The Risk of Rogues

by Sabrina Jeffries

  She’d seemed the perfect fit for a second son who’d mostly disappointed his parents by always going his own way and not living up to his older brother’s achievements. But perhaps she’d changed.

  “The question is,” she continued, “why are you here? At this party, I mean?”

  “Me?” He snorted. “The host is my brother.”

  “Yes, but Delia said that you weren’t . . . that she didn’t expect you to—”

  “You knew I was in England?” His temper rose. “That Delia could reach me? I’ve been back for months, and all this time you could have—”

  “What? Trailed after you like a pet poodle, hoping for some crumb of your affection? I have some pride, you know.”

  He strode up to her, not bothering to hide his outrage. “I offered marriage to you, if you’ll recall. It wasn’t my fault your father refused.”

  “Yes, but you told me that no matter his answer, we would elope. Then you joined the army instead, shipping off for India without so much as a word. I had to learn about it from the newspapers.”

  “I sent your maid a note, as before,” he said resentfully.

  “Are you speaking of the maid my father dismissed once he discovered she was passing on illicit correspondence between us? That maid?”

  His heart sank into his stomach. “How could I have known that?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Did you assume there would be no consequences when you approached Papa out of the blue to ask for my hand in marriage?”

  “I thought he wouldn’t be foolish enough to refuse!”

  “You thought he would be grateful to hand his only daughter over to a man with a need for funds and a reputation for being a ne’er-do-well.”

  “I was not a—” He muttered a curse under his breath. “Plenty of young men gamble. Studying the law is a rigorous enterprise, and sometimes a man requires a bit of . . . recreation to clear his mind. But I was pursuing a profession. And I had an allowance that would have supported us until I was earning money as a barrister.”

  Or so he’d believed when he’d gone to her father, anyway.

  She gazed steadily at him. “So why didn’t we elope?” Suddenly she paled. “Or is that what the note to my maid said? The one I never got?” Her eyes grew huge. “Is that why you ran off to join the army? Because you arranged an elopement and I never showed up?”

  Aw, hell. The look of hope on her face slayed him. He could lie. He could play on her assumption and spin a tale about how his elaborate plan had been ruined by her refusal to come. How it had broken his heart so badly that he’d run off to India.

  But he couldn’t lie to her. He’d never been able to. It was why he’d fallen for her in the first place. Because she’d been able to read and understand him so well.

  “No. That’s not why.” He sighed. God, he hated telling her this; it would insult her. But it was the truth. “I ran off to join the army because my father disapproved of the match.”

  Anne was surprised. The previous Marquess of Knightford had disapproved? Yes, Hart had been ten times above her in consequence and his father would have been conscious of that. Still, didn’t men of rank generally want heiresses for their younger sons? Yet she hadn’t been good enough?

  The thought filled her with outrage. Not at his father. At him. “So, the fact that my father wouldn’t accept your proposal didn’t matter. You were quite happy to elope with me when it merely meant that I would have disappointed and disobeyed my own parents. But once it meant disappointing and disobeying your parents—”

  “You’re missing the point, Anne. I didn’t give a damn about whom I disappointed.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “I did, however, care whether I could support us. And as I explained in the note you apparently never saw, not to mention all those letters, I could not support us. Because Father said that if we married, he would cut me off entirely. No allowance, no income of any kind. He wouldn’t even have paid for my schooling. We would have been destitute.”

  She stared at him. “Ah, I see. Once there was no money from my father or yours, you weren’t interested in me. You could have taken a law clerk’s post and continued your studies at a slower pace, while I could have . . . I don’t know, taken in pupils or—”

  “Have you ever taught a pupil in your life?” he snapped. “Ever lived in a seedy part of London because you can’t afford anything better? Your father might just have been a merchant, but he was wealthy and you were gently bred. You weren’t used to working for a living.”

  “Neither were you,” she shot back. “That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? You weren’t prepared to consider holding a position or giving up your gambling in order to support a wife.”

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. “I wasn’t prepared to consider casting you into poverty. If Father had continued paying for my schooling and allowance, I would have carried you off to Scotland. But he didn’t.” He paced in front of her. “Instead, he ended my education by buying me a commission in an army regiment shipping out for India right away. He knew I couldn’t support a wife on a cornet’s salary, even if the army would have let me take a wife with me.”

  A knot of pain tightened around her heart. “He went to great lengths to save you from an unsuitable match.”

  He shot her a fierce look. “To save me from the girl I loved. Because love didn’t matter to him. My father was an arse. If he ever loved my mother, I never saw it.”

  That was more than he’d said about his parents the entire time they’d been courting. She didn’t know what to make of it. She didn’t want to believe him. But her heart did. Stupid, foolish heart. After all this time, it still listened to him.

  He dragged a hand through his hair, making her ache to step close and smooth it into place. “Anyway, he gave me little choice. So I sent you a note asking you to wait for me. To let me spend a few years building a career in the cavalry so that I could support us. I promised to come back for you. I figured by then, you’d be old enough and your father would let us marry.”

