The Rogue and I (19 page)

Plunking himself down on the stool his brother had just occupied, Garret threw a few coins at the fiddler, lifted the gin bottle to his mouth and took a swig.

He grimaced at the rancid and, no doubt, poisonous liquor.

The evening had started out with him thinking bitter thoughts against his brothers and Harriet and her cousin. Now, he was going to murder his childhood friend, Carlyle, and he had a terrible, growing suspicion that, really, the Hart boys were all victims of the lies of their father and his rather artful bastard son.

He couldn’t shake Harriet’s conviction when she’d said he needed to speak with John.

Everyone was convinced they were right. Which made for a damned awkward situation.

He’d had his own misgivings but it was hard to counter Edward and James’ eyewitness accounts.

Still, his sanity seemed to depend on his brothers because seeing Harriet in Carlyle’s arms had sent him half around the bend.

Edward gave a little moan and he snuggled into the straw.

Really, Garret should get his brother up before they were fleeced by tavern roughs. A good brother would do such a thing.

But at this particular moment, he was rather tired of being a good brother.

Being a good brother had driven Harriet into that complete poxy, arrogant traitor’s beautifully tailored embrace. So, instead, Garret took another drink.

And then he bent and shook his brother’s limp shoulder.

Edward shook his hand off. “Go away.”

“Get up, drunkard,” Garret said loudly.

“No.”

“Yes.” Garret hauled his brother to his feet. They swayed dangerously.

“Where we going?” slurred Edward.

“To find a bastard.”

“Oh?” Edward frowned. “John’s upstairs.”

Of course he was. Where else would his brother be but rogering a lady of the night.

Surely, the night couldn’t get any worse. Then Garret wished he could strike that thought. For knowing the gods and the way they’d been acting since he’d met Harriet Manning, the night could get infinitely worse. Well, he was just going to risk it.

With Edward in tow, Garret headed for the stairs and answers.

***

H
arriet couldn’t believe her aunt was actually making her stay home for calling hours. Last night had been good fun. The Earl of Carlyle had made her feel beautiful and had helped her drive Lord Garret Hart a little mad.

But in the light of London’s gray morning, she was certain that was all it was.

The Earl of Carlyle, though her aunt vehemently protested otherwise, had not meant his rather rash and certainly sudden proposal.

In fact, Harriet was sending up prayers that the Earl of Carlyle never graced her presence again.

The man was far too unnerving and full of surprises. And she loved a good adventure. She did! But the man was more than adventure. He was Tom Jones and the Complete Works of William Shakespeare all rolled into one.

A recently heartbroken woman didn’t need that in her life. Truly.

So, when the bell rang and she heard voices in the foyer, Harriet clutched the delicate arms of the ivory damasked chair imported from France and repeated over and over under her breath,
please don’t be him, please don’t be him, please
!

Alas, the gods no longer seemed to pay her heed.

The butler opened the door and announced, “The Earl of Carlyle.”

Harriet hoisted herself from the chair, smoothed her hands over her skirts then cocked up her chin because Carlyle was the sort of man one needed to meet ready to spar with or be trampled upon.

Carlyle strode through the door at ease, his whole body positively full of a languid arrogance that resembled a big cat. Disdain fairly rolled off his perfectly cut and exceptionally expensive clothes.

He gave her a slight bow, the morning light catching in his golden hair. “Miss Manning, my betrothed. How good to see you this morning.”

She huffed out an exasperated breath. “My lord, that is no way to begin! I am not your betrothed, nor shall I ever be.”

He gave her a mocking pout then crossed the room. “No?”

She skirted him and headed towards the piano forte. She was not about to be cornered.   “No,” she said firmly. She gave the bell pull a good tug. Surely her aunt should be present. Shouldn’t she?

Then again, knowing her aunt, the woman was no doubt hoping something interesting would transpire without her presence.

Harriet cleared her throat, ready to speak business. “Look here, my lord, I think you’ve got this all wrong.”

“Have I?” Carlyle’s brows rose. “What exactly?”

“I’m not interested in getting married.”

“I see. Not even to my friend, Lord Garret?”

