Hart put the bottle back on the floor. “I’ve been angry, of course. But not over a woman.”
“Never had a thought or two about planting a facer on Sir Winford?”
Hart nearly growled aloud. Sir Winford? By God, he had had a thought or two about planting a facer on Sir Winford. Was that what jealousy felt like?
“I need to talk to her, Berkeley. What should I do?”
“Finally,” Berkeley replied. “It’s a surprising thing when you realize that a happy marriage is within your reach. It’s enough to shock a mere mortal into action.”
“I much prefer your quiet counsel to Lucy Hunt’s calling me an idiot.”
“We each have our own ways, Lucy and I, but it seems we agree that you should see your wife.”
“Is she coming back?”
“She’ll be at the Huntingtons’ ball tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The Huntingtons’ ballroom was ablaze with the light of a thousand candles in chandeliers high above the dance floor. The space was filled with the ton’s best, wearing their fine clothing, expensive gowns, and priceless jewels, talking and laughing and having a grand time. Meg was there in a jade-green gown. Sarah had seen to it that her hair had been straightened again, and she wore emeralds, both a necklace and earbobs, borrowed from Sarah this time.
More than once on the way back from Northumbria Sarah had told Meg she must be strong. “Hart detests weakness. You must show him you refuse to cower to him.”
“Of course I refuse to cower to him,” Meg had replied, indignant that her friend thought she’d be anything other than adamant in her refusal to kowtow to Hart.
“You two are making this far too complicated. All you have to do is let him know you’re willing to talk to him. He’ll handle the rest,” Christian had added from his seat next to his wife on the way to the ball tonight.
“Ladies adore making things far too complicated, didn’t you know that, Christian?” Sarah said with a laugh. “Oh goodness, I’m beginning to sound like Lucy.”
“You are a bit,” Meg agreed, but she couldn’t bring herself to laugh. She was far too nervous about what awaited her in the ballroom. Christian was confident that Hart was in love with her, or at least could be in love with her, but Meg wasn’t confident. As the coach rambled closer to their destination, her confidence slipped more and more.
She was bolstered, however, when Lucy rushed over the moment she entered the Huntingtons’ ballroom. “I’ve told him he’s an idiot,” she announced. “You’re quite welcome.”
Meg lifted her chin. She’d prepared herself for this moment, too. “Lucy, I appreciate all you’ve done, but I no longer require your help. I intend to handle my marriage myself from now on.”
“Brava!” Sarah clapped her hands.
“I understand.” Lucy bowed her head. “I leave you to it. He’s here.” Lucy lifted her chin. “Over by the refreshment table. I suggest you mingle for a while and allow him to come to you.”
* * *
Hart stood with Harlborough, Norcross, and Wenterley on the sidelines discussing horseflesh and the latest sales at Tatt’s when Norcross elbowed him. “Don’t look now, Highgate, but if I don’t mistake my guess your wife is back.”
Hart spun around. By God, it was … Meg. She wore a green gown that hugged her breasts and fell in soft folds from the high waist. Her hair was straightened, as it had been that first night he’d seen her at the Hodges’ ball. She still looked like a goddess. Even better than he remembered. He realized … he had missed her.
Had Berkeley told her he’d be here? Did she want to talk to him, too? His eyes scanned over her, taking in her glorious golden locks and her trim figure. Their night together flooded back through his mind, making him hard.
“Apparently, becoming a future countess has made her sought after, even with the scandal surrounding your marriage,” Norcross said.
Norcross was right. At least a dozen people floated around her, talking and laughing and vying for her attention.
“No one cares about a scandal once a nice tidy marriage takes place,” Harlborough said with a laugh. “Besides, a future countess is a future countess, especially when she’s as stunning as Lady Highgate.”
Hart was barely listening. Instead, he scanned the faces of the men surrounding his wife. “Damn it. That had better not be who I think it is with her,” he ground out.
“Who?” Wenterley craned his neck to get a better view.
“Be discreet for heaven’s sake, Went.” Harlborough took a surreptitious glance himself.
