Have You Any Rogues? (2 page)

This time she did curse, much as Aunt Zillah was prone to do, and turned to run, not caring about boundaries or lines or ruin, but with only one panicked thought: to be as far from these bloodthirsty fiends as her feet could carry her.

Yet as much as Hen loved the country, she was unused to wooded paths, and as she turned in her headlong flight, she failed to see the fallen tree and thorny bush behind her, over which she tumbled in a grand heap of muslin and lace, landing face-first in the soft dirt. Her knee smarted with the sting of a cut, her hands were definitely scraped, and for the life of her, she couldn’t get up—her skirt having caught on one of the stubby dead branches and the tangle of thorns.

There was also the very humiliating realization that the cool breezes she’d sought in the woods were now blowing right up over her bare legs and, good heavens, her backside, which she had to imagine was in full view for all to see.

In fact, the only thing that had survived unscathed—that is after a hasty check—was her dear hat.

Small miracle that. And certainly no consolation when she was caught in a most indelicate position.

No, make that
ruinous
.

The mad hounds grew closer, and the more she tried to right herself, the more she found herself caught in the briars.

Literally.

Then all around her, the bushes crashed and the dogs descended upon her, circling her in a mad frenzy of barking—delighted to have found their prey.

“Oh, get away! Away with you!” she tried ordering, to no avail.

Then from behind her came a rich, deep voice. “Ho, there, you mad fools, what have you found?” This was followed by the solid
thud
of boots as they quickly and easily stalked through the woods.

Henrietta’s panic stilled—though only for a second.

For one thing, it was hardly the voice of a ghost. And secondly, something about the man’s languid tones nestled deeply into her sensibilities. It was a voice rich with aristocratic breeding and authority—a gentleman.

That alone was reassuring, but it was his delight at the very hint of some hereto-unknown discovery that caught her ear.

A curiosity she understood, for hadn’t the very same desire to turn a corner led her here?

“Call them off! Please call off your dogs,” she pleaded.

“Hup!” he barked, and all the dogs, to a one, sat on their haunches and stilled, having cleared the way for their master.

Henrietta was about to sigh with relief. That is, until she heard a low whistle of admiration. The humiliating sort coaching lads made at pretty girls. Or rowdies on a street corner might cast out to get a lady to look in their direction.

Whatever was he whistling about?

Then she remembered her skirt was up over her backside.

She closed her eyes and groaned. Good heavens, no!

“Oh, please don’t come any closer,” she called out. “I fear I’m not decent.”

“Utterly divine would be a better description,” her would-be rescuer teased.

Henrietta’s cheeks flamed with heat. At least this rakish fellow couldn’t see her embarrassment.

If that was any consolation.

She tried to reach around and tug her skirt down to some level of modesty, but it was good and caught, and when that didn’t work, she tried to right herself again, only to become mired further.

“I do believe you are trapped, fair nymph,” he pointed out.

“Yes, I am quite aware of that,” she huffed, wishing she could see his face—if only to determine if he was a gentleman and not some rogue.

“I could help,” he offered.

“Would you please?” she asked, feeling a moment of relief. Yes, he was a gentleman.

Though all-too-quickly his breeding came into question. “I think not,” he replied.

“Whatever do you mean? You can’t leave me like this.”

“I suppose not, but helping you is hardly to my benefit,” he explained, a devilish bit of humor behind his words.

Henrietta hardly shared in his amusement. “As a gentleman, you should have come to my aid immediately.”

“What? And lose this vantage point?” She could almost hear him shake his head. “Why would I do that?”

Henrietta set her jaw and reminded herself she was the daughter of a duke, a lady in name and breeding, and that while she was being ogled by some ill-mannered ruffian who thought himself quite amusing—for now she was certain he was no gentleman—she must remain a lady.

Even if his behavior was insupportable.

Instead, she counted to ten.

One . . . two. . .

She’d grown up with Henry and Christopher—two rogues in their own right—and they’d teased her mercilessly over the years.