That sucked the breath out of her lungs. Why did the man have to go and say such terribly blunt things? “That is not in my future.”

“That was not an answer to my question.”

“Your question doesn’t deign reply.”

“Tut-tut,” Carlyle sighed. “Miss Trent, let us be honest. I have no wish to marry you.”

She hated that she felt a moment’s hurt pride but the moment was erased by a wave of immense relief. Such a man would be an impossible husband!

“I didn’t think so,” she said. “But you’re very lucky I’m the sort I am or else I might cry breach of promise.”

“I should have never asked you so wildly if you weren’t the sort you are.”

She frowned. Was she supposed to be following his rather dim logic? “Is this all just a game to you?”

He smiled slightly, paused, then replied, “Yes.”

Harriet narrowed her eyes, wishing that the expression of anger through physical violence wasn’t so frowned upon in the female sex. Quite frankly, she’d like to pop Carlyle one. “I think you should leave.”

“I think I should stay.”

She let out a frustrated yelp. “You, sir, are mad.”

“I dare say. However, you are just as mad, my dear. You’re desperately in love with my friend and you two keep cocking up your affairs.”

She opened her mouth, ready to give him a good set down, but then she stopped. “How in God’s name would you know such thing?”

“A few years back, Garret was the most nauseatingly heartbroken chap one could know. I nearly killed him myself to put him out of the suffering you gave him.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to deny it all, but why bother at this point? To say she’d loved Garret wasn’t to say she’d been ruined. “Heartbroken, you say?” she ventured.

“Positively forlorn. A puppy in its worst depths of despair had nothing on the big eyes and woebegone nature of my friend. It was enough to make a reasonable fellow sick.”

The way he made it sound, as if it had been a rather silly happenstance and not the brutal break that had changed her life, was infuriating. “I’m sure you helped him out of the mire.”

Carlyle gazed down his nose at her. “My dear girl, he’s never been the same. I can mock him now as I did then, but I think even you are now aware that he loved you.”

Loved
.

The tense was a spike to her heart.

“Ah. There it is.”

She sniffed and looked away. “What?”

“You do love him still, then.”

She rolled her eyes. “You believe I loved him in the first place? Your sex usually isn’t so generous to mine. I thought I was Medusa after all, turning men to stone.”

His lips twitched. “I believe the female heart as capable of love as the male. . . Whatever that means, I have no idea. But love makes most of us act like fools.”

“Why are you here?” she challenged.

Carlyle shrugged his perfect, broad shoulders. “To make him see sense. He lost you once. I’d hate to see him do it again.”

She shook her head sadly. “Alas my lord, you’re too late. We have parted finally. And just recently.”

“Nothing is final, dear girl. Nothing.”

Those words did something dangerous to her. They teased at her hope. A hope she’d been so certain she’d put to rest with a brandy bottle just a few weeks ago. “Please don’t. I can’t bear it.”

“Bear what?”

“Having my heart broken again.”

“Miss Manning, your heart is already broken. What more damage can be done?”

A few weeks ago, she’d have said none. But now, she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she and Garret could hurt each other anew. That wasn’t what she wanted for them.

She drew in a slow breath before saying evenly, “I shall endeavor not to see him again, I think.”

“Then you are indeed a fool to throw happiness away and let the forces of evil win in this world.”

The forces of evil?

She stared at Carlyle. “Who the devil are you?”

“Just a man wishing to see a little more happiness about him. And you’re no coward to be running away.”

“No,” she admitted. “I never was.”

He smiled. “Then let’s announce our engagement.”

She raised her hands to her temples then groaned. “My lord, what on earth. . .”

“Garret won’t be able to allow it,” he cut in confidently. “You belong to him. You always have. He’d never let you be mine or anyone else’s but his.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Then let’s find out.”

“And if you’re wrong?” she asked

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he replied. “Surely, you fancy being a countess? What girl doesn’t?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’ve seen enough suffering now for a lifetime,” he said quietly. “I’d like to see those I care about have a little joy.”

What a strange man and yet she couldn’t help but admire him. Still. . . “I’m not marrying you,” she stated.

His lips twitched again. “Of course not.”