  His gaze turned accusatory. “But you never answered my letters. And when after five agonizing years I returned to England, I couldn’t find you. I asked everyone in Stilford where you’d gone, and all they said was your father had come into an inheritance and moved the family away. No one knew where.”

  She sighed. “Because he told no one. I guess he was too embarrassed to admit the truth. Papa used to rail against the nobility—how they were the ruin of the country, how the only people who would save England were its middle class. It was one reason he gave me for refusing you. Then suddenly he inherited a title, an estate, and a small fortune from some far-distant cousin—but I guess you knew about that already.”

  A wary expression crossed his face. “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t once asked how I went from being Miss Barkley to Lady Anne. So you obviously found out who I am now.” As ugly suspicions filled her mind, she choked down bile. “I suppose that’s why you came here. You were hoping to court me again so you could avail yourself of my dowry.”

  “What?” Fury flared in his eyes as he marched toward her. “I didn’t give a damn about money when I first asked your father for your hand, or I wouldn’t have suggested that we elope if he didn’t give us permission. So why the hell would I care about it now?”

  That excellent point took her aback. “P-perhaps you’ve grown more cynical about what you . . . need in a wife.”

  He cast her a look of scathing contempt. “Since you’ve apparently heard all about me from my sister-in-law and cousins, you surely know of my reputation as a confirmed bachelor. Don’t you think if I’d been fortune hunting, you would have learned of it from someone?”

  That was a good point. And she couldn’t deny that he’d seemed shocked to see her again.

  He bent close. “Do you want to know why I’m considered a confirmed bachelor? Because you were the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry. Once there was no you . . .” With a huff of disgust, he turned away to ga
ze out a nearby window.

  For a moment, she was taken in. Then she remembered what she’d heard about his reputation. “You expect me to believe that all these years you were away, you were thinking of me and not of the many women you’ve been rumored to have been with?” She snorted. “I daresay you forgot me the moment you left for India.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “Not a day has gone by that I haven’t wondered what would have happened if I’d taken a chance and married you despite the impediments.” His voice grew choked. “Wondered if you had gone on to marry some richer, better fellow. You want to know how I learned about your becoming Lady Anne? Because I spent the last hour asking about you.”

  That made her instantly suspicious. “Asking whom? No one knows about my past.”

  “Truly?” He arched an eyebrow. “Not a single soul in that ballroom knows how your father changed from Merchant Barkley to the Earl of Staunton?”

  “Well, there’s Mama, but . . .” She let out a long breath. “Mama. Of course. She always thought Papa was foolish to refuse you. She would tell you anything if she thought it would convince you to renew your affections.”

  His skepticism gave way to something that looked oddly like guilt, and then something else. Yearning? “And you? Did you think your father was foolish?”

  “At the time, yes.”

  He stiffened. “But not now that you’re Lady Anne.” His voice held an edge. “I suppose you have higher aspirations these days, given that you haven’t married yet. It’s been, what, six years or more since your father became an earl? Couldn’t find anyone good enough in the ton for you in all that time?”

  The not-so-veiled insult made her wince. “Actually, I only had my come-out two years ago.”

  That wiped the resentment from his face. “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Once we moved to Lancashire, Papa fell ill. Mama and I took care of him for three years. Then he died, and the year of mourning ensued.” She wiped away tears she hadn’t even realized had fallen, then steadied her shoulders. “After that, Mama insisted we have a season for me.” She glanced away. “It did not go well.”

  “Is every man in society a fool?”

  The fact that he seemed in earnest cheered her. Momentarily. “Contrary to what you probably assume, I don’t have much of a dowry. The money our family had when I was younger went into shoring up the faltering estate after Papa inherited it and then fell ill. So without money . . .”

  “It shouldn’t have mattered.”

  “Well, it did, obviously.” A thickness clogged her throat. “And as you may have noticed, my looks are not the fashionable sort. My hair is too ginger, I have these dreadful freckles, and I—”

  “You’re beautiful,” he said with the force of a vow. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And the size of your dowry means nothing to any chap with sense.”

  It was the sweetest thing any man had ever said to her. A smile curved her lips despite her attempt to hide it. “All the same, society considers me on the shelf.”

  He looked indignant. “You’re not a book, Anne. You’re a vibrant, intoxicating woman who does as she pleases, and that doesn’t change with age.”

  “But it does change with circumstances.” She eyed him cautiously. “You haven’t been around me in eleven years. You don’t know me anymore. And I most certainly don’t know you. If I ever did.”

  That seemed to pull him up short. Instantly, he drew into himself. “What do you mean?”

  “Come now, Hart. We spent our courtship flirting and kissing and talking about inconsequential things like how silly dandies looked walking on pattens. I didn’t even know you gambled until Papa said so. Delia was the one who told me your mother was a devout Methodist. And I never heard you call your father an ‘arse’ until just now. I barely knew the real you.”

  He shrugged. “We were young, and more intent on enjoying each other than baring our souls.”

  “Yes, but we’re not so young now.” Tentatively, she voiced her true concern. Well, one of them, anyway. “Yet you still have no aspirations.”

