The Right Kind of Rogue

by Valerie Bowman

  “How is Goliath?” Meg began, breaking the silence between them.

  Hart stopped and stared at her. He furrowed his brow. “You know the name of my horse?”

  Meg didn’t look at him. She cleared her throat and continued slowly walking. “I’m certain Sarah mentioned it a time or two.”

  Hart resumed walking next to her. The gravel crunched beneath his feet. “Goliath has just recovered from a slight injury. Found a pebble in his shoe.”

  “He’s a gorgeous animal,” Meg said softly.

  Hart’s brow remained steadfastly furrowed. “You’ve seen him?”

  The hint of a smile touched Meg’s pink lips. “Of course I’ve seen him. Don’t you remember the race outside of town last autumn? I was there when you were injured.”

  “Yes, of course. It was a miracle Goliath escaped without injury. Wish I could say the same for my phaeton.” Hart scratched the back of his neck. It was also a miracle he hadn’t bloody well broken his own neck. Drinking and racing did not mix.

  “But you purchased a new one already, didn’t you?” Meg’s reticule bounced along the back of her gown as she stepped along the gravel.

  Hart blinked. “Yes, I have.” Apparently, Meg knew more about him than he realized.

  “Any plans to purchase more horses? I know how much you adore them.”

  “Do you?” He stopped again to stare at her. How did she know that about him? How had he been so blind to her all these years?

  “Ye … yes.” Her voice shook slightly.

  “What is it that you adore, Meg?” He had no idea why he’d asked that question. It had been as much a surprise to him when it came out of his mouth as it obviously was to her. She blushed beautifully and glanced away from him. She fingered a rose on the bush next to the path. “Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes it does,” he prodded. “I’d truly like to know.” Meg knew how much his horses and racing meant to him, but he had no idea what she liked. “Tell me.”

  She shrugged and gave a halfhearted laugh. “Your sister is quite important to me. I love her.”

  “Yes, Sarah is the best person in our family, by far.”

  Meg smiled at that.

  “What else?” he prompted.

  “My books, my home, my … writing.”

  He pushed a boot through the gravel. “You write?”

  One small hand fluttered in the air. “Oh, nothing important. Only a bit in a journal every now and then.”

  Ignoring the voice in his head that was willing him to stop, Hart continued to kick at the gravel. “What sort of things do you write about?”

  She shook her head and plucked one of the small pink roses from the hedge. She brought it to her lips, closed her eyes, and inhaled. Hart had never before wished he were a rose petal. First time for everything.

  “I write about things that happen in my life,” Meg replied, her eyes opening again. Allowing the hand holding the rose to fall to her side, she twisted the stem with her gloved fingers.

  “What sorts of things?” he forced himself to ask, trying to ignore the virulence with which he wanted to kiss her.

  “The dates of the servants’ birthdays, ideas for running a house on a slight income, the name of my friend’s brother’s horse.” She glanced up at him and smiled. “Silly things,” she murmured.

  “Those things don’t sound silly to me,” he replied, still absently kicking at the gravel. Meg thought about things, saw things, remembered them. How many ladies knew the servants’ birthdays? How many worried about running their households with little money? She was no silly miss. She might not talk much, but she was listening. And she cared about other people.

  “May I ask you something?” she said, surprising him.

  “Of course,” Hart answered, forcing himself to stop pushing his idiotic boot through the gravel like an untried lad nervously talking to the first pretty female he’d encountered.

  Meg pushed a small curl behind her ear. “Do you … do you know how much money my father owes your father? The reason they had a falling-out, I mean.”

  Hart turned to search her face. It was shadowed in the darkness, but the light of the candles illuminated enough of it for him to see the serious look on her face. “You don’t know?”

  “I’ve never heard the amount, no. Is it quite a lot?” Meg winced.

  Hart resumed walking, looking straight ahead this time. “I’m not certain.” Did she truly not know? He scrubbed a hand through his hair. On second thought, he supposed it stood to reason. Sarah didn’t know, either. He’d made certain of that. He doubted either of Meg’s parents would be quick to share the details with their daughter.

