The Right Kind of Rogue

by Valerie Bowman

  She forced herself to move even closer to him, coming to a stop directly in front of him, her bare toes only a pace from his. They faced each other, the heat from his body palpable. Shaking, she made herself rise on her tiptoes. She pressed her lips against his.

  It was like kissing a statue. His lips didn’t move. His body didn’t, either. He stood stock-still while she felt like an idiot. Finally, his mouth opened and his lips slanted across hers. His tongue plunged inside and she gasped against his mouth. His arms enveloped her and he began walking her backward toward the door. Oh God, she’d won. He was taking her to her bedchamber. He was going to make love to her.

  She wound her arms around his neck as the kiss intensified. He leaned down to keep the contact between their mouths as they continued to make their way to the door. He slammed her back against the door and kissed her, long and hard. The heat of his hardness pressed against her belly. She was panting and mindless when he pulled her to him, broke the contact of their lips, and yanked open the door to her bedchamber. His smile was tight as he shook his head, pushed her firmly into the room, and pulled the door shut in her face.

  Meg stood on the other side of the closed door, shaking with lust and anger. She clenched her hands into fists and squeezed them as hard as she could. He was an ass and she wanted to slap him, but the kiss had told her something valuable. She’d felt passion in his response. Hart wasn’t entirely immune to her. She had a chance to win him back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The next morning, Hart sat in his coach outside of Meg’s parents’ house and stared at the black front door. The bloody thing could use a coat of paint. Hell, for that matter, the stairs needed to be scrubbed and the entire facade looked sorely in need of repairs. He shook his head and pushed open the coach door. Might as well get this unpleasant business over with.

  His knock on the front door was answered after several minutes by the same disheveled-looking butler he’d seen the night he’d come to inform Meg’s parents he intended to marry her. Just as he had that night, the butler immediately became alarmed at the presence of a viscount on the front step. Apparently, the Timmons residence wasn’t accustomed to visitors.

  After Hart asked to speak with the baron, the butler ushered him into the same sadly worn drawing room he’d been ushered to the last time. He sat staring at a crack in the stained ceiling for several minutes before his father-in-law came hurrying in. The man’s face was red and he looked as if he’d come running. Probably not the best idea, given the man’s health concerns.

  “My lord,” Tifton said, bowing to Hart. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Despite the nicety of the words, Hart heard the unmistakable snideness in the man’s tone.

  Hart stood to shake Tifton’s hand. It was a rough shake, over quickly, and the two men took seats opposite each other.

  “I’m here to make you an offer,” Hart said. He might as well get right to this odious business.

  The baron’s green-and-gold eyes, which reminded Hart of Meg’s, narrowed on him. “What sort of an offer?”

  Hart opened his coat and pulled a bank draft from his inner pocket. “I’ve been doing some investigating into your affairs.”

  The baron opened his mouth to protest but Hart shot up a hand to stop him. “Allow me to finish.”

  The baron pressed his lips together and nodded curtly. “Fine. Proceed.”

  “My solicitor has paid off all of your debts. Every last one of them. I personally owe every single debt you’re responsible for at the cost of a small bloody fortune.”

  The baron tugged at the lapels to his coat. He cleared his throat. “I highly doubt—”

  “To the tune of nearly fifty thousand pounds. Does that sound about right to you?”

  The baron snapped his mouth shut and hung his head. “What do you want in return?” His voice was low.

  “This.” Hart waved the bank draft in the air. “Is more money than you’ve probably seen in your lifetime. I’m prepared to give it to you on three conditions.”

  Tifton lifted his head again to look at the draft. He pressed his tongue against his cheek. “What conditions?”

  “The first is that you use this money to restore your household and live in a manner more befitting your station.” Hart glanced around at the worn room.

  The baron nodded slowly. “And the second?”

  “If I ever hear of you gambling or ringing up debts again, you will not like the consequences.”

