“Why do I want his offer?” Meg asked. The passionflower smelled lovely. It filled the coach with its rich scent.
“Because an offer will force Hart’s hand.”
“What? How?” Meg placed the stopper on the vial and handed it back to Lucy, who dropped it unceremoniously into her reticule.
“I’ve seen the way he’s spoken to you over the last few nights, dear. He’s undeniably attracted to you. He’s just so annoyingly determined to stick to conventions. You saw his face when I mentioned that Sir Winford was bringing the coach around.”
“That hardly means—”
“Allow me to finish, dear. Once Hart realizes you’re off the market, or could be, he’ll have to take a long hard look at himself.”
“You truly think an offer from Sir Winford will wring an offer from Hart?” Meg tugged on her glove once more. “It seems like a dangerous gamble.”
Lucy’s different-colored eyes sparkled. “I think there is only one way to find out. Remember, I’ve seen this sort of thing play out once or twice before.”
“But this is the last night. The last ball Hart agreed to come to and dance with me.”
“Yes,” Lucy agreed. “The three nights of balls are over, and with your father’s ridiculous pronouncement we have even less time than before. We must make our next move immediately.”
“What is our next move?” Meg asked, shifting to sit on the edge of her seat, half frightened to hear the answer.
“I shall host a small dinner party tomorrow night, with featured guests, you, Sir Winford, and Hart.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Morgans’ ballroom was crowded with guests, but Meg had little trouble finding Hart. His height made him stand out. He wore his black superfine evening attire with a sapphire waistcoat and startlingly white cravat. His hair brushed his collar, his breeches clearly defined his, ahem, assets, and as always his eyes glowed like emeralds. Lucy had made it clear that Meg was to wait from him to come to her, and so she tapped her silver slipper against the marble floor while pretending not to notice the most handsome man in the room was heading her way.
Hart strolled up to Meg and bowed to her. “Care to dance, my lady?”
Meg’s heart did a little flip. It would never get old, hearing him ask her to dance. The my lady part was especially swoon-worthy, and yet this might be the last time—ever—that she danced with him. She must enjoy and remember every moment of it.
“You seem sad,” Hart said as a waltz began to play.
Meg nodded slowly. There was no use denying it. “The truth is … I am sad.”
“Sad? Why? You look beautiful, you seem to have your choice of gentlemen to dance with, and you happen to be dancing with the most handsome of the lot.” He gave her a devilish grin. “What possible reason do you have to be sad?”
He leaned down to catch her eye. She’d been staring into his cravat, trying not to cry. He sounded so caring. She wanted to ask him to love her, right then and there. Wanted to beg him, really. The thought of Lucy having her own attack of the nerves over it put a stop to that. Furthermore, Meg didn’t think a needy plea would be particularly effective. No. She must remain subtle. Sophisticated. No matter how much she disliked pretending.
She took a long, deep breath. Could she tell him this news without tears springing to her eyes? Could she tell him she was leaving? She bit the inside of her cheek. She was being such a ninny. “I’m—”
Sir Winford tapped Hart upon the shoulder. “The duchess sent me,” the knight announced with a broad smile.
“Of course she did,” Hart ground out.
Meg quickly swiped away her tears and plastered a fake smile on her face for Sir Winford while Hart stepped aside and allowed the knight to take Meg’s hands.
“Good evening, Miss Timmons,” Hart said in a perfectly even, calm voice. “I do hope you feel better.” He turned on his heel and strode away.
* * *
Hart slid the empty brandy glass onto the tray of a passing footman and grabbed a full snifter from the same tray. By God, this night was not going the way he’d planned. How he’d planned, he’d no idea. But not like this. He was in the devil’s own mood. He’d intended to help Meg in the marriage mart. He’d intended to dance with her a few times and perhaps elevate her reputation. Instead he found himself angry with Sir Winford for cutting in while he himself was completely uninterested in finding another dancing partner. The episode had put him in a foul mood. He was never in a foul mood.
