The idea seemed to intrigue her, for one corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly. “And how do you intend for us to prove that in a week?”
“I have no idea,” he said truthfully. “But I mean to give the matter a great deal of thought before I see you in the morning.”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “Your plan had better not be centered around kissing me senseless. Because I’m wise to that trick. It will not work.”
He seriously doubted that. But he also knew that kissing her senseless wouldn’t tell him much except that he wanted her in his bed, which he already knew. What he needed to know was whether he wanted her in his life. For good.
“No kissing,” he said. “Got it.”
She frowned. “You didn’t have to agree so readily.”
“Lots of kissing,” he said with a grin. “Got it.”
“Hart—” she began in a chiding tone.
“Let’s not plan it out, shall we? Let’s see how things progress over the next week, and if we’re not content we’ve had enough time by the end of the week, we can continue the re-courtship in London.”
“What if it doesn’t work out in the end? People will talk.”
“Do you care?” The question was far more important than he dared let on. The wife of a spymaster must be circumspect, but also above all the petty nonsense of society. She would have to lead, not follow; not always be worried that this one or that one had given her the cold shoulder. Could Anne do that?
She thrust out her chin. “Actually, I do care. I can’t stand to lose Delia if things don’t work out between us and she blames me for it. She’s one of my closest companions. As is your cousin Clarissa.”
Ah, losing friends was a different matter entirely. He understood that. “You won’t lose them over me, trust me,” he said dryly. “They’ll assume that whatever happens is all my fault.”
“Why? Have you broken their friends’ hearts before?”
“No!” He rubbed his eyes. Bloody hell. She was as bad as the rest of them with twisting a man’s words. “I only meant that they tend to believe the rumors about me, like everyone else. They’re sure I’m a rascal.”
“Then why are they always talking about finding you a wife?”
That threw him off-balance. “How the devil should I know? Perhaps they think a wife will . . . settle me down. Or something.” It was an excellent question, though, one he might have to ask his relations, and soon.
Then something else occurred to him. “Wait. You said that you’ve heard of my reputation. Didn’t you hear of it from them?”
“No, indeed. They bemoan your bachelor state, but if anyone maligns you in their hearing, they give that person an earful about your virtues.”
“Huh.” From the way Delia had been talking earlier, he’d thought she was warning all her friends away from him.
“Of course, the rest of society says you have a string of conquests as long as your arm, and you practically live in the hells and the broth—”
“If I spent as many hours in those places as the gossips claim,” he grumbled, “I wouldn’t have time to breathe. Don’t listen to that nonsense.” The occasional romp with a merry widow was about the extent of it for him. But all the nights he’d gambled and drunk in the stews in his youth with Warren had built him a bad reputation, too, even if he’d rarely used the services of whores himself. “The rumors aren’t true. Or not very true, anyway.”
“Hmm. I should like to see how you’re going to prove that one during our courtship.”
Relief coursed through him. “So you agree to my proposal? A re-courtship? A private one, if you wish, so you are not . . . embarrassed if it ends badly?”
She held out her hand. “All right. I agree.”
He took her hand, held it up to his lips, and kissed it, thrilled when a shudder of pleasure passed through her.
“What happened to no kissing?” she asked in that throaty voice that turned his cock to iron.
“We changed it to lots of kissing, remember?”
She sighed. “You’re incorrigible, Captain Lord Hartley Corry.”
Except that she didn’t say it in that fond, teasing way Delia had. Her tone was sad, resigned. As if being incorrigible was a bad thing.
But he fully intended to change that impression of him before the week was out.
Mornings were usually Anne’s favorite time. Mama slept in, Anne had the house to herself, and she could go for a walk or balance the household ledgers or create hats to her heart’s content. No one was urging her to work on skills for snagging a husband—like playing the pianoforte (she was awful at it) or painting watercolors (again, just awful) or, worst of all, perfecting her dancing steps.
She had two left feet, and she’d sometimes wondered if her lack of ability was why she couldn’t find a husband.
Hart wants to marry you.
Her heart skipped a little, curse him. Thanks to him, her usual happy morning had already been shattered, because she’d been up half the night thinking of him and then had slept unusually late. It threw her day off entirely, which was why she was now hunched in a very unladylike manner over a cup of coffee at the breakfast table when she should be in the ballroom with her friends, helping prepare for the charity sale.
Suddenly something appeared to the right of her plate. She turned to find an enormous peacock feather lying on the tablecloth.
Her day instantly brightened. It was glorious, its iridescent greens and blues and oranges glowing in the early-afternoon sun. She could easily imagine which hat she would use it with, and—
Oh, dear. There was a gloved male hand next to it. And she knew instantly to whom that hand belonged.
“What’s this for?” she asked, barely able to bank her enthusiasm. For the feather. Only for the feather.
“That ought to be obvious,” said Hart in his endearing rumble of a voice. “You told me yesterday that I probably forgot you the moment I left for India. I’m trying to prove that I did not. Even after eleven years, I remember that you used to collect feathers for your hats, and that peacocks were your favorites.”