  The man opened his mouth to speak, but Hart wouldn’t let him. “You are no longer welcome in any of the gentlemen’s gaming hells in the city and I promise you I will hear about it if you attempt to go to less desirable places to game. I have friends everywhere. Do I make myself clear?”

  The baron gave Hart a tight nod. “Perfectly. And the third condition?”

  Hart settled back in his seat and regarded the man down the length of his nose. “If I ever hear you or that wasp you call a wife say an unkind thing to Meg ever again, I will have you and all your belongings packed up and carted off to the outer reaches of India.”

  The baron had the grace to look guilty. He threaded his fingers together and hung his head. “I understand.”

  “Good. I’m glad we see eye-to-eye. I know why you and my father hate each other, but Meg doesn’t and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  The baron cleared his throat again and faced Hart. “Why are you doing this?”

  Hart considered the question. He might want to punish Meg for her treachery, but he wasn’t about to allow her father to be murdered or sent to debtors’ prison. Like it or not, they were family now.

  And there was another reason.

  “For some unfathomable reason, Meg loves you and her mother and she would be sad if you moved to Spain. Now, do you agree to my terms?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. Let me be clear … if you make a mistake, I’ll send you to Newgate myself.”

  Minutes later, Hart was gathering his hat from the butler in the foyer when Meg’s mother sashayed up to him. The butler quickly disappeared. “Lady Tifton,” Hart intoned, inclining his head to the woman.

  “My lord,” she answered. Her eyes were narrowed, but she had what probably passed as a smile on her face. “I heard what you said to my husband.”

  “Which part?” Hart asked, wanting nothing so much as to leave the odious house as soon as possible. How the hell had Meg lived here so long with the two of them? “The part about paying off the debts or the part about sending him to Newgate if he makes any more mistakes?”

  “Both,” Lady Tifton replied. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Listening at doors, are you?”

  “My husband rarely tells me anything.”

  “I cannot imagine why.”

  She ignored that. “I also heard what you said about us saying anything bad to Margaret.”

  “I meant that, too,” Hart replied. “Will it be a problem?”

  She paced away from him. “You have no idea how difficult the girl is.”

  “She’s not difficult. I’ve known her for years.” The fact that he had to defend Meg to her own mother sickened him.

  “She’s meek and mild and weak, just like her father.”

  “No, she’s nurturing and kind and sees the best in people, unlike either of her parents.”

  Lady Tifton scoffed. “She’s just not—”

  “A son?”

  The baroness gasped. “What?”

  “Don’t pretend. That’s the reason you dislike her so much, isn’t it? You only had one chance to produce a son and you had Meg instead. My father tells me many things when he’s deep in his cups.”

  The woman’s silence spoke volumes.

  “Your husband stopped touching you years ago. His affairs are as legendary as his gambling debts.”

  “I wouldn’t allow him to touch me,” the baroness spat.

  “Yes, well, it’s not Meg’s fault she wasn’t born a son and it certainly was
n’t her fault that you two had no more children.”

  “But she—”

  “I’ve personally heard you say horrible things to Meg. If I hear anything like it again, I’ll take back every pound.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I’ll call in all the debts he owes me.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Try me.”

  The baroness scrunched up her nose in a sneer. “You people with money make me ill. You think you can buy anything.”

  Hart pulled his hat from a nearby table. “If my money buys your decency to my wife, then I don’t give a bloody damn if it makes you ill in the process.” He placed his hat on his head and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Hart spent the next two days drinking at the club, boxing at the club, playing cards at the club, and doing whatever the hell else he could to keep his mind off his new wife.

  When Meg came to his room three nights ago, it had been a bloody act of heroism to send her away. She’d been wearing a wisp of a gown, the lines of her seductive body clearly visible underneath … and her décolletage. By God, her décolletage. The sight of it had nearly sent him to his knees.