  Meg resumed walking beside him. “Sarah and I have speculated upon it of course.”

  She wanted him to say more, Hart could tell. He searched his mind for a properly vague reply. It would only hurt her to know the truth, and he didn’t want to hurt her. “It doesn’t matter, does it? It’s been at least five years.”

  “Something like that,” Meg murmured, still twirling the flower between her fingers.

  “I doubt they will ever mend their rift, Meg.” Perhaps she was asking because she held out hope. Perhaps she was counting on the fact that one day she and her closest friend’s parents would be friendly again. False hope was a dangerous thing.

  Meg had opened her mouth and was about to say something else when Lucy Hunt’s voice came floating over the hedges. “Meg, come quickly. It’s your father. He’s had an attack!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Pure terror pulsing through her heart, Meg tossed away the rose, lifted her skirts, and raced back to the house. She didn’t know Hart had followed her until she arrived on the terrace with him behind her. Lucy was there, a worried expression on her face. “A footman came from your house looking for us,” the duchess explained. “We must leave immediately.”

  “Is he … alive?” Meg managed to choke out of her dry, swollen throat.

  “Yes, I believe so,” Lucy replied, clutching Meg’s arm.

  Trembling, Meg turned to Hart. “I’m sorry. I must go.”

  “Of course,” Hart replied. “Please tell me if there’s anything I can do to help. Do you have a ride home?”

  “Sir Winford has already gone to call for our carriage,” Lucy replied.

  Meg barely registered the disgruntled look on Hart’s face. She was trying to control her rapid breathing. Father? Father was ill? He had acted hideously this morning, but the idea of her father (she could hardly bring herself to think it) dying made her hot and cold all over.

  Meg flew through the ballroom on Lucy’s heels, ignoring the partygoers who watched their flight. Lucy had assured her she’d already paid their respects to Lord and Lady Cranberry and thanked them for their hospitality. The two ladies entered the corridor on the other side of the ballroom, quickly made their way toward the foyer, and exited through the front door. Sir Winford stood outside near the carriage line. Just as Lucy had said, he’d ensured the duchess’s coach was brought around. The conveyance was waiting for them in the street when they arrived.

  “Thank you, Sir Winford.” Meg barely glanced at the knight before allowing one of the grooms to help her into the coach beside Lucy. They were on their way in a matter of moments.

  * * *

  Less than a quarter hour later, Meg was kneeling at her father’s bedside, clutching his cold hand. Her mother sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room, glaring at her husband as if he’d got sick on purpose.

  Lucy had ensured that Meg’s father was resting abed before taking herself off, assuring Meg that if she needed anything night or day, she had only to send a note. Lucy also promised to call for her husband’s private physician to evaluate Meg’s father. Meg was ever so grateful.

  “Oh, Papa,” Meg said, rubbing her father’s hand. “I was so worried. Are you all right?”

  Her father lifted his opposite hand and patted her on the head. “Yes, Margaret, I’m fine now.”


  “What happened?” Meg asked, searching his familiar face.

  “I had an awful pain in my chest. My arm seized. I fell to the floor. It was all quite terrifying.”

  “I can only imagine.” Meg’s eyes filled with tears. Her father was reckless, irresponsible, and often thoughtless, but he had always loved her. “Have you any idea what happened to cause it?”

  “Oh, he knows exactly what caused it,” Meg’s mother intoned from her throne across the room. “Tell her, Charles.” Her voice was a sneer.

  Meg searched her father’s face again. “What? What is it?”

  Her father took a long, deep breath. He patted her head again. “Margaret, dear, I must … that is to say we must … I’ve decided we must move to the Continent. Immediately.”

  “What?” Meg nearly shouted. Lifting herself from her knees, she stood next to the bed. “Why?” She continued to squeeze her father’s hand. “What does that have to do with your illness?”