She fought the urge to swoon. It was merely a feather. It meant nothing.
She curled her fingers in her attempt not to stroke it. “Used to collect them. I—I outgrew that.”
He laughed. “You clearly didn’t outgrow the hats. And I know you haven’t outgrown your love of peacock feathers. So why lie about it?”
That startled her into glancing up at him. Oh, Lord, that was a mistake. He looked good, probably far better than she did this morning. His hair was tousled just so, and he had dressed as a fine gentleman, but with a bright yellow cravat to show that he had some daring in him. “Why would you assume I lied?”
“I saw your face light up when you caught sight of the feather.”
She fought a smile and lost. “You, sir, are far too observant.”
“And you, madam, are far too stubborn.”
Giving up the struggle, she laughed. “Yes. Mama says that all the time.”
“Some things never change.” He glanced around the empty room, then added, more soberly, “Would you really have eloped with me years ago if I’d defied my father and come for you without a penny to my name?”
Tears rising in her throat, she nodded. “But it would have been a mistake. Even the deepest love has a hard time surviving poverty.”
“That was my thinking at the time. Now I’m not so sure.” His expression was unusually grave. “If we’d stood up to our parents, don’t you think they would eventually have relented and helped us? Especially once there were children—their grandchildren—on the way?”
A blush stained her cheeks. Oh, Lord, to have had his children—chubby-cheeked little lads and lasses with Hart’s smile and her eyes. But what a risk that would have been, having children without a certain income. “We’ll never know, will we? You made your choice—and made mine for me, actually.”
When he winced, she regretted the pointed remark and chan
ged the subject. “So, where on earth did you get the peacock feather? I haven’t seen a single peacock roaming these grounds.” As she gave in to the urge to stroke his beautiful gift, she turned her tone teasing. “Wait, don’t tell me. You stole it from another lady’s bonnet. No, no, you won it in a card game last night.”
He cast her a look of mock insult. “I’ll have you know, my lady, that I plucked it myself from the bum of a very nice bird belonging to a neighboring farmer.”
A delighted laugh escaped her before she could prevent it. “Hart! You can’t say ‘bum’ to a lady!”
“Bum.” He watched her face with odd intent. “Bum, bum, bum.”
“You have a fixation on vulgar words having to do with bottoms,” she pointed out, though she wasn’t about to admit that his daring fascinated her and always had. “First, ‘arse,’ then ‘bum.’ Whatever will it be next?”
He bent close to whisper, “How about ‘derriere’? As in, ‘You have a very attractive derriere, sweetheart.’ ”
“Take care, sir,” she said, struggling not to smile. “You won’t win me with such language.” Liar. She picked up the feather. “Or with sweet gifts, no matter how thoughtful.” Once again, liar.
He grinned, undaunted. “But it’s a start, right?”
Giving in, she shook her head ruefully. “It’s a start. Yes.”
“So, why did you get up so late this morning? As I recall, you prefer to rise with the chickens.”
He’d managed to astonish her again. “You remember that, too?”
“How could I forget? Half our secret meetings took place at the crack of dawn—and trust me, that was not easy for a fellow staying up late studying.”
“Oh, poor baby.” She smirked at him. “Forced to rise early for a female.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said in an odd tone, then settled his hip against the table. “But you haven’t answered my question—why are you just now getting up?”
She opted for the truth. “I had trouble falling asleep last night. I was considering your proposal for a courtship.”
“A re-courtship.”
“I am not going to call it that,” she said with a sniff. “It’s the silliest word I ever heard.”
“If one can say ‘remarriage,’ why can’t one say ‘re-courtship’?”
Helpless laughter erupted from her as she acknowledged his logic. “I may be stubborn, but you were always rebellious.”
He reached over to twirl one of her dangling curls about his finger. “You used to like that about me.”
His hand skimmed down her cheek in a caress that had her belly tightening and her breath coming quickly.
Oh no, he would not get around her so easily, drat it. “That was before I learned that your favorite way to rebel was in the stews.”
He froze, then dropped his hand. “Ah. That.”
“Yes, that.” She toyed with the feather. “You keep saying that your reputation is undeserved, that the gossip is exaggerated. But how am I to believe you? That’s what I was up late thinking about.”
He was silent for so long that she ventured a glance at him. His brow was knitted as if he were in deep thought. “How about this? Are there any respectable gentlemen at this house party whom you trust? Not my relations, since you probably won’t believe anything they say, but others?”
“I . . . I suppose. A few.”
“Good. Take them aside privately. Ask them about my character. Tell them it’s on behalf of a cousin of yours who wants to go into business with me. If they tell you I’m an upstanding fellow, then there you go.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then ask them for the source of whatever vile thing they say about me. For example, if a man says he heard I lost a fortune at the tables, ask where he heard it. If he says it was a friend, then ask what friend his friend heard it from. And so on and so on, until he admits he has no idea where the gossip actually started.”
She stared at him blankly.