“You look as if you’re about to beat someone with your fists, dear brother,” Sarah said, approaching him warily, a flute of champagne in her gloved hand.
Hart took another gulp of brandy. “I might.”
Sarah arched a brow. “Truly? Do tell. Who is the unlucky gentleman?”
It was on the tip of Hart’s tongue to say Winford, but that would elicit a slew of unwanted questions from his only sibling. “It’s nothing. I merely have a devil of a head.”
Sarah took a dainty sip of champagne. “Again? Wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re at a ton ball, would it?”
“I believe it might.” Hart took a deep breath. He might as well focus his energy on something he actually had control over. Meg Timmons and her marital prospects were none of his concern. Even if he did happen to have the rose she’d tossed away in the garden last night pressed between the pages of a book on his nightstand. He refused to so much as consider why. He didn’t know why. The moment she’d tossed it away, he’d immediately swooped down and grabbed it, tucking it gingerly into his waistcoat pocket as he’d raced behind Meg toward Lucy’s voice.
“Any eligible prospects here tonight?” Hart forced himself to ask his sister.
Sarah glanced around. “Yes, actually. Lady Eugenia Eubanks is here.”
Hmm. Lady Eugenia. Tall, blond, pretty, rich. If only he could muster any enthusiasm for that news. He grabbed another brandy from another tray. Perhaps if he had enough to drink, Lady Eugenia might seem more enticing to him.
“I’ve been considering all the names of friends and acquaintances, trying to come up with someone you might be more interested in,” Sarah offered. “I do believe Lady Eugenia is a fine candidate.”
“How are her teeth?” An image of Meg’s small perfect teeth tugging at her bottom lip flashed through Hart’s mind. Damn, it made him hard. He tossed back another gulp of brandy, trying to think of anything that might dull the lust he was feeling for Meg.
“Her teeth are quite even, if I remember correctly,” Sarah replied with a laugh.
“Where is Lady Eugenia?” Hart asked, glancing about.
“Standing right over there looking for all the world as if she could use a dance partner,” Sarah replied in a singsong voice.
“Introduce me then.” Hart tossed back the final finger of brandy. “It’s high time I found a wife.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“There you are, son, I’ve been looking for you.”
Hart glanced up and winced as his father strode into the room at Brooks’s. It was barely past noon, far too early in the day to deal with his father. Hart was only two brandies in.
His father always strode into a room as if he owned the place. Hart wouldn’t be surprised if his father had attempted to purchase the gentleman’s club, but he hadn’t heard as much. Without asking if he might take a seat, his father grabbed the chair next to his and settled himself into it.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Hart drawled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
His father ordered a brandy from the same footman who’d supplied Hart with his last two, and rubbed his hands together in obvious glee. “I’ve heard you’ve taken an interest in Lady Eugenia Eubanks.”
This was precisely what Hart had been hoping to avoid, but the ton was full of gossips. Namely, his own sister. “Who told you that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Sarah told you.”
“Is it true or not?”
/>
Hart groaned and rubbed a hand across his face. Yes. Last night, he’d forced himself to dance and flirt with Lady Eugenia. It had been mildly amusing. She was exactly the type of young woman his father would approve of. Father would like nothing better than to hear the announcement of his betrothal. It was far too premature for that. He’d only danced with her twice last night, for heaven’s sake. Lady Eugenia didn’t strike him as the calculating sort, but it was far too early to tell, and his father’s glee reminded him far too much of his experience with Annabelle.
“I spent some time with her last evening if that’s what you’re asking,” Hart admitted.
“Excellent. A fine choice.”
“There has been no choice yet.”
His father took the brandy from the footman. “No. No, of course not.”
Hart eyed the older man. His father had been handsome in his day. His dark hair was now liberally streaked with silver. His green eyes were a bit dulled, but his physique was still impressive, tall and broad. He hadn’t begun to lose his waistline the way so many of his peers had. The man kept himself fit. He rode his horses often, and his mistresses more often.