Three . . . four. . .

And yet . . . this was nothing less than an egregious effrontery.

Five . . . six. . .

Botheration,
she fumed silently, then realized she’d lost count. And lost her patience.

“Get. Me. Up. Or so help me—” she ground out, forgetting all her vows to remain a lady.

“If you insist,” he replied, all easy manners and teasing tones.

“I do.”

As he came stalking closer, his pack of unruly mutts quivered with excitement, as if saying,
Look what we found!

Hounds all of them. Dogs and master.

“You’ll need to unhook my skirt,” she told him, trying to point where she thought it was caught.

He chuckled. “Never had a lady offer so quickly.”

“Oh!” Hen sputtered. “You are no gentleman!”

“The fact that I’ve merely glanced at your lovely limbs proves I am.”

He’d merely glanced?! Of all the cheeky, wretched . . . she’d wager he’d done much more than “merely glanced.”

Henrietta twisted to get a look at him, but out of the corner of her eye all she could spy was a dark, bottle green jacket and a long arm reaching toward her.

Dear heavens! Whatever did he intend to do? She couldn’t help herself; she panicked a bit.

At her frantic movements, the dogs began their caterwauling yet again.

“Settle down, all of you,” he told them with an authoritative snap.

Henrietta blanched as she realized he was including her in that order.

Of all the humiliating . . .

Once again, her rescuer whistled low and long. “You are good and trapped.”

“Yes, well, if I hadn’t been overrun by your pack of mongrels—”

“Mongrels?” He had the audacity to sound affronted. “I’ll have you know my dogs are—”

“Ill-mannered, untrained—”

“They did find you,” he pointed out.

Much to her chagrin and against everything she’d been raised to consider about a man, she found that his teasing made her blush as much as her predicament did. But she wasn’t about to let him know this.

“Harrumph,
” she managed. After all, none of this was getting her upright and her skirt down where it belonged.

Covering her from prying eyes.

A fact he must also have understood, for here he was, laughing yet again. “Yes, well, let me get you untangled.”

Then he did just that, catching hold of her ankle and starting to lift her foot.

His hand, warm and strong on her bare ankle, sent shock waves up Henrietta’s limb and left her gasping for breath. Never had any man touched her so, and she certainly wasn’t prepared for how intimate it was for someone—especially a stranger—to take such a liberty.

At the sound of her sharp intake of breath, he let go of her. “Did I hurt you? Are you injured?”

Something about the sincerity of his words washed away the bulk of her fears, and Henrietta felt more than a bit foolish. He was, after all, helping her, and to do that he had to touch her . . .

But more alarming was a very insensible desire trembling inside her that wanted very much to feel the warmth of his touch yet again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he continued to say.

“No, no,” she rushed to tell him. “Just startled is all. Pray continue.”

Because she didn’t quite believe a single touch could truly send one’s heart racing so . . .

Yet when he caught hold of her again, the heat of his touch left her breathless.

And yes, her heart went galloping along as if by a will of its own.

Gently he raised her foot and tugged at her skirt, and then again pulled at it, until fabric ripped—oh, it was a terrible shame, for she did love this muslin—and her gown came loose.

“There,” he proclaimed as she felt the soft cotton fall down in place over her legs. “Now, are you certain you are unhurt?”

“Yes,” she replied just as quietly.

Unhurt? Yes. But something was wrong with her heart.

For it was hammering about like a horse running wild.

“Then let me help you up.” And with that, one strong hand caught hold of her wrist while another wound around her waist and he plucked her out of her tumbled state.

In an instant, Henrietta’s world was both righted and tipped upside down.

Her hands came to rest on the only steady thing available—the man’s chest—a solid wall of muscled strength. Catching hold of his lapels, she found her footing and looked up.

In the years that followed, she always wondered at what happened next.

Her breath failed her as her heart fell into an abyss.

