again, and he knew it.

Though it made him grind his teeth, he began searching for the bright red head of Lord Russell. He found it quickly and sure enough, there she was with him. She looked a bit wan and her smile appeared brittle, but at least she was still here and not in tears. The solicitous Russell bent to offer her a glass of punch and she took it.

It galled him to admit it, but Russell was one of the few decent men he knew in a city all too ready to indulge a man’s vices. The fellow was a bit prone to emotional displays, but that was just the way of some men. But did he love her?

Love.

Roland stood and stared at her, heedless of the crowd flowing around him, their grumbling only faintly registering.
Is that what this is?
He hardly knew, seeing as he’d never felt anything like it before. It wasn’t anything like the sentimental drivel Rich and his players acted out on the stage. The longing looks, the burst of song flowing from a heart too full to contain its joy.

This was nothing like that. This was painful. Unpleasant. It couldn’t be...
that
.

Guilt. That’s what caused this constriction, this feeling of there not being enough air in the room. Someone bumped into him, breaking his reverie. Chest tight, Roland turned away and entered the flow of the passing crowd, determined to leave before he did anything stupid—or rather anything
else
stupid.

The ride home passed in a blur, London’s dark streets going by unnoticed while he was lost in thought. Upon arriving, he went straight to his office and reached automatically for the comfort of the brandy decanter. Up on the mantelpiece, a long flat box caught his eye. He took it down. The items within shifted and rattled against the sides as he turned it over.

He’d avoided opening it for almost two years. He knew what was inside. Had his brother left behind more than just admonishments and pleas to live a more respectable life? Had he perhaps written of Harriett?

Possessed by a burning need to know everything there was to know about her, even if it meant reading every harsh, critical word his brother had written, Roland carried the box over to the desk. He turned up the lamp until the flame was bright enough to read by and opened the lid.

The stack of letters stared back at him. He picked them up and turned them over to see William’s neat script dating each. The oldest had been written just before their father’s death. He broke the seal, and several bank notes fell out as he unfolded the parchment.

Roland,

Please use the enclosed to pay the debt owed to Munthorpe, after which I implore you to come home. Do not allow your pride to keep you from...

Sighing, he put it aside and moved to another which, according to its date, was written after he’d met Harriett. He scanned the lines, and at last her name jumped out at him.

...Lady Harriett Dunhaven, the daughter of one of Hogarth’s friends, has captured my interest. By lucky chance, her father hosted our Hospital planning committee meeting last month. She attended as an observer and afterward privately offered several very logical suggestions for improvement. Not only were her ideas practical and worthy of serious consideration, but I also quite enjoyed her company. We have since become good friends, such that I have spoken with Lord Dunhaven and received his blessing to pay her court. She is both pleasant in demeanor and wise for her years, and I believe she will make a fine duchess...

The letter went on to again ask him to return home. There was nothing more about Harriett. He took up another that had been written several months later.
Frustration mounted as he skimmed through several pages of Hospital-related rubbish. Just as he was about to give up, there it was:

...and I am also delighted to inform you that Lady Harriett has agreed to marry me. The wedding will take place next spring. I would very much like to have you at my side...

Roland laughed in disbelief. His brother had written three pages about the damned Hospital before mentioning his bloody engagement. It certainly showed where his priorities had lain. He resumed reading.

...happy to say that Father is quite satisfied with my choice. Unfortunately, I do not think he will live to see the ceremony. If you are ever to mend matters between you, I advise you to come soon...

He tossed the letter onto the growing pile and went to fetch himself a glass of brandy. By George, he needed it.

Eventually, William had been forced to come and find him to tell him about their father’s deteriorating condition. Under heavy pressure, Roland had at last capitulated and agreed to come home. The visit had not gone well.

He downed half the brandy in his glass and returned to the letters, determined to read them all. There were eighteen of them, and to his disappointment most contained nothing of consequence. But one was quite different—William’s last.

...to know that it has been my greatest honor to call Harriett my betrothed. She is the best companion God could have given me on this earth, and I wish that I could have made her my wife. Her fierce devotion both to me and to the Hospital has been the cornerstone of my strength these last few weeks, but I fear they shall be to her detriment when I am gone. When you take your place as duke, I beg you to see that she marries well and happily. She deserves far better than to be bound to a legacy of stone and the memory of a dead man who never loved her as he ought...

The paper shook in Roland’s hand as he laid it aside, unable for the moment to read any more. The words William had whispered on his deathbed again echoed in his memory:
Look after her for me. She is more fragile than she likes to admit
...

His behavior tonight had been unconscionable. Driven by anger, jealousy he had no right to feel, and—God help him—lust for a woman his brother had clearly respected and adored, he’d hurt her.

He stared into the fire for a long, long time. A choice lay before him. He could execute his original plan and drive her away—away from him, away to whatever end she saw fit to make for herself. The image of her married to Russell rose up before him in his mind’s eye. He would be kind to her, but would she be happy with him?

I beg you to see that she marries well and happily...

Or he could help her find the right husband, a man who would love her as she deserved—
and
whom she could love in return. Perhaps if he did the latter, the blank space on the wall above his desk would no longer accuse him so.