The Rogue and I (5 page)

“Exactly.”

“And you’re concerned we might meet a similar end? End badly, I mean?”

“If I’m the Lady of Shalot and you’re Lancelot, whatever else choice have we but to end badly?”

He laughed again, only this time very softly. “You and I? We could never end badly.”

It seemed odd for him to say such a thing as though they were already linked somehow. Impossible though it seemed, Harriet felt as if they were, indeed, inexplicably connected. From the moment he had pulled her up from the watery depths and flung her back to safety, it was as though both of them had been waiting for this exact moment.

She shook her head at her own foolishness. She was a romantic, but not usually so fanciful when it came to real life. “It is how the story goes,” she quipped.

“Is that what you were doing then?”

She blinked up at him, her brain still a little waterlogged. “Pardon.”

“Pretending to be the Lady of Shalot floating about?” he supplied, his lips twisting into a merry grin.

A blush heated her cheeks. “May I have my hand back?”

His own face flushed and he released her hand quickly. “I do beg your pardon. I seem to be out of sorts.” Those amber eyes of his roamed over her face then slowly descended ever so slightly to her own soaked chemise. The fabric clung to her body. The water had turned it virtually transparent and, without her corset, her breasts were fairly bared to him.

Harriet gasped. It was right that she should immediately clasp her arms over her indecency, but she didn’t. Instinct ordered her to remain absolutely still, offering herself up to him. Some unbidden knowledge of men and what men wanted seemed to take over her taught inclinations.

What she truly wanted became utterly clear to her in the flash of an instant, the way things usually did to her.

She wanted
him
. Desperately. Forever.

Chapter 4

The Present

The Trent Estate

“Did I behave accordingly?”

Emmaline sat before her mirror, glancing carefully at her chin and cheeks. The candlelight danced over her heart-shaped face, glinting in her gold curls. She paused and glanced at her cousin from the mirror. “Just. I was worried for a moment, I must confess. Blood did seem to be imminent.”

Harriet snorted.

Emmaline lifted her brows, the gesture angelically curious on her face, rather than skeptical as it would appear on any other person’s visage. “There, you see. I heard you make that hideous sound earlier.” She pursed her lips for emphasis. “From across the room.”

Harriet shifted on the delicate chaise, her silk robe caressing her skin. It was such a delicious feeling. One she still was growing accustomed to after years of barely genteel poverty. “You did not.”

Emmaline nodded sharply. “I did.
Everyone did
. Everyone is simply too polite to mention it.”

“Hmmm.” Well, who cared? Truly. It wasn’t exactly as if she were trying to impress anyone any longer. She had a large dowry just like Emmaline. But she had no wish to marry. The thought wouldn’t cross her mind. Not ever again.

Nor had she particularly beautiful looks. And twenty-four put her firmly on the shelf to anyone but fortune hunters. A fact that, really, she didn’t mind. Except for when she lay alone at night.

The only thing that got her through was the knowledge that in twenty years, she’d be gray and could say whatever she blasted well pleased and no one would think a thing of it. Still, in the meantime, she didn’t want to offend her only true friend. “I shall attempt to hem my dastardly ways. But only for you.”

Emmaline let out a long suffering sigh. “It doesn’t help that everyone likes you so well. I think you could have trod about with your skirts over your head. . . or you might have gone about in breeches and we’d still all forgive you.”

“Why on earth would I do such a thing? Firstly, it would be far too chilly with my skirts about my head and, secondly,” she frowned. “What woman would want to wear breeches? They should look horrid.”

Harriet paused, just a touch of honest hurt irking her. Really, she wasn’t so odd. Was she? Then she added quickly, to show she cared not at all, “Really I haven’t done such a bizarre thing since I was four.”

“Oh, you know I exaggerate,” Emmaline threw her hands into the air in mock frustration, “but you will say whatever happens to be in your head.”

“Honesty is a virtue,” she said piously, widening her eyes as she imagined one of the saints might do. Though in all truth, she’d only ever seen saints in the paintings of private collections in London.

Emmaline cocked her head to the side. . . her mouth working with amusement. “So is
silence
.”