Her rescuer, this supposed rogue,
was
indeed a gentleman. The most handsome one she’d ever seen. Golden brown hair fell loose from where it was tied in a country queue. He had a rugged jaw that was covered in rough stubble, but it was his eyes—blue as her mother’s favorite sapphires—that caught her with their sparkle. They teased her with an impish spark that, as a Seldon, she knew only too well.

That light called to her every wild desire, her secret wishes. Ones, she had to imagine, she didn’t yet understand.

And when he smiled, she knew without a doubt that one day, this man, this ragged daring rogue, would show her the way.

Personally. Intimately.

In that instant, she wondered what it would be like to spend the rest of her life basking in his admiring gaze. To be the spark that illuminated such a passionate glow.

To her amazement, he seemed caught in the same spell, gazing down at her with a mixture of awe and amazement on his face, as if she were suddenly the nymph he’d called her earlier.

And she wasn’t wrong about that.

“Well, I seem to have found my very own Calypso,” he teased as he looked her up and down, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of her hair back up into her bonnet.

“I’m hardly—” she protested, trying at the same time to breathe.

Not that she had much of a chance to say anything more, not when he stopped her by putting a finger to her lips. “That and more.”

Henrietta drew a steadying breath, undone by the magic that was his touch.

“How is it that you, O Goddess, came to be lost in my woods?” he said quietly, as if his words might frighten her to take flight into the nearest glen. His finger moved from her lips to curve under her chin and tip her head toward him, even as he dipped down closer to her.

Whatever am I supposed to do?
Hen thought in a new sort of panic. He meant to kiss her.

Right here, right now. Oh, it was beyond ruinous.

Her heart did another of those galloping leaps of terror, for she’d never been kissed.

And worst of all?
She wanted him to.

Very much so. Her hand rose up and her fingers touched the stubble on his jaw, grazing over the rough edges as she marveled at his ragged appearance.

She’d never seen a gentleman in such a state—a plain jacket, worn breeches, scuffed boots. In the world of London, he would be considered undressed. Unsuited. Alarmingly gauche.

Henrietta found him utterly desirable.

He smiled at her innocent exploration, caught her hand and held it to his cheek, even as he bent down to kiss her. His lips curved into a tantalizing smile, one of conquest won, and filled with the thrill of discovery.

She was his. That’s what the wry curve of his lips said all too clearly.

His
.

That single word sparked an altogether different awakening inside her. What had he said earlier?

His woods.

How could that be? The only property that abutted Owle Park belonged to . . .

Henrietta’s mouth fell open. Which was probably both unsightly and definitely not the proper pose for a lady about to be kissed.

“Your woods
?” she managed. “No, this is—” And then she stopped and looked at him again.

“Henrietta? Henrietta, where are you?” Her father’s deep commanding voice rang through the trees.

This was followed by the estate steward’s cry, “My lady? Lady Henrietta?”

The man before her stilled.

There they stood, his lips so very close to hers, his breath mingling over her as if in tantalizing whispers that had only added to her desire.

Then came that fateful question. “Who the devil are you?”

But they both knew the answer to that, even as Henrietta knew without a doubt who he was.

“No,” she whispered. “Say it isn’t true.”

But it was. They both knew it, and he let go of her as if she suddenly burned, his features stricken.

“Henrietta Seldon! Where are you?” her father bellowed, his voice growing closer.

Not that it mattered, for Henrietta’s entire world was this little glen, where she stood facing her rescuer, her Lancelot. Or, as it turned out, her very own Romeo.

For there it was, three hundred years of family animosity, a deep and binding feud that made them enemies, tore them apart before they’d even begun.

Her vision narrowed until it seemed the circle of trees around them had turned into a whirl and she was trapped in the middle.

Heaven’s sake, her heart was. Turning, that is.

As the crash through the woods announced the impending arrival of her father, the man before her bowed and went to the edge of the glen.

There he paused and took one last look at her. “Go, my little Calypso,” he whispered, nodding in the direction of her father. And then he turned briskly, snapped his fingers and stalked into the woods, his dogs following in unison, silently, as if they too felt their master’s grief.