The Rogue and I (7 page)

When she slipped through the door, she hesitated. Edward sat on the bed above the silken covers. Still clothed for the most part. A dark green velvet dressing gown was draped over his strong shoulders and it was belted firmly about his taut waist. His head was bent in the perusal of some volume or other.

A smile tilted her lips. This was the man she was going to marry. It was quite possible that there would never be a more happy or lucky girl than she. “Edward?” she said gently.

His head lifted, but his eyes remained down, clearly lost in whatever it was that he was reading.

“Edward,” she said again, this time with a little more determination.

Her soft voice must have penetrated his concentration because his eyes snapped up to her face. “Emmaline!” He jumped off the bed so fast one might have thought scalding water had been thrown upon him. “My dear, is there something amiss?”

She laughed slightly and took another step forward. “No. I simply wished to be with you.”

Edward beamed at her, that boyish joy of his positively exuding from every bit of him. “I wish to be with you too, sweetheart but unfortunately we must spend a few hours apart. At least until we are wed.”

Emmaline bit down on her lower lip slightly. Clearly, he had misunderstood her meaning. “W-What if we didn’t spend those hours apart?”

Edward’s smile faltered a little though a most intriguing light flickered in his eyes. “Your father would murder me.”

She wished she had the bravery to stride forward and trail her fingers down his front. “He doesn’t need to know.”

Edward crossed the room in a few short sides and took her hands in his larger ones. “Yes, sweetheart, but I would know. It isn’t that I don’t long to be with you but I have no wish to insult your father’s hospitality or trust.”

Emmaline’s heart fell and she couldn’t quite look Edward in the eye. A sudden brush of shame washed over her. How could she have been so foolish? “I apologize. I simply thought—”

Edward’s lips came down over hers in a soft touch.

The very feel of his mouth against hers sent her shivering in the most delightful way. Slowly, she melded her body to his, allowing herself to savor the feel of his hard frame against her soft one. But before she could lift her arms to his shoulders, he backed away.

“Now darling,” he reached up and brushed a stray tendril of her hair from her face. “Back to your room, lest we be caught, and your father renders me incapable of even having a wedding night.”

She nodded. “Of course. Good night, Edward.”

“Good night, my love.” He let her go and waited, his stance firm, even though his face was warm.

Emmaline smiled up at him one last time, though she no longer felt confident. Quickly, she turned and rushed out of his room. Her hands trembled as she made her way back down the hall. Perhaps she had made a terrible mistake. What if Edward would think her wanton?

Suddenly, it occurred to her that men might indeed wish angels. And not fallen ones.

Chapter 7

“Please tell me John has not found a host of dairy maids,” groused Garret as they tramped through the irritatingly damp field. The grass was slicked with dew attacking the edges of his perfectly tailored trousers.

“Oh, you know John,” Edward laughed, pulling a flask from his tweed coat pocket. “No doubt if he has, they’re taking turns milking each other.” He took a swallow from the silver canister then offered it to James, who took it with his leather gloved hand.

“And sharing the pox,” retorted Garret, wishing Edward had passed him the whiskey first.

“My, my, old boy, one might think it’s you who needs to be milked.” James passed the flask back to Edward then turned to the three manservants following at an appropriate distance of a few steps behind. He reached out expectantly and his man, dressed almost identically to the other two, immediately passed him his rifle. “You sound absolutely jealous of John’s exploits at this moment.”

Did he? That was not his intention. Granted he had gone to bed hard as a stone and so furious that he should have gone straight out into the night and hied himself to London. . . or the nearest willing wench. Surely, that would have taken care of his severe fixation with one Miss Harriet Manning.

Granted it hadn’t worked in the past. But his motto was
try, try again.

Edward shivered. “Christ, it’s as cold as a witch’s tit this morning.”

James rolled his eyes. “Try to recall we are not in the army any longer.”

“And?” Edward asked, his mouth quirking impishly.

Garret arched a brow. “We are now supposed to speak like cherubim, or didn’t you realize?”

Edward snorted and turned to his own man. He gestured for his own gun. “Well, should we practice our heavenly chorus then?”