His father had been hardened by his marriage. His wife’s infidelities had spawned his own. He’d gone from drinking and complaining, to trying to one-up his wife. But they were discreet. He’d give them that. His parents were united on one point and one point only. They detested scandal.
“I told you I intend to take a wife, but there is no rush, Father. The Season has barely begun.”
“Yes, of course. I couldn’t agree more. But I’ve been asking around about Lady Eugenia. She’d make a fine choice. Large dowry. Good family. No scandal. She has her share of wealthy, titled suitors. Obviously isn’t after you for those things.”
“Aren’t all women after me for those things? Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”
“No woman is perfect, Hart. You’ll have to pick one of them eventually.”
“Sarah likes her.”
“There,” Father said in a booming voice. “You see.”
Hart took a healthy swallow of brandy and winced. “Father, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
Hart braced himself. “Other than her lack of dowry, would Meg Timmons be entirely unsuitable for me?”
His father’s eyes bugged from his skull, and he nearly spit his drink. Hart suspected only decades of breeding kept him from it. “Meg Timmons? Have you lost your wits?”
Hart took another swig of brandy. “She’s beautiful, healthy, from good ton.”
“If you call Baron Tifton good ton,” his father scoffed. “The man is a profligate. He owes money to half of London.”
“You were once thick as thieves with the family. Or do you forget?”
“I haven’t been in years, or do you forget?” His father’s face turned red with anger. “Meg Timmons is the last girl on earth I’d allow you to marry.”
Father had been deep in his cups when he’d told Hart the real reason he and Meg’s father had a falling-out, but the old man often forgot the things he said when he was deep in his cups. Things he had no business sharing with a teenage boy. Things Hart had never wanted to hear about his mother, his father, and their marriage. All the man had managed to teach his son was how to be wary of all women and how to drink himself to distraction. “I seem to recall you relenting on Sarah’s choice of husband,” Hart pointed out.
His father’s face went redder still and his jaw hardened when he spoke. “I had no choice but to relent and allow Sarah to marry Berkeley. The man ruined her in a church full of people. Besides, while the Marquess of Branford would have been a much more esteemed title to have in the family, Berkeley at least is wealthy and titled, but I will not stand for the daughter of my sworn enemy to be a part of this family ever. Do I make myself clear?”
Hart tossed back the rest of his brandy. “Perfectly.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lucy Hunt’s magnificent saffron-colored drawing room was crowded with London’s best. Meg glanced around uneasily. Many of the room’s occupants were people who had ignored her for years. Except for the duchess’s friends like Lady Cassandra and Mrs. Upton, the partygoers seemed to eye her with suspicion, as if she were a servant who’d dressed up like a fine lady and pushed her way in. She was wearing a shimmering pink gown that was far too tight in the bodice and convinced her that she looked like a salmon, though Sarah and Lucy assured her she did not. Sarah stood at Meg’s side, stalwart amid the private panic that had Meg’s stomach tied in knots.
“Sir Winford has arrived.” Sarah clasped Meg’s hand and squeezed it. “He looks quite dashing tonight.”
Meg dared a glance up. Sir Winford did indeed look handsome, as he did every night, but it wasn’t Sir Winford who made her heart skip and her pulse race. Hart stood not twenty paces away talking to Lady Eugenia Eubanks, whom Lucy had invited at the last minute.
“Yes.” Meg nodded blindly. “Sir Winford looks quite well.”
“He would make a fine candidate for a husband,” Sarah said for perhaps the dozenth time in the last two days.
“He would indeed,” Meg agreed numbly, trying not to stare at the back of Hart’s dark head and trying not to wonder at what Lady Eugenia had said that made him laugh that way.
“And given your news…,” Sarah continued.
Sarah had been full of outrage over Meg’s father’s plans to move his family to the Continent. She’d invited Meg to stay with her for the remainder of the Season.
“Mother has refused, I’m afraid,” Meg had replied. “And Lucy has already tried.”
“Tried what?” Sarah had asked.
“She offered to allow me to live with her, to be my chaperone.”
“Your parents refused an offer from a duchess?”