“Only for those who have nothing interesting to say,” Harriet scoffed. And it was true. All those silly, young maids who stood silently like they were odd bits of furniture. She often wondered if there was anything at all but air in their wooly heads.

“We could never accuse you of that. Of not being interesting, I mean.”

Harry scowled fervently. She had been accused of verbosity in the past and she was particularly sensitive about it. “Are you saying I talk too much?”

“Never.” Emmaline nibbled her lower lip then said tentatively, “But you do seem to push Edward’s brother a great deal.”

“James?” she asked innocently. She waved her hand in the air dismissively. “Why, he’s as good as gold. He puts up with my odd, little ways very sweetly.”

“Not him,” Emmaline’s pointed words cut through the air like sword chops. “The
other
one. And before you even attempt it, I do not mean my Edward.”

Once again, convinced it made her look innocent, Harry widened her eyes as far as they would go then batted her lids. “Whoever do you mean then?”

Emmaline twisted away from the mirror, turning on the low chair and braced her arm on the low back. Apparently, so she could adequately chastise her cousin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you still liked him.” She tilted her head to the side, her gold curls brushing her neck. “You don’t, do you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry snapped so quickly she barely had time to register Emmaline’s words. As her hasty reply hung in the air, she realized the error of replying so soon. But now, if she said anything else, she would indeed look as if she were protesting overmuch. “He is a scoundrel and treated me most cruelly. I say again, the very idea is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous.” Emmaline stared at her without quaking, even though she knew that, unless directly related to the wedding, that man was not to be mentioned. “I’ve seen the way it. . . works.”

“What works?” Harry asked, a hint of warning in her voice. She loved her cousin. Indeed, she was the dearest soul in the whole world. But she had never discussed the full events of her broken relationship with Garret.

She hadn’t spoken of the whole of it to anyone, not even her dear mother who had gone to God not long after the terrible debacle. No one needed to know the extent to which she had lost her heart.

“Men and women.” Emmaline shrugged and picked up her silver backed hair brush. “They love to spar if they like each other. And you two do fight a good deal.”

“You are being obtuse.” Harry stood, letting her silken skirts swish about her legs, and crossed behind her cousin. “Here, give me that.”

Emmaline held out the brush. Harry took the ivory handle in her hand and began slow, even strokes through her cousin’s already smooth hair. “We cannot stand each other. If given the opportunity, at first chance we would do the other in.”

Emmaline glanced up at her, her face innocent in the slightly gold hued mirror. “Why then did he toast you?”

Harry paused then prevaricated, “I told you, he suffered an injury to his brain. Everyone knows he was koshed on the head.”

Emmaline rolled her eyes, her expression reflected in the mirror. “Do be serious.”

“Fine, I shall.” Harry bent down, squinted at her cousin’s face, as perfect as a blasted Botticelli, and said carefully, “I think you’re developing a spot.”

Emmaline yelped and leaned toward the mirror, frantically feeling at her face for any telltale sign of a bump on her usually smooth skin.

Harriet couldn’t help it. Her lips started to twitch.

Her cousin caught her wicked glance and immediately stopped prodding at her chin. “That was most unkind,” she said witheringly.

Harriet put the brush down and smoothed her hands along the flowing folds of her nightdress and robe. “Then don’t suggest I could admire such a fool.”

Emmaline glanced up at her, her fingers coming to rest lightly on Harriet’s arm. “He is hardly a fool.”

“Ah, but you see, I know him.” Harry stared down at her cousin, wishing she was still as innocent. Emmaline only believed that people could be good. She had not seen how they could hurt and betray each other. “I’ve known him long enough to know exactly what kind of a fool he is.”

“And what kind is that?”

Harry paused for several moments trying to think of exactly how to put it. “The kind that throws love and happiness away.”

Just like she had done. They were fools of a kind which made it all the more terrible.

There was a long moment of silence as her cousin took in those simple, yet passionate, words and then she said evenly, “Well, if that is true, he is a fool indeed.”