  “Tell her, Charles,” Mother prompted, her dark eyes narrowing.

  “Tell me what?” Meg searched her father’s pale face. She’d got her curls from him, and her green eyes. She’d also got her love of life. Despite his circumstances, Father had always been ebullient and happy. Perhaps it had been what made him not care that he owed so much money. Yes. He was reckless, her father. A trait she had decidedly not inherited. But she loved him despite his faults.

  “My dear Margaret,” her father said, letting his hand fall to the bedspread. “I was paid a visit tonight by two gentlemen who…” She could tell her father was searching for the right words.

  “They were hardly gentlemen, Charles,” her mother scoffed.

  “Yes, well, they, ahem, threatened me,” her father continued, clearing his throat. “You see, I owe them both a great deal of money and they want it back.”

  “Oh, Father, no!” Meg squeezed her father’s hand tightly. “They threatened to hurt you?”

  “Yes,” her father replied. “They did. If I don’t come up with ten thousand pounds in three weeks’ time, that is.”

  “That’s what caused your episode?” Meg asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Father replied, nodding.

  “And we must leave our home and all our friends and possessions, such as they are, to run like bandits in the night from these men.” Mother’s knuckles were white from clutching the wooden arms of the chair so tightly.

  “No.” Meg shook her head frantically. “There must be another way.” Ten thousand pounds was a fortune. There was no way her father would be able to come up with a sum as great as that in such a short amount of time. They would be forced to move to the Continent. It stood to reason, of course. The Continent was where men went who owed more money than they could ever afford to repay. Meg had never considered it. She’d never contemplated that Father might make such a decision. Not now. Not when she was finally getting her chance with Hart.

  “We must go,” Father said. “We’ve no other choice, I’m afraid. We leave in a fortnight.”

  A fortnight? So soon? Her future dimmed before her eyes. There was little chance she could make Hart fall in love with her in the span of a fortnight. Or even wring an offer from Sir Winford. She wouldn’t marry for money and she’d die before she’d admit to either man that she was leaving so her father could hide from creditors. There would be gossip enough as it was.

  She would end up a spinster somewhere in Europe, remembering her few cherished dances with the man she’d once loved. And Sarah? Meg couldn’t even contemplate being ripped away from her dearest friend. Would she ever even see Sarah again? Meg’s eyes filled with tears, but she forced them away. She had to be brave for her father’s sake.

  “Where will we go, Father?” she asked in a shaking voice.

  “I’ve heard Spain is quite nice,” Father replied.

  “He’s heard Spain is quite cheap,” Mother mumbled, her hands still gripping the arms of the chair.

  Meg swallowed. Spain? So far away. No. She could not go to Spain. She must think of some way to stay. Meg let go of her father’s hand and turned to face her mother. “What if the Duchess of Claringdon agrees to take me in for the remainder of the Season?”

  “Have you gone mad?” Mother scoffed, rolling her eyes. “The duchess may have taken an interest in you for the time being, but I hardly think she has any desire to have you move into her fine mansion. You’re thinking far too highly of yourself, Margaret. Dressing you up and allowing you to borrow some baubles is one thing. Moving into her home is entirely different.”

  Meg’s mind raced. There must be another way. “Fine. What if Sarah and Lord Berkeley agree to sponsor me for the rest of the Season?”

  “Absolutely not! We won’t allow you to be a charity case for the likes of that Highgate girl.” Pure venom dripped from her mother’s voice.

  Meg swallowed hard. Tears of frustration burned the backs of her eyes. She clenched her fists at her sides. Her mother was right. Meg hadn’t even asked Lucy if she would agree to such a thing before she’d offered it as a solution. Lucy couldn’t possibly want the subject of such an ugly scandal residing under her roof, and it had been beyond presumptuous of Meg to suggest it. There had been no hope her parents would allow her to stay with Sarah. She was being selfish, not thinking of her poor father.