James kept walking, his back ramrod straight. As straight as it could possibly be. In fact, that back of his had been made impossibly straight since the day he’d been made duke. “Pick up your pace. One would think I had a host of old women for brothers,” he called over his shoulder. “They’re waiting.”

And indeed they were. Mr. Trent, the bride’s father, and a few other gentleman were about a hundred yards ahead, all standing with their manservants prepared to rain birds from the sky.

“Is this really necessary?” Garret demanded, his foul mood refusing to dissipate, just like the blasted early morning mist. “I mean, couldn’t we have a good bit of sport? Something that combines flesh beating flesh. Boxing is a smashing gentleman’s game.”

“You propose bashing Emmaline’s father?” Edward asked, his voice surprisingly high with indignation.

Garret scowled. Perhaps he really hadn’t thought it through, but God, he longed to slam his fist into somebody’s nose. “Well no. That would hardly be sporting.”

“And I have every intention of keeping on that man’s good side,” James said suddenly without looking back.

Garret halted, an extreme feeling of foreboding creeping upon him. The fates would not be so cruel. Would they? “Why, may I ask?”

James turned and smiled. An irritating, self-satisfied grin. “Miss Harriet is charming.”

Garret sucked in an indignant breath. “Miss Harriet is a pain in the arse!”

How could James? His own brother? How could he even consider the woman? Granted, James didn’t know the sordid details. Almost no one did. But. . . But. . .

James’ smile dimmed, his eyes narrowing. Instead of absolute fury, a look of pure bemusement tilted his brows. “And why is it you dislike women so much?”

Garret cleared his throat and picked a piece of imaginary (his man would never, ever allow such a sin to occur) lint from his coat. “Not women.
This
woman. I adored mother. And I’m sure that if we had had sisters I would have adored them as well.”

Edward cocked his head to the side. “You don’t seem to mind Emmaline.”

“There is nothing wrong with Emmaline. But nor is there anything special about her. I simply cannot see why so many men are willing to yield up their bachelor’s status. For God’s sake, not six months ago we were all sworn bachelors. I turn my back for one blasted moment and the next thing I know, the both of you are prancing about, more concerned about the state of your beards and cravats than serious matters.”

Garret pointed a finger at Edward. “That one is already guilty of composing songs to his lady love.”

Edward’s face flashed with horror. “I did not,” he said so quickly it sounded like one word.

“Oh,” Garret nodded sagely. “I do beg your pardon. Sonnets are not to be
confused
with love songs. But sonnets you did indeed pen. Sonnets about her elfin ears and delicate ankles.”

Edward squared his shoulders and coughed. “Emmaline’s ears are particularly charming.”

Garret snorted. “Marriage is the death of a man’s soul. You will see, Edward. And then apparently you, too, James. I shall be the last soul un-trounced upon.”

“Please,” James said easily. “I swear I shall see you a married man.”

“Never. I would rather place my head in a noose and do the honors myself than turn married.”

“You shall choke on those words,” warned James evenly.

“I will eat them with sauce if they are ever proved untrue.”

“I’m thinking of wedding,” James said quietly. “I think it’s time.”

“No!” Garret exclaimed, his voice an octave higher than appropriate to a man his age. “I refuse to lose another brother to the plague. We must stand strong against the bastions of female domination.”

James merely laughed. “We shall see.”

Garret didn’t care for the sound of that. But the subject was done. They approached the rest of the hunting party and the sound of the beaters echoed over the field. In a few moments, every attempt to shoot all the birds from the sky in some perverse rain would begin.

Glancing at his brother, James, Garret couldn’t help but wonder how exactly he could set him off Harriet. There was no way in hell he would allow such a marriage to take place.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that, once, he had been so sure the woman was his. No. It was because she was not to be trusted.

James was so bloody nice. He had no idea what he was getting involved in. She’d destroy him.

She was cruel, conniving, and completely without virtue.

Well, that last bit wasn’t really such a horrid thing. Not when he thought about how last eve they had come so close to touching. It was remarkable really that, even though they had stood so close and she had drank directly from his glass, they had not touched.

“John!” James bellowed, looking about the field. “I have no idea where that dolt has gotten to.”