Hart clenched his fist around his brandy glass. “That sop, Sir Winford.”
“That’s exactly who it is,” Wenterley provided helpfully. “I thought I recognized him. I heard he recently got himself engaged.”
“I don’t care. I’m going to rip that blighter limb from limb.” Hart pressed his still-full glass into Wenterley’s hand.
“I thought you didn’t get jealous, Highgate?” Harlborough raised a brow.
Hart growled and stalked off through the crowd to claim his wife.
Hart knew the moment she saw him. Meg’s bright-green eyes widened almost imperceptibly before she went back to laughing at whatever Winford, that dolt, had said. Engaged or not, how dare the man ogle his wife? How dare any of these men ogle her? She was so perfect and pretty.
Hart wanted to gather her in his arms and take her out of here and make love to her. He felt like he wanted to vomit. He felt like he wanted to crush the skulls of the other men surrounding his wife. By God, he was consumed with jealousy. Bloody hell, Harlborough was right, and it was exactly as Berkeley described it. He was jealous, of all bloody unlikely things. Damn it, he was turning into his father. His father was right, too. It was the worst feeling in the world.
Hart was about to barrel into the center of the group and drag his wife bodily away when Sarah caught his eye. She stood in the crowd surrounding Meg, and motioned for him to follow her to the side of the room. He remained frozen, keeping an eye on his wife. Despite his clawing desire to whisk Meg away from her admirers, his common sense argued he’d better hear from Sarah, first. If what Lucy had told him was true, Sarah would know. Reluctantly, he headed toward his sister.
“When did you get back?” he asked Sarah in a harsh tone as soon as they were far enough from the crowd to not be overheard.
“This morning.” Sarah had her arms crossed in front of her and gave him a sour expression.
“You didn’t see fit to tell me?” he ground out.
Sarah shrugged. “It was Meg’s choice, not mine. Lucy tells me she spoke with you.”
Hart pressed a knuckle to his forehead. “I suppose that’s one way to put it. She read me the riot act is more like it. She called me an idiot.” He couldn’t help but glance over his sister’s shoulder at Meg, who smiled and laughed with the group surrounding her. A knife twisted in Hart’s gut. Would it cause a hideous scandal if he called out Winford? Yes, damn it. Yes it would.
Hart scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “Is it true, Sarah?” He searched his sister’s face.
“Is what true?”
“Is it true that the reason Meg went out to Lucy’s garden that night was because she had something important to tell me?”
Sarah’s gaze swung to the marble floor. “Yes, it’s true.”
Hart swore under his breath. “What was she going to say?”
“That’s not for me to tell, and I don’t necessarily agree with Lucy for telling you.”
But he already had his answer. Lucy had been telling the truth. Meg had something to say to him. But what? What could possibly have been so important? What could possibly make this entire fiasco all right? He obviously would have to ask Meg.
Hart turned on his heel.
“Wait,” Sarah called.
“I’m through waiting,” Hart tossed over his shoulder as he strode back to where his wife was holding court. He pushed his way through the crowd surrounding her. A
pproaching from behind, he bent and whispered in her ear, “I need to talk to you. Now.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Meg did her best to keep her breathing steady and her face blank, but her heart was pounding what felt like a thousand beats a minute. Hart’s familiar scent filled her nostrils, and he needed to talk to her.
Christian was at least right about Hart being ready to talk, but God only knew what he meant to say. She’d thought after all these weeks she was ready for this, but she wasn’t. Not at all. “Perhaps later,” she trilled in as nonchalant a voice as she could muster. “I’m enjoying myself at the moment.”
“Make your excuses,” he growled in her ear. “Because I’m not above dragging you out of here.”
Meg swallowed. He was serious. Quite serious. “Excuse us, won’t you, everyone,” she said to the group. A round of unhappy voices saying good-byes ensued, and she was on her way with Hart’s hand on her elbow, walking briskly toward the foyer. When they reached the corridor outside of the ballroom, Sarah hurried up to them, her blue skirts hoisted in her gloved hand.