“Father seemed to agree with the plan, but Mother was adamantly against it.”
Sarah planted her fists on her hips. “Your mother is awful. No offense, Meggie.”
Meg sighed. “None taken.”
“I simply cannot believe she’d want you to languish alone on the Continent instead of finishing out the Season here,” Sarah said.
“Her exact words were, ‘If you haven’t found a husband yet, there’s little chance of finding one now.’ Then she proceeded to inform me how much a London Season cost and how Father couldn’t afford to keep me here. Even after Lucy offered to pay for all of my expenses. Mother is quite proud. I understand. I cannot blame her.”
“Not too proud to run from your father’s creditors.” Sarah left off after she saw what must have been the miserable look on Meg’s face. “I’m sorry, Meggie, truly I am, but your parents are being so … difficult.”
“That’s one word for it.” Meg took another sip from her flute. Champagne was the only thing making her feel better this evening, especially after the arrival of Lady Eugenia. After her dance with Sir Winford last night, Meg had watched Hart dancing with Lady Eugenia. When he danced with the lady once more before the evening was over, Meg had decided she didn’t care for Lady Eugenia. She was the exact sort of woman Hart should marry. One his father would approve of. One with a hefty dowry and a family untouched by scandal.
“Don’t worry,” Sarah said. “Lucy’s informed me that we must step up our efforts.”
Alarm clutched Meg’s chest. “Step up our efforts at what?”
“With Sir Winford, of course.”
“Oh yes, Sir Winford.” Meg breathed a sigh of relief. She took another sip of champagne. “Of course.”
“Who else did you think—?”
Meg was spared having to answer that question by the arrival of Sir Winford and Lucy’s announcement to the entire room that it was time to go in to dinner.
“Miss Timmons,” Sir Winford said. “Her Grace asked me to escort you into the dining room. If you don’t mind.”
Meg pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you, Sir Winford.”
“I’ll just go in search of my
husband, then.” Sarah scanned the room for Lord Berkeley.
The couples lined up together side by side in the drawing room. Meg and Sir Winford were near the back of the line due to their status, which meant, given his height, Meg had a clear view of Hart’s head and shoulders next to Lady Eugenia several paces in front of them. Meg cleared her throat, lifted her chin, and smiled widely at Sir Winford. Sarah had confirmed that Hart had decided to court Lady Eugenia. That news somehow made Lucy think she should invite Lady Eugenia to this dinner party. Meg failed to see how Lady Eugenia’s presence was helpful to their cause.
Perhaps Meg was a fool chasing Hart. Though he’d danced with her a few times and kissed her twice quite accidentally, not romantically, and he’d seemed to enjoy her company upon occasion, that hardly meant he would toss aside his years of breeding and duty to marry someone so far beneath him with no dowry. Hart’s parents expected a solid political and social alliance from his future wife, not the impoverished daughter of their sworn enemy.
Which was why Meg had determined this afternoon she would do her best to get to know Sir Winford. He seemed kind and pleasant. He was exactly the sort of man she should be thrilled to garner attention from. She was a wretched ingrate to be so inhospitable toward him. Besides, she owed the duchess a considerable sum for her gowns and slippers and reticules.
Though she knew Lucy would never force her to repay the debt, Meg had made a promise and she intended to keep it. Unlike her father, to Meg, a debt owed was a debt she must pay. Sir Winford had more than enough money to pay the debt. While it made her stomach turn to think of marrying for money, it was better than being banished to Spain. Sir Winford was pleasant and intelligent. Perhaps she could learn to love him. Vowing to try, she smiled at the knight more brightly as he escorted her in to dinner.
Meg resolved to avoid so much as looking in Hart’s direction during the dinner party.
It was a good resolve, too, until she entered the dining room and discovered she was seated directly across from him. The duchess had informed her guests this was to be an informal party, in which everyone might converse not only with the people sitting to their right and left, but also with those across from them. There was Lady Eugenia, sitting next to Hart, across from Sir Winford. Bother.
The Right Kind of Rogue Page 9