“You’ll find that most gossip starts from nothing more than a throwaway opinion. It’s rarely based on fact. And if, when you dig past all the many people’s embellishments, you find no facts at the bottom, it’s just gossip.” He bent close. “The devil is in the details, sweetheart.”
She cocked her head. “Are you sure you want me digging that deeply into your reputation?”
He held out his hands. “I have nothing to hide. And remember, if we do choose to marry, I’m certain your father left trustees in place who will oversee any settlements to ensure that I can’t get my grubby hands on anything I shouldn’t.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it? It’s your right.”
He was certainly being matter-of-fact about it. That didn’t seem the way a fortune hunter should behave. Or a gambler anticipating an unlimited source of funds with which to pay his creditors. Not that she had any such funds, but if he thought she did . . .
“I meant what I said about my dowry being small.”
“And I meant what I said about not caring.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But it does beg the question—how have you and your mother been living? Once your father died, who inherited?”
“Another even more distant cousin, who took possession of the manor house. Fortunately, Mama has the usual widow’s portion and the estate has a dower house, where we live.”
“That is fortunate. Assuming that the widow’s portion is sufficient for both your needs.”
She bobbed her head. “I try to control our expenses.” She chuckled. “And Mama does the same by making sure we spend half our time visiting her friends.”
“That’s one way to save money.”
“So you see, I don’t need to marry. I mean, if you were worried.”
He snorted. “I was worried that you’d be swept off your feet by the first fellow who figured out how unique and wonderful you are.”
She lifted her head to stare at him. “If I’m so unique and wonderful, why won’t you reveal your aspirations regarding making your fortune and ensuring our future? Why won’t you trust me with those?”
A shadow passed over his features. “It’s complicated.”
“I don’t see how our re-courtship can make it any less complicated.”
Musing a moment, he shoved away from the table. “How about this? Why don’t we go for a walk, and I’ll ask you questions about your hopes for the future? Because that will tell me what I need to know.”
“If you already don’t trust me with the truth about your life,” she said, rather snippily, “how will asking me questions help? For that matter, how can you even be sure I’m telling the truth?”
“Well, how could you lie? You don’t know what I want to hear.” He smiled. “Come on, Anne. You like to walk. It’s a pretty day.”
“It’s the middle of winter!”
He shrugged. “We’ll stick to the cleared paths.” Mischief gleamed in his eyes. “At least you know I can’t try anything naughty when we’re bundled up in our winter clothes.”
True. And to her chagrin, she was rather disappointed that he couldn’t.
Four
A SHORT WHILE later, they left the house to wander down a gravel walk that led to a Palladian bridge, which looked like a long, skinny Greek temple spanning the frozen pond.
Hart’s mind still reeled from their discussion in the breakfast room. Anne kept her and her mother’s expenses in line? That didn’t seem like the girl he’d known. Then again, she was older now. And her father had been a merchant. Some of it must have rubbed off on her.
But she did seem overly distressed about his gambling, considering that plenty of gentlemen played cards for entertainment. Before he let that worry him, he must figure out why. Did her concern stem from the finances of it? He could understand that. But if morality was what bothered her . . . well, spymasters didn’t always get to choose the places they got to frequent. If she’d grown so high in the instep that she objected to h
is frequenting gaming hells, that could prove problematic.
He’d deal with that later. Right now, he should keep the conversation light until she felt more comfortable with him. “Why are you so interested in hats?”
She halted. “Hats!” Whirling on her heel, she started to head back the way they’d come. “Oh, Lord, I entirely forgot. I’m supposed to be helping set up for the charity sale. We’re selling a number of my creations, so I—”
He moved to block her path. “I passed by the ballroom before I found you, and there were at least ten people in there working already. The ladies can do without you for another hour, can’t they? When else will we get to speak uninterrupted?”
Biting her lower lip, she gazed at the house worriedly. Then her face cleared. “You’re right. I can spare an hour. It’s not as if anyone would do anything to my hats, after all.”
With a laugh, he took her arm to lead her along the path again. “You speak as if they’re your children.”
“Don’t be silly. One does not sell one’s children. Or one shouldn’t, anyway. But yes, I like hats.”
“Why? Or rather, why so much?”
“It started as a way to cover my dreadful hair as much as possible.”
That provoked a visceral reaction in him. “There isn’t anything remotely dreadful about your hair,” he growled.
She flashed him a sad smile. “That’s very kind of you, but most of our countrymen wouldn’t agree. The phrase ‘redheaded stepchild’ didn’t arise from nowhere.” She sighed. “And ginger is so very hard to match with anything. Brown hair is neutral, blond is neutral, black is neutral. Red is anything but neutral.”
He’d never looked at it that way. “Do you want to be neutral? To look like everyone else?”
“I did when I was young. I didn’t want everyone staring at me and remarking upon my carrot top and my hot temper and other nonsense associated with ginger hair. So I wore big hats to make people focus on them, not the hair.” Her expression turned pensive as they approached the bridge. “Then it just sort of . . . grew on me.”
The Risk of Rogues Page 3
