“Where is she?” Hart blurted.
“Who?” Lucy pushed at a dark curl along her forehead.
Hart expelled his breath. The duchess knew damn well who. He didn’t have time for games. “My wife,” he nearly growled.
Lucy took a sip of tea that he’d watched her drop an ungodly amount of sugar into. “Has she gone missing?”
Hart tilted his head to the side and sighed. “I take it she’s not here, then?”
The duchess arched a brow. “Not unless she’s stuck in the silver closet again. I’ll give you the key and you can go look if you like.”
Hart arched his brow. “That’s not funny.”
“I thought it was.” Lucy took another sip of tea.
Hart leaned forward in his seat, hoping the chair wouldn’t crack from his weight. “You have no idea where she is?” His voice dripped skepticism.
Lucy lifted her teacup to her lips again, her pinkie finger pointed skyward. “If she’s not at your house, I’d guess she’s with Sarah.”
Hart growled under his breath. “She’s not at Sarah’s. I came from there earlier.”
Lucy regarded him seriously for a moment. “Did Sarah tell you she doesn’t know where she is?”
Hart frowned. “No.”
Another sip of tea. “Where’s Sarah then?”
Hart was quickly coming to understand that Lucy didn’t have any idea where Meg was. He’d made a mistake coming here. This was a waste of time. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her this morning before I left. The servants said she’d gone out.”
“So Meg is missing and Sarah’s not home?” Lucy asked.
“Yes.” He clenched his jaw.
“Hmm.” Lucy smoothed a finger over a dark brow. “I’d say find Sarah and you’ll find Meg.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Meg had been in Northumbria for three weeks. Three long weeks in which she’d had no communication with her husband. No communication with anyone except Sarah and Mrs. Hamilton, and the dear staff at Berkeley Hall, which was a perfectly lovely place. She’d spent her days riding horses, going for walks, and picking flowers in the meadows. Her journal was full of the details of the past several weeks, but she was no closer to understanding her husband or having a plan about dealing with him than she had been when she came.
She’d spent her nights tossing and turning, tortured by the thought of Hart and Lady Maria tangled in each other’s arms in London. Had he invited the woman to their house? Were they spending their nights in naked ecstasy in the same bed he’d refused to take her to? It made Meg’s stomach roil. Hart had slept on Sarah’s settee that night Meg had found him with Lady Maria, but that didn’t mean he’d remained celibate since. Perhaps Meg had made a horrible mistake coming here. Still, she refused to crawl back to London and watch him and his lover together. That would be worse than being here and not knowing.
“I expect we’ll have a visitor today, Meg,” Sarah said over breakfast on the twenty-second day they’d been in Northumbria.
“A visitor?” Meg blinked. Her heart lurched. Surely Sarah hadn’t invited Hart here.
“It’s Christian,” Sarah said, reaching for the pot of honey.
Meg breathed a sigh of relief. Of course Sarah wouldn’t have invited Hart. Not without warning her first.
“Christian?” Meg took a sip of juice. She didn’t want to admit she’d been disappointed when she realized their visitor wasn’t Hart.
“Yes,” Sarah continued. “I’ve written to Christian and told him that you refuse to return to London. He’s been closely monitoring Hart’s behavior, by the by.”
Meg briefly closed her eyes. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Sarah slathered honey on a piece of toast with a knife. “I know you don’t, but you must. You cannot hide up here forever. Besides, we’re missing all the best gossip. Christian told me Lady Eugenia and Sir Winford have become betrothed.”
“No!” Meg breathed, a small smile popping to her lips. She was happy for Sir Winford. He deserved to find love.
“Yes,” Sarah continued. “I was in agreement with you that you needed time, but it’s been nearly a month and neither you nor Hart appears willing to be the first to attempt to reconcile. You must be in the same room with each other if you’re to work this out.”
Meg took a bite of eggs. “Who says we need to work this out?”