Sarah let her skirts drop and planted both fists on her hips. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re acting positively medieval. Let go of Meg.”
“Get out of here, Sarah,” Hart growled.
“Meg?” Sarah asked, her voice high and worried. “Are you all right?” She searched her friend’s face.
“I don’t know,” Meg replied. “I suppose I should ask my husband if he intends to take me home and beat me. Is that your intention, darling?” she sneered. “Oh, my apologies, darling is the name your lover calls you, isn’t it?”
“Beating isn’t my style,” Hart drawled. He didn’t slow his pace, forcing both Meg and Sarah to lift their skirts and half run to keep up with him.
“Promise me you won’t say or do anything rash,” Sarah cried. “I cannot allow you to leave here with Meg if you won’t promise.”
“She’s my wife,” he bit out, still not slowing his pace.
“She’s my closest friend.”
They entered the foyer and Hart ordered a footman to fetch his coach. The young man scampered off. Hart let go of Meg’s arm and paced around the space like a caged animal while Meg watched, wondering what he intended to say to her when he got her alone.
“I’m waiting,” Sarah said. “Promise me you will treat Meg properly or I swear I’ll make a bigger scene than you ever dreamed of. I’ll bring the entire ballroom running with my screams.”
“For God’s sake, don’t be so dramatic.” Hart looked out the narrow window flanking the door for the coach. “I’m not going to hurt her. You should know I don’t have that in me.”
“You’re not going to say anything hurtful to her, either?” Sarah prompted.
Hart turned on his heel and glared at his sibling. He opened his mouth to speak, but Meg stepped between them. She faced Sarah. “It’s fine, Sarah, really. I can face going home with my husband and having a conversation.”
Sarah continued to give Hart a suspicious look. “Are you certain, Meggie?”
“I can handle blustering and fits. I’ve dealt with it from my mother my entire life.”
* * *
Damn it. She was comparing him to her mother. Perhaps he was being an ass, but jealousy had got the better of him. Hart waved his hand in the air. “You hear that? She’s certain.”
“Very well.” Sarah lifted her chin. “But if I hear tomorrow that you’ve done anything you shouldn’t have…” Sarah wagged a finger at her brother menacingly before giving Meg a quick hug.
The coach came around and Hart pushed open the door to allow Meg to precede him outside. He helped her into the coach and climbed in after her, sitting across from her on the burgundy velvet squabs.
He didn’t say a word as they rode to their town house. He merely glared at her like an ass while she sat calmly watching him, her hands crossed over her middle.
Finally Meg said, “Are you proud of yourself? Acting like a bully?”
“I wouldn’t have acted like a bully if you hadn’t been holding court with all those men.”
Her mouth fell open. “You dare to question my actions? The last time I saw you, you were flirting with your mistress!”
“Ex-mistress,” he ground out.
“A minor detail,” she retorted.
They sat in charged silence the rest of the way home. Hart stared out one window into the darkness. Meg stared out the other. When the coach pulled to stop in front of their house, Meg allowed the groomsmen to help her down. Without stopping, she lifted her skirts and strode up the front steps into the house and up the inside staircase to her bedchamber. She didn’t give a damn if her husband followed her or not. As she climbed the stairs, Hart said, “I’m going to have a drink first, and then I’ll be up.”
“Of course you are,” she tossed over her shoulder, not breaking her stride.
Hart stomped into the study and slammed the door. Of course you are? What the bloody hell did she mean by that? Did she think he drank too much? It was none of her bloody business. He strode to the sideboard and grabbed the bottle of brandy. The nearly empty bottle of brandy. By God, did he drink too much? He ripped open the credenza and grabbed a snifter from the sideboard. He pulled the stopper off the bottle and splashed what was left into the glass.