And there it was. She was unwilling to give up on Garret Hart. No matter what kind of mad woman it made her.

Chapter 21

Emmaline glanced out the window to the London street and forced herself to draw breath after breath. The pain had been nearly all consuming for weeks now. No matter what she did, she felt coated by it. A shroud of grief had consumed her and she’d begun to fantasize about entering a nunnery or dying of a broken heart because then Edward would be sorry.

But it had struck her this morning how exceptionally infantile that was! She refused to die over this. She refused to allow Edward and his brothers to destroy her life. She’d done absolutely nothing wrong. In fact, all her life, she’d done everything bloody right. Except for that one night she’d dared to chance a moment’s passion with her own intended. He’d been the one to censure her. Perhaps he’d never loved her. Perhaps he’d always worshipped her and as far as she could tell at this moment, love and worship were two very different things. Because in his estimation, she, the perfect goddess, had slipped off her pedestal and become human. Fallible. . .

Well, she was glad. For years, she’d been acting like some sort of living Madonna and how boring was that? Terribly. She’d forgone her likes for his. She’d given up her own dreams for others. She’d done as she was told. What had it gotten her? Nothing.

In fact, she’d made such a study of being good she hadn’t even been able to rail at Edward and his brother as they’d defamed her before the entire congregation. No, she’d taken it like saint.

How positively stupid!

Emmaline headed for the door. She was tired of living as if in a tomb. It was a long while yet before she was going to bury herself in obscurity and shame.

With a sudden renewed vigor, she headed out into the hall and swept down the townhouse stairs.

Voices greeted her descent.

She followed them to the morning room. The door was closed. She was tempted to keep walking or to lean forward and listen, but she was done with that.

Without giving pause for manners—she was done with manners— she reached for the door.

A sharp
pssst
, stopped her.

“Harriet!” Aunt Gertrude called. “I thought you were in there with the earl.”

Emmaline paused then turned. “Aunt Gertrude, it is I.”

Aunt Gertrude grinned. “Why, my dear Emmaline, I am glad to see you downstairs and in such strong spirits. I’d begun to fear you’d grown eternally limp. . . and bitter.”

Such a comment would have irked her just a few hours ago, but Aunt Gertrude was right. It was galling to realize how she’d allowed herself to be so cowed. “I’ve done with mourning.”

“Good,” Gertrude said firmly then winked. “It’s terrible for the complexion.”

Harried studied her aunt carefully, a strange idea slipping into her mind. “But you really thought I was Harriet?”

Gertrude nodded, her luxurious curls bouncing. “Indeed. From behind you two could be twins.”

Twins. . . Was it so easy to mistake her then? What if it was? Anger coiled deep inside her. Nay, not anger. Fury.

“Aunt Gertrude,” Emmaline said tightly. “I need you to do me two favors.”

“Certainly, dear niece, if it be in my power.”

Emmaline drew in an anticipatory breath. “Invite Cousin Meredith to London.”

Gertrude tsked. “My dear, Meredith is all well and good, but a London girl? I think no.”

“Please.”

Aunt Gertrude let out a sigh. “Well, you do deserve to have your whims indulged. I’ll send the carriage this afternoon. I’m sure she’ll jump at the chance to get away from the sheep.”

Emmaline’s sudden idea began to blossom. It had always been remarkable the resemblance between the cousins. But that had never been truly significant until now. Now, Emmaline needed to find out if she’d been the victim of a cruel plot.

“And your other favor?” Gertrude prompted.

Emmaline squared her chin against her own raucous nerves. “I’d like to go out.”

“Good. You deserve an airing. The park then?”

Emmaline shook her head. “The opera.”

Gertrude blinked but didn’t seem terribly shocked. “The opera?”

Emmaline gave a firm nod.

“My dear, you know. . . You know it will be rather unpleasant.”

“Good,” Emmaline said. “I’m tired of pleasant.”

Aunt Gertrude gave her a slow, approving smile. “Are you indeed?”

“Yes.”

“Once you choose this particular path, Emmaline, there is no going back,” Gertrude cautioned.

“I can’t go back in any case, Aunt Gertrude. There is only ahead. And at least this way, it can be a path of my own choosing.”