  “I do have aspirations,” he protested.

  “Oh? What are they? You left the army, from what I understand. Have you returned to studying law?”

  A shadow passed over his face, as if he hadn’t expected the question. “I can’t talk about my plans quite yet. I’m in the process of setting things in place.”

  Disappointment sliced through her. How absurd. She’d already decided she wouldn’t take up with him again. Hadn’t she? “In other words, like most inveterate gamblers, you hope to make a great bet that will gain you a fortune.”

  He looked genuinely shocked. “What? No! Gambling is just an entertainment for me, as creating hats is for you. Do you truly believe me such a fool as to place my future on the turn of a card?” He moved close enough to touch her, his massive frame engulfing her, making her feel small when she was anything but. “You didn’t used to think so ill of me.”

  Oh, dear. As if the years were peeling away to reveal the core of her youth, all her old feelings for him were exposed, raw.

  Curse him to the devil. “I didn’t used to know about the gambling.” Though it probably would only have enhanced his appeal. She’d always chafed under Papa’s rigid rules. “I don’t know what to think of you these days. Things are different between us now.”

  “Are they?” Reaching up to caress her cheek, he added in a rough murmur, “They don’t seem so different to me.”

  “Hart, please—”

  He kissed her, gently at first, as if testing her response. And when she only stood there, wanting to see if this, at least, was as good as before, he looped his arms about her waist, tugged her into his embrace, and kissed her more thoroughly.

  Ohhh, yes. Perfect.

  The kiss was unwise, ill-considered, and utterly wrong, yet she sought it as eagerly as a butterfly seeks out nectar, grasping at his shoulders, letting his mouth explore hers . . . letting his tongue lick along the seam of her lips.

  It turned out she was wrong about one thing. Kissing him wasn’t as good as when she was sixteen. It was far better. Now that she was a woman, the bewildering passions of her youth had become a smoldering need that burned hotter with each sweep of his tongue. Her hand slipped down to his chest, where she could feel his heart beat in time to the sound of hers in her ears.

  “Ah, my lovely Anne,” he whispered against her lips. “Open for me. Let me in.”

  So she did.

  Three

  HART EXULTED AS she let him deepen the kiss. Perhaps they had changed, but not in this. She was his, still. Whether or not she would admit it.

  And the taste of her . . . How could he have forgotten it? She still used cinnamon sticks to sweeten her breath, still smelled like honey water, still made him want to have her for breakfast.

  The years melted into nothing as he memorized the shape of her, the sound of her eager breaths, the feel of her softness yielding in his arms. It might be his last chance to hold her like this . . .

  No, he wouldn’t let it be. This time he would hold on to her somehow.

  Their kisses grew hotter, more reckless, until he couldn’t prevent his hands from roaming up and down her ribs and waist and hips in ever longer sweeps before he settled his palms beneath the swell of her breasts.

  She froze, and for half a moment, he thought she might let him touch her the way he ached to. Then she shoved him away.

  “No, no, no . . .” she muttered, as if talking to herself. “No, we are not doing this. No!”

  “Why not?” he asked hoarsely. “You’re of age. I’m well beyond age. There’s nothing to prevent us from marrying now if we wish.”

  “Marrying!” she cried. “Are you mad? I hardly know you anymore. I certainly don’t trust you. For all I know, you lied about the note and the letters and your . . . your precious plans for the future that you will only hint at.”

  “I can’t say more yet.”

&nb
sp; Because in truth, she was right. Except for the passion that sizzled just below the surface, everything was different. Their aims. Their lives. Even their families. He had to be sure he could trust her with his secrets about what he really did for Fulkham and what he hoped to achieve. And she had to be sure he would make her a good husband.

  But the matter wasn’t hopeless, and he refused to let it go. Not until he knew for certain that they’d changed so irrevocably that their love couldn’t be revived.

  “Meeting with you in private was a mistake,” she murmured. “It won’t happen again.”

  She turned to walk away, throwing him into a panic. “Forget marriage,” he called out after her. When that halted her, he breathed easier. “You’re right. We don’t know or trust each other nearly well enough anymore.”

  Folding her arms about her waist, she faced him. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

  “Yes.” He chose his words carefully. “But we’re here for a week, so we’ll be spending hours together. Why not use the time to get to know each other again? See how it goes?”

  She cocked her head. “What exactly are you proposing?”

  “A courtship. Where I prove to you that I’m not the wastrel and fortune hunter your father clearly spent years painting me out to be . . . or the devil-may-care rakehell that my reputation has made me out to be. A reputation, by the way, that has been vastly exaggerated.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And what am I supposed to be proving to you?”

  “That you’re still the Anne I fell in love with, and not some earl’s daughter for whom my rank as a marquess’s son matters more than my worth as a man.”

  A sharp, pained breath escaped her. “Is that how you see me?”

  “As you said: ‘I don’t know what to think of you these days . . . I hardly know you anymore.’ But we could change that. Reintroduce ourselves to each other. Call it a ‘re-courtship,’ if there is such a thing. To prove that we’re still well suited.”