  He’d had to shake his head instead of saying anything to her when he pulled that blasted door closed between them because he hadn’t been convinced his voice wouldn’t shake if he’d actually spoken. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, to pull the door shut, but he was a grown man, not an untried lad, and he wasn’t about to forgive the woman her treachery over some décolletage and a misguided attempt to seduce him.

  Hadn’t he just told her the night before that he wasn’t going to touch her? She clearly thought she could control him with her body. He refused to allow that to happen. If he gave in to her, he’d never have the upper hand again, and he did not intend to relinquish it. No, even if he had to stay away from his house and hide from the confounded woman, he would not touch her.

  Tonight he’d gone out and boxed until his knuckles were bloody and worn. Anything to tire himself out, to make it so that he could fall into sweet oblivion in bed, not thinking about his wife in the next room the way he had been tortured each night since their wedding.

  He almost didn’t hear the tentative knock when it came. Bloody hell. She was going to try again. By God, did the woman have no shame? He closed his eyes briefly, trying to steel himself against the sight of her. She clearly wasn’t going to make refusing her easy for him. She hadn’t made any of this easy for him. Why should she begin now?

  “Come in,” he said in as domineering and cold a voice as he could muster.

  The door swung open slowly and in walked Meg wearing a cream-colored dressing gown tied tightly around her slim waist. At least she was more clothed tonight. Perhaps she merely wanted to talk. He had to admit he was curious as to what she might say.

  “Yes,” he intoned, not looking at her as he went about his evening ablutions.

  “Did you … have a good evening?” Her voice was slight, hesitant.

  So, she wanted to begin with small talk. He could do small talk. “As good as can be expected.”

  “Were you … at the club?”

  “Among other places.” He’d let her think about that. The truth was he’d gone to a gaming hell after the club and gambled away a small fortune because he couldn’t keep his mind on the play. He’d been tortured by images of Meg in her diaphanous dressing gown.

  He’d bloody well been offered woman after woman at the hell. It was the sort of place one could find a willing partner ready to go upstairs and have a tumble. He’d considered it, of course he had, but in the end he found he couldn’t do it. He’d be thinking of Meg the entire time and that was distasteful to him. He’d never had a problem like this before. Being-married was a damned nuisance.

  “My parents came for a visit today,” Meg said. “They have decided not to leave London after all.”

  “And that is of interest to me because…” He let his voice trail off, keeping his face blank.

  “I suppose it’s of no interest to you,” she replied. He could tell she was angry. Fine. They both knew who had the right to be angry here, but if she wanted to play that little game, she was free to.

  “Are you finished?” he asked. “I’m exhausted. I’ve had a long night.” He’d let her think about that, too.

  “I suppose being a rogue is exhausting,” she replied in a sharp tone, one slender hand resting on her hip.

  “No doubt every bit as exhausting as being a schemer is,” he countered.

  “One can only imagine how much energy it takes to be such an ass to one’s wife.” She gave him a tight smile.

  “Oh, I’m an ass?”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  “What about the other shoe? The one you were wearing the night you trapped me into marriage?”

  “My compliments. You do play the victim so well. Perhaps it’s time for the truth. I know you don’t want to hear it, but the fact is that I had absolutely no intention of trapping you into marriage.”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to hear it and I certainly don’t believe it.”

  “Fine, be stubborn. Be an ass. I’ve said all I can say on the matter.”

  That was it. He was through trading barbs with her. This couldn’t end well. To make matters worse, he was actually taking pleasure in trading barbs with her. That was an unwelcome thought. He needed to get away from her. If he continued to enjoy his time in her company, he might weaken and take her to bed. He grabbed his dressing gown and brushed past her, stalking out the door. “I’ll sleep in my study tonight.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “I need you to be much more specific,” Meg said to Lucy the next morning over tea at the duchess’s town house.

  Lucy stirred an obscene amount of sugar into her tea. Obviously, at the duchess’s town house, the cost of sugar was no object. “Specific? About what, dear?”