“Intend to live here forever, do you?” Sarah smiled at her and took a bite of honey-covered toast.
Meg pressed her lips together. She had to concede. Her friend did have a point. “Very well, what has my husband been doing in London without me? Drinking to excess and visiting Maria Tempest’s bed, I expect.”
Sarah smiled, clearly pleased with herself. “I’ll let Christian tell you when he arrives, which should be any moment now.”
The butler announced Lord Berkeley’s arrival precisely a quarter hour later. Meg held her breath while the viscount made his way into the breakfast room. The servants hurried to place a plate full of food in front of him. He’d been traveling all night. No doubt he was exhausted.
After the greetings and niceties were exchanged and Sarah gave her husband an indecently long kiss, Sarah turned to Meg. “Very well, Christian, tell Meg what you told me.”
Meg tried to keep her hand from shaking on her teacup. “My husband’s exploits?”
Christian cleared his throat. “If you can call them that. He’s been a complete mess since you left.”
“A mess?” Meg blinked. Had she heard Christian correctly?
“He’s spent more nights than not on our settee and they say he’s gambled away a fortune at the clubs. He’s completely distracted.”
Meg took a breath. That was surprising. “Did Lady Maria reject him?”
“On the contrary. She’s made it clear she’d welcome him back. Hart hasn’t taken her up on the offer.”
Meg closed her eyes briefly. Relief flooded through her. “Are you certain?”
“Told me himself not three nights ago when he was deep in his cups and being quite honest.”
“No,” Meg breathed.
“Yes,” Christian replied. “He loves you, Meg. I’m convinced of it.”
“Loves me?” Meg shook her head. If Christian had told her Hart was half wolf she could not have been more astonished.
Christian picked up his fork and stabbed it into a sausage. “Yes. It just takes some of us poor fools a bit longer than others to realize we’re in love.” He winked at his wife.
Sarah laughed and squeezed her husband’s wrist. “So true, darling.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Meg asked. “What if he doesn’t love me?”
“Meg, I owe you,” Christian began. “If it weren’t for you helping us last year, I’m not certain Sarah and I would be together now. Normally, I wouldn’t involve myself in such affairs. I leave the meddling to Lucy, but there’s only one way to find out if I’m right. Go back to London and talk to Hart.”
* * *
That same afternoon, Lucy Hunt arrived at Hart’s town house in London with Delilah Montebank in tow. Hart grudgingly allowed the two females into his study only because he was mildly interested in what the duo had to say. He was still feeling the effects of his excessive drinking the night before, however, and was hardly in the mood for company.
Lucy marched in, removed her kid gloves, motioned for Delilah to sit, and paced in front of the fireplace. Lady Delilah, dressed all in pink, took a seat, blinked at him with her big, dark eyes, and proceeded to look around his study as if memorizing everything inside. The girl had a nasty scrape on her arm. “What happened?” he asked, motioning to the scab visible above the line of her glove.
“I learned the difficult way never to tease a parrot about his lineage,” Delilah replied with a sniff.
Hart pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Lucy was right. The girl was unique. Instead, he turned his attention to the duchess. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company
, Your Grace?” Lucy’s progress back and forth across the carpet was bringing his headache back.
Lucy clasped her hands behind her and regarded Hart down the length of her nose like a general preparing for battle. He was tempted to stand at attention.
“I’ve come to ask you a question, Highgate,” the duchess said.
“And that is?” he replied.
Lucy stopped and rocked back and forth on her heels. “When are you going to stop being such an idiot?”
“I beg your pardon,” Hart replied, frowning.
“She said, ‘When are you going to stop being such an idiot?’” Lady Delilah repeated in a loud voice as if Hart were hard of hearing.
Hart gave the child a warning glare before turning his attention back to Lucy. The duchess had some nerve. She’d executed a scheming plot against him and now she was in his home calling him an idiot? “I didn’t realize I was being an idiot,” he drawled.