  “I advise you to accept it as I have.” Mother stood and walked stiffly toward the bedchamber door. “We’re leaving for the Continent in a fortnight, and you’re coming with us.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The third ball was the Morgans’, and this time Meg wore a gown of light peach satin with silver embroidered dots and another charming matching reticule, all courtesy of Lucy, of course. When the duchess arrived at Meg’s father’s town house to escort her to the ball, Meg’s mother was standing in the foyer next to Meg, waiting for her.

  “Good evening, my lady,” the duchess said to Meg’s mother, while Meg watched worriedly from her spot near the door.

  “Good evening, Your Grace.” Her mother curtsied, and for a moment Meg believed that her mother might actually be civil and act normally for a change.

  “I hope you don’t mind my carting Meg off to the Morgans’ ball. It’s certain to be a lovely evening,” Lucy said.

  “By all means.” Mother’s tone was angry, and Meg sucked in her breath when she heard it. “Best of luck attempting to get this spinster daughter of ours married, even with all the fancy clothing you’ve dressed her in. You only have one more fortnight, by the by.” Mother gave Lucy a tight smile, turned, and left the room.

  “Two weeks?” Lucy asked Meg, a frown wrinkling her brow.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Meg replied, slipping on the gorgeous silver pelisse Lucy had brought for her.

  “Seems your mother is fine with placing you in my care,” Lucy said as they made their way down the steps toward the duchess’s coach. “You never told me, did they have any objections?”

  “Not many,” Meg replied. “I made the argument that I couldn’t possibly do any worse. Besides, Mother hasn’t offered to escort me to any events this Season. I suspect she feels guilty. She’s usually half in her cups by now.”

  “Your mother is quite something,” Lucy said magnanimously as the groomsmen helped both ladies into the fine carriage.

  “That’s one way to describe her,” Meg replied with a small laugh. She dreaded telling Lucy about her move to Spain. She’d already asked the duchess to do the impossible, help her catch the eye of the last man in the kingdom who could marry her. Now she would have to explain why they had only two short weeks to accomplish the task.

  “How’s your father’s health, dear?” Lucy asked as their coach rumbled along the muddy cobbled streets toward the Morgans’ town house. “Dr. Thomas said he’d had a mild attack of the nerves.”

  “Yes.” Meg’s skin heated. She didn’t want to admit the reason for her father’s attack, but she had to be honest if Lucy was going to continue to help her. “It was brought on by a
great deal of worry.”

  “Worry?” Lucy clucked her tongue. “I’ve always found worry to be a complete waste of time.”

  Meg couldn’t muster a smile for her benefactress. She merely nodded weakly.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” Lucy fumbled in her reticule for something.

  Meg took a deep breath. She might as well get this over with. “Father’s had some trouble with creditors. He informed us last night that we’re moving to the Continent in a fortnight.”

  Lucy didn’t so much as look up from the search of her reticule. “That’s unsporting of him.”

  Meg furrowed her brow. “I don’t think you heard me. I said I’m leaving the country in a fortnight’s time.”

  “I heard you, dear.” Lucy finished her search, plucking out a vial of perfume. “I brought this for you. It smells like passionflower. Lady Danielle Cavendish has convinced us all of the importance of a good French perfume. Delilah Montebank is especially enamored of the idea, even at the ripe old age of fourteen.”

  Meg took the vial but blinked at Lucy. “You heard me and you’re not concerned?”

  “Should I be?” Lucy blinked back.

  Meg groaned and let her forehead drop onto her free hand. Lucy could be positively maddening.

  “It does make our plans a bit more pressing, dear, I’ll give you that, but it hardly changes anything,” Lucy said. “Sir Winford appears to be on the verge of an offer. Now dab some passionflower behind your ears and let’s get to work.”

  “But I don’t want to marry Sir Winford,” Meg moaned, glaring at the small vial of perfume.

  “Of course you don’t, dear, but you do want his offer.” Lucy gestured to the vial and Meg reluctantly pulled off her gloves, plucked off the stopper, and dabbed a bit of the perfume behind both ears as directed.