Harriet stroked her hand through her cousin’s hair, a sadness weighing heavily upon her heart. In some very silly way, it was hard to see Emmaline so happy when she had lost the only love she had ever known. Worse, the object of her affection was somewhere in the house. But that was very bad of her. She bent and kissed Emmaline’s smooth cheek. “Good night sweetheart.”

“And to you,” her cousin replied, smiling, a radiant glow about her.

Harriet glanced into the mirror, looking at both their reflections. She winked then said cheekily, “I think you shall have many good nights soon.”

Emmaline batted at her. “You are incorrigible. Can you never be serious?”

“No. Never. Life is already too sour to be sour myself.” Harriet gave a last, fond touch to Emmaline’s cheek then headed for the door. As she slipped out, she let a sigh of contentment escape her lips. All would be well with the world. Emmaline deserved such happiness. She was such a kind soul. Very few women could compete for her kind of goodness.

Perhaps if she had been so good then—

“Wandering the halls again, Harry?”

Harriet whipped towards the rough voice. Her stupid heart slammed hard in her chest.

There he stood. Her own personal Lucifer come to lead her astray.

Shirt open at the throat, just the teasing hint of his hard muscles bared, and black hair mussed about his tawny face, he was heartachingly beautiful. His shoulder was braced against the carved door frame. A glass of brandy hung from his fingertips. Effortless. Seductive. Tempting. Tempting her to ask for a sip.

He looked like sin.

And God forgive her, she had once loved his kind of sin with an unfathomable desperation.

She lifted her chin. “I am just going to my room.”

“Wouldn’t you rather come to mine?” he said softly, his eyes as burning as the liquor in his glass.

And for the second time that day, that damned man rendered her completely speechless.

Chapter 5

Harriet stared at him, utterly flummoxed. Firstly, because he hated her. Secondly, because she could still recall what exactly could transpire alone with him. It involved a great deal of skin, exclamations of absolute delight, and a desire to leave all inhibitions somewhere in the dust.

It was the portal to another world. Propriety and sanity be damned.

Most women would sell their souls for a taste of it.

She’d had it all. Well, as much as one could receive in one event of unbridled passion. It had certainly been enough to render her deeply desirous of that feeling.

But luckily she was wise enough to know a taste wouldn’t be enough. Not of Garret. Once he had drawn his attentions away from her, she had languished like an addict denied her very favorite addiction. It had not been pleasant.

In fact, it had been agonizing.

If one were to walk into Garret’s room, one would have to give themselves over completely, recklessly. There would be no self left. Only a pleasured body left to wonder if they had, indeed, experienced such wild power. Once, oh Lord once, how she had loved to be reckless.

But she had learned her lesson and paid dearly for it. Indeed, she had. It had been cruel and cold. Given their mutual resolution to strike each other from their respective lives, it seemed impossible that she was standing in the hall in her nightdress and dressing robe with him standing in deshabille in his bedroom doorway. She couldn’t have imagined such a situation in her wildest dreams. At least not a situation that would occur in reality.

“Have a drink?” he lifted his glass up towards her. Beckoning her ever so slightly.

When she continued to stare at him, her own brain seeming to have gone off on its own grand tour, he smiled his devil smile, brought the glass to his lips and took a long swallow.

It was hypnotic.

She absolutely had to stare transfixed at the way his lips touched the glass, then how the muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed. Despite herself, she shivered ever so slightly. She couldn’t help it. She could still remember kissing his throat. Biting the tendons ever so teasingly and then working her way down to his beautifully hard chest.

His neck, and what she could see of his muscled torso, was even more beautiful now that it had lost its last touches of boyishness. There was no mistake. Garret Hart was a man now, with a man’s power.

“You, sir, are scandalous,” she hissed, but it wasn’t quite as condemning as she meant her hiss to be. If she were honest with herself, there was something breathy about her own voice. An invitation, urging him to drag her straight into scandal, no looking back.

She glanced around the hall, nervous that her uncle might suddenly pop out from a shadow.

“You are surprised madam?” He tilted his head to the side. Another hypnotic gesture which sent his black hair caressing his perfectly chiseled cheekbones. “I recall when you, too, knew a fair bit of scandal.”