“Coming!” a voice shouted from behind them.

There the wastrel was, accompanied by two other men. Knowing John, it wasn’t entirely certain that they were gentleman, even though they were dressed as such.

John strode across the field, his russet hair somehow managing to shine in the early morning fog. The bounder really was impossible.

“Do forgive,” he called. “My friends just arrived in the town and I couldn’t leave them behind.”

As the three men, all as good looking as Grecian statues, neared, John turned to Mr. Trent who gaped quite openly, his white hair askew.

“It is horrible of me,” John waxed pleasantly, “but could you possibly make room in the party for them? Lords Conrade and Barrly.”

Mr. Trent’s white-haired head bobbed back and forth between the two men whose hunting kit, no doubt, cost as much as Mr. Trent’s entire wardrobe. Wealthy as he may be, Trent still hadn’t quite gotten the gist of the way the truly idle clothed themselves. “Lords. . . Of course,” Trent said quickly, his voice full of jovial welcome. “Of course. It is always a pleasure to have such distinguished company about.”

Lord Conrade inclined his dark head ever so slightly, his wine red coat stiff and perfect about his own overbred stance. “A pleasure and an honor to be included. Barrly and I do love a wedding.”

“Who could not?” Barrly asked, lifting a cigar to his ever so slightly wet lips.

Garret eyed the two men with growing suspicion. He’d heard of both young men. All of society probably had. Lord Conrade was a poet and a soldier. Positively Byronic in his looks.

Barrly was not only known for his blazing red hair, a product of his wild mother, but for his father, one of the wealthiest land owners and most important politicians in the empire. Both young men were reputed for their conquests in the bedroom, their gaming habits, and their ability to kill men at a hundred paces with a pistol.

John had certainly found himself an intriguing crowd. Considering he was a bastard and only in funds as far as James allowed.

James was glancing at the two young men with his own suspicions, but it would hardly do for them to toss out two of the most important gentlemen of the country. Just because of rumors. No matter how likely they were true.

Lord Conrade beamed at Edward. “I hear your bride-to-be is positively stunning.”

Edward, fool that he was about Emmaline, beamed right back. “Oh she is indeed! No one as beautiful in the whole of the world, I dare say.”

“Perhaps you shall meet her this evening, Conrade,” John supplied smoothly, and then turned his gaze pointedly to Mr. Trent.

The older man looked from one man to the next then understanding dawned in his slightly myopic blue eyes. “Of course. Of course. We are to have a masked ball tonight in celebration of my daughter’s nuptials.”

As Trent studied the young men before him, a surprising hint of doubt seemed to touch the edges of his smile, but as a dutiful host, he continued, “You will join us, of course.”

Barrly smiled, his teeth completely bared. Once again, he lifted his cigar, the smoke swirling about his fair face and red hair. “We’d be delighted. What shall we go as John, dear. Devils or angels?”

“Why devils of course,” John peeled. “There’s already a host of angels in the house.”

Lord Conrade threw back his dark head and laughed pleasantly, as if he weren’t a predator looking for a fresh bit of meat. “Delightful. Nothing better than beautiful women. Don’t you agree, your grace?”

James turned to the young lord and nodded ever so slightly. “They are always pleasant to have about.”

Garret blew out a sigh. This was all going to hell in a basket. If he had his way, he’d throw all three blasted pups into a wheelbarrow and drop them into a dung heap. Still, one had to be a gentleman. . . Or at least, so James said.

“Are we to talk of women or shoot?” Garret demanded.

“Come now, my lord!” Conrade said grandly. “Women are the only thing to celebrate. After all, they are the givers of life and almost all pleasant things.”

Garret scowled. “I thank my mother for giving me birth. I realize it was quite a sacrifice on her part, but I will not stand about pining over females like some sort of fluff headed sheep.”

Lord Barrly eyed him carefully, a devil’s grin tilting his angelic lips. “A man after my heart. Love them and leave them, eh?”

“Something like that,” Garret murmured. It was actually exactly what he had done in the end. He could still clearly recall the last act of vengeance he had taken upon the woman he had been so sure he loved.