  “About the whole … seduction business.”

  “Oh dear. Didn’t it work?” Lucy searched Meg’s face.

  “No. I failed miserably. The first night he essentially ordered me to get out of his bedchamber, and last night he left his own room to sleep in the study.” She decided to leave out the part about the kiss. She’d shared enough with Lucy. She was merely here for some good, solid advice from a married lady.

  Lucy tsked under her breath. “Are you telling me your husband still hasn’t consummated your marriage?”

  Meg pressed a knuckle to her forehead. “That’s precisely what I’m telling you.”

  Lucy continued to stir the tea. “Egads. Who knew that once Romeo and Juliet actually married, it turned into a farce? What were you wearing?”

  Meg’s jaw was tight when she said, “Does it matter? By the time it was over, I wanted to slap him, not seduce him.”

  Lucy lifted her green skirts with her free hand and made her way over to a tufted chair. “Very well. You’re going to have to be much more obvious next time.”

  Meg followed Lucy and sat in a similarly tufted chair next to hers. “Obvious? What does that mean?”

  “I mean go to him wearing only your dressing gown.”

  “I had that on last night.” Meg took a sip of her own, far less sugared tea.

  “You didn’t let me finish.” A catlike smile perched on Lucy’s lips. “Go to him wearing only your gown and nothing beneath, then … drop it.”

  Meg choked on her tea. She set the cup on the table beside her and pounded her chest. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.” The catlike smile remained.

  “Are you suggesting I go to my husband … nude?”

  “No. I’m suggesting you go there in your dressing gown. Then become nude.” Lucy continued to stir her tea.

  “What if he refuses me? What if he brushes past me and sleeps in the study again? I’d be standing there like a naked fool.”

  “I cannot promise those things won’t happen.” Lucy finally took
a sip of tea. “I can only assure you that you have a much better chance to convince him to stay if he’s confronted with your naked body.”

  “I cannot believe you’re saying this to me. I truly cannot.” Meg covered her rapidly heating cheeks with her hands.

  Lucy took another quick sip of tea and set her cup on the same table where Meg’s rested. “Prepare yourself then, because I’m about to tell you how to do something that is certain to scandalize you—but I guarantee, if you’re given the chance to try it, it will work wonders.”

  * * *

  Bleary-eyed, with a smashing headache, Hart slid into a large leather chair at Brooks’s the next morning. His friends Harlborough, Norcross, and Wenterley sat across from him.

  “You look like hell,” Norcross said. The blond earl was a crack with a pistol and had been Hart’s friend since they were lads growing up on neighboring estates.

  “I feel like hell,” Hart admitted.

  “Marriage not agreeing with you?” Harlborough drawled. The duke was dark-haired, had a wicked sense of humor, and was the only man of Hart’s acquaintance who had a finer set of horseflesh than he did. A damn fine rider was Harlborough. He’d known the duke since their days at Eton.

  “An understatement,” Hart replied.

  “I don’t understand. We met your wife. We danced with her. She seemed a lovely, accommodating sort,” Harlborough replied.

  “She is if you count scheming seductresses as lovely and accommodating,” Hart sneered, just before he ordered a brandy from a footman.

  “Scheming? How so?” Wenterley asked. The brown-haired, brown-eyed viscount was by far the most studious of Hart’s group of friends. He’d met Wenterley at Oxford while trying to cheat off his paper. The viscount had promptly called him out, Hart had promptly bested him with his fists, and they’d ended up drinking together in a pub and deciding they could help each other.

  “You didn’t hear the story about how my marriage came to pass so quickly?” Hart asked.

  “Of course we did,” Harlborough said. “Got caught in a scandal and all that. What does that have to do with anything? Could’ve happened to the best of us. I, for one, can’t blame you for not being able to keep your hands off her till your wedding day. She’s a fine-looking lady, that one. If you don’t mind me saying.” Harlborough held up a finger to order a brandy for himself.