“I find that difficult to believe,” Lucy replied. “I must say, I’ve encountered some stubborn people in my time, my husband being one of them, but you and your sister are by far the most stubborn individuals I’ve ever attempted to help.”
“Help,” Hart scoffed. “You attempted to help me? That’s rich.”
“I not only attempted, I succeeded. You have me to thank for your lovely, perfect wife.” Lucy continued her pacing in front of the fireplace.
“You to thank?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was the Duchess of Claringdon truly marching around his study asking for thanks for the mess she’d created in his life?
“Yes, you dolt.” Lucy paused to glare at him. “Are you honestly going to tell me you’d rather be married to Lady Eugenia Eubanks right now? You might have her dowry to spend in the clubs, but I hardly think she’d have made you happy. You looked bored as toast whenever you were with her.”
“My wife hasn’t exactly made me happy, either,” Hart drawled.
“Well, not yet,” Lucy replied. “That’s because you’re being such an idiot. If you would hear her out and allow her to explain, you could both get over this ridiculousness and be wildly happy together as you are so obviously meant to be.”
Hart opened his mouth to tell the woman to get out of his house, but Lucy kept going. “It’s high time you stopped acting like a spoiled child and began acting like a man who’s thankful for the gift he’s been given.”
Hart narrowed his eyes on the duchess. Spoiled child? The duchess was clearly insane. He’d let her say her piece and usher her out the door as quickly as possible. “I suppose there’s a reason you brought Lady Delilah with you today,” he said in an effort to hurry along their visit.
Delilah hopped up to sit on the edge of her chair. “Yes. I was hoping to apologize to your wife, but Lucy told me when we were nearly here that Lady Highgate isn’t home. Is that true?”
“Yes,” Hart replied through clenched teeth. “That’s true.” Perfect. Now he was going to be made to feel guilty by a precocious girl. Could the day get any worse?
“A pity. I did so want to apologize to her,” Delilah said, a crestfallen look on her face.
“For what, may I ask?” Hart replied, hating himself for asking, as it would no doubt prolong their visit.
“Go ahead, Delilah, tell Lord Highgate the truth,” Lucy prompted.
Delilah took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. “That night in the duchess’s gardens, Lucy and I were watching. The moment we saw you kiss Meg, I ran around the corner and Lucy went back to get the others.”
“Yes, I remember,” Hart ground out. “Thank you for admitting you planned the entire thing.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. His headache was worse, throbbing behind his eyes.
“But what you don’t know is that Meg never knew anything about it,” Delilah continued.
“I find that difficult to believe, since I saw the duchess talking to Meg just before she went out to the gardens. Do you deny that, Lucy?” He gave the duchess a challenging stare.
“Of course I don’t deny it,” Lucy said. “I sent Meg out there.”
“I rest my case.” Hart allowed a smug smile to settle on his face.
Lucy stamped her boot-clad foot. “You rest nothing, you fool. The reason Meg went out there, the reason I was able to convince her to go out there, was because she had something she wanted to say to you. I merely made a mess of the timing and assumed she’d said it before you began kissing. Which you’d understand was quite an honest mistake if you’d known what she planned to say.”
“What she planned to—” A niggle of doubt swirled through Hart’s brain. Meg’s words from that night skittered through in his mind: “There’s something I must tell you. Something important.” He’d forgotten that until now. His next words came from a suddenly dry throat. “She was going to tell me something … before…”
“You nearly ravished her?” Lucy said. “Was that her fault, by the by? It looked quite mutual to me. She still has something to tell you, something quite important, but it’s not for me to say. I suggest you find your wife and ask her.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“Lucy says I should talk to Meg.” Hart lay on the settee at his brother-in-law’s town house, a half-drunk bottle of brandy sitting on the floor next to him, within arm’s reach. Christian sat behind his desk not ten paces away, seeing to his paperwork and humoring Hart. Berkeley had just returned from a trip up north.