He lifted it to his mouth but stopped before tipping it back. Taking that drink would make him feel … what? Better? Worse? He didn’t know anymore. He’d been drinking to excess for more years that he cared to admit but these last several days while Meg had been gone, he’d felt … different. He wanted her back. He wanted to see her, even being angry with her and knowing she was angry with him. It was as if life was incomplete without her. Which was an entirely mad thought because he’d lived years, most of his life, without her. Certainly without thinking about her all the bloody time like he seemed to now. What the hell was wrong with him?
Seeing her tonight in the middle of those men, including Sir Winford, had made Hart’s blood boil. She was his. His. Those other men had no right to her. God he wanted this drink. When the hell had he become jealous? Was this how his father felt? No, couldn’t be. Meg hadn’t cheated on him but he was jealous all the same.
Hart set the glass on the desk and glared at it. He’d wanted a drink to clear his head, to gather his thoughts. Now it only made him sick of himself. In that moment, he realized. He’d been just like his bloody father. Drinking and keeping his heart guarded. All these years he’d thought he was being the opposite of the old man. Instead, he’d become just like him. Hart pushed the drink away. He didn’t need a bloody drink to talk to his wife. He strode out of the study and up the stairs. He’d talk to her now. Sober.
He shoved open the door to his bedchamber, and it cracked against the wall. He strode straight to the door that separated his bedchamber from Meg’s as he ripped off his cravat. He slammed open the door to her room.
“Done drinking so soon?” Meg sat at her dressing table, pulling off the emerald earbobs. She was already wearing her blue dressing gown. Her maid had obviously helped her remove the ball gown and hurried away with it.
“I told you,” he barked. “We need to talk.” He knew he was being an ass but couldn’t seem to help himself.
She looked up at him in the mirror, not at all affected by his raised voice and anger. Was she mentally comparing him to her mother again?
“Talk, then,” she said.
He began unbuttoning his shirt. “Why did you leave town?”
Her green eyes sparkled in the looking glass. “Wasn’t it obvious?”
He clenched his jaw. She wasn’t going to make this conversation easy. “Because you saw me with Maria?”
She swiveled on the tufted stool. “Among other things.”
He pulled his shirt out of his breeches, his bare chest visible beneath the flaps. “I didn’t touch Maria.”
Meg arched a brow at him. “Do you think that makes me feel better? Do you want praise for
that?” She swiveled back around.
He slammed the side of his fist against the wall, making a nearby painting bounce. “Damn it, Meg, I haven’t touched another woman since…”
She turned her head to the side as if she’d been slapped. “Spare me.”
“Since before the Hodges’ ball. The night I saw you and wanted you so badly.”
Her gaze met his in the mirror. “What?”
“You heard me. I wanted you that night. I wanted you before that. I want to make love to you right now. Desperately.”
Her gaze held his in the mirror. Tears rushed to her eyes. She swiveled on her seat once more. “Don’t lie to me, Hart.”
“I would never lie about this. I saw you with those other men tonight and I wanted to kill them. I’ve never been jealous before. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to do this.”
She stood and took two steps toward him. “Do what?”
He pulled her into his arms. “Be a husband.” He pushed his fingers through her hair. “What were you going to tell me that night? In the gardens at Lucy’s house?” he asked, searching her face, loving every freckle on her slender nose.
Uneasiness flashed through her eyes. “Who told you I was going to tell you something that night?”
“First Lucy did, then Sarah. Tell me, Meg.”
“They had no right to say anything to you.”
“Perhaps, but I remember, too. You kept trying to tell me something. I wouldn’t let you. I kept interrupting.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Lucy and Sarah seem to think it matters a great deal.”
“It doesn’t,” she insisted. “Kiss me.”
His mouth swooped down to capture hers and he rained kisses down her neck. “It matters to me,” he murmured against her throat.
She grabbed his head. “Not tonight, Hart. Tonight let’s just do this.” She pulled her dressing gown over both shoulders and let it drop. Her naked body gleamed in the candlelight.
Hart’s breathing hitched and he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her down and she pulled him down atop her. He fumbled with his breeches and kicked them off. He pushed open her knees and hovered over her. “Tell me you want me, Meg.”
The Right Kind of Rogue Page 21