“Do you agree with her?” Christian did not glance up from his ledger.
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“That’s not for me to answer, old boy,” Berkeley replied.
“Damn it, Berkeley. I don’t know how to be a husband. You’ve seen my parents. They have no love for each other.”
“Yes, Sarah’s mentioned that. I suspect it’s why they were hell-bent on securing miserable marriages for their children … because they’re miserable themselves.”
Hart rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I never thought about it like that.”
“Yes, well, you should. Whenever anyone is hell-bent on you doing something, always ask yourself why.”
“Why does Lucy Hunt want me to talk to Meg then?” Hart mumbled.
Berkeley tapped his quill against his ledger. “Perhaps because it’s the right thing to do?”
Hart emitted a groan. “You agree with her?”
Berkeley sighed and shook his head. “How did your parents choose each other, by the by? I’ve often wondered. I assume it was arranged.”
Hart snorted and lifted the bottle to his lips for another swig. “Yes. Arranged by my mother.”
Berkeley leaned back in his chair. “How?”
“The year my mother made her debut, she set her sights on my father. My grandfather had died not eighteen months earlier, and my father was the earl by then.”
Berkeley crossed his arms over his chest. “Ah, couldn’t resist the title?”
Hart took another swig. “She tossed over a baron she’d been close to marrying when my father arrived at a ball she attended.”
Berkeley tapped his quill against his ledger. “She must have captured his interest.”
“She flirted with him outrageously. Told him she liked everything he liked. Pretended to be madly in love with him.”
Berkeley nodded. “And your father believed her?”
“Yes. He offered for her within a fortnight. I think he was still grieving for my grandfather. My grandmother apparently tried to talk him out of his choice.”
Berkeley smothered a laugh. “That must have made for awkward dinner parties in the future.”
Hart rested the back of his wrist atop his forehead. “Grandmother never accepted Mother, and my father soon came to regret his choice. Mother racked up huge amounts of debt and took off with her lovers soon after Sarah was born.”
“Really?” Berkeley raised a brow.
“That’s why he abhors scandal so much. He had to chase his wife out of bed after bed. Is it any wo
nder marriage makes me queasy?” Hart groaned again.
“I never knew. I don’t think Sarah knows.”
“She doesn’t and I hope you’ll keep it to yourself.”
“You have my word. My parents barely spoke to each other. That didn’t keep me from loving your sister more than my own life.”
Hart sat up and blinked at his brother-in-law. “Really?”
“Yes, really. It’s a fallacy that one must have a good example to set a good example. Some of us invent our own image of the way we want things to be, regardless of the messes around us.”
“That’s heartening, I suppose. My father’s been trying to get in touch with me for days. I haven’t replied to his notes.”
Berkeley laughed. “Wonder what he wants.”
“To control me, no doubt.”
“That sounds likely.”
Hart folded his hands over his chest and lay quietly for a moment. “Berkeley, may I ask you a question?”
“Haven’t you been doing that for the past quarter hour?”
“Another one?”
“Go ahead.”
Hart took a deep breath. This was not easy to ask. “What does … jealousy feel like?”
Berkeley laughed. “Think I would know, do you?”
“You must have felt it when you saw Sarah about to marry Branford last summer.”
Berkeley’s voice was tight. “You’re damn right I did.”
“What does it feel like?” Hart continued.
“You’ve never felt it?”
“Father told me it was the worst feeling in the world. I’ve always ensured it didn’t happen to me. I’m not certain I’m capable of it.”
“Allow me to reassure you then. If you felt it, you’d know,” Berkeley replied.
“Then I suppose I haven’t.” Hart took another swig from the bottle. “Describe it to me.”
Berkeley was silent for a few moments. “It feels like a mix between wanting to vomit and wanting to rip another man apart limb from limb.”
“Is that all?” Hart said with a laugh. “Another man?”
“Whomever you’re jealous of.”
The Right Kind of Rogue Page 20
