Hart nearly rolled his eyes at his sister’s statement. If he could have, he would have whistled and stuck his hands in his pockets. That was how uninterested he was at the Hodges’ ball. Boring. That’s what this ton event business was. Excruciatingly boring and here he was … trapped.
He’d been to the refreshment table and been chased out of Lord Hodge’s study by his own father who scolded him and informed him he wasn’t about to find his future countess in the study of all places. He’d even taken a stroll through the Hodges’ prizewinning gardens. None of it had been the least interesting.
There was not nearly enough brandy here and apparently, according to Sarah, ton hostesses looked askance at guests who downed glass after glass of liquor. Who knew? Hart had surrendered to his sister, asking Sarah to point out the most eligible, pleasant, least-concerned-with-wealth-and-titles ladies of her acquaintance. Sarah had done just that, but Hart was still … bored.
Lady Carina Hardwater was too quiet. In the time he’d spent in her company, nearly half an hour, she’d uttered perhaps three words and all three were related to the weather. On the other hand, Miss Banks talked far too much about topics far too uninteresting. In the mere quarter of an hour he’d spent in her esteemed company, he’d learned all about a riding accident she’d experienced as a child, her fondness for hot chocolate, and the fact that she preferred the color yellow above all others. Meanwhile, Lady Isabella Jones had a decided frown upon her face, clearly indicating to Hart that she was wholly uninterested in his company. They hadn’t spent even five minutes in each other’s company before she feigned an attack of the nerves, turned on her heel, and nearly galloped off to her mother’s side, peeping at him from behind her fan every once in a while as if he were an ogre.
Less than three hours into his first ball of the Season, Hart quickly realized that finding a bride would not be as simple a task as he’d hoped.
He groaned and took another halfhearted glance around the room. Perhaps there was something the matter with him. Perhaps he didn’t possess the same qualities other gentlemen did. Perhaps the social custom of finding a wife was something at which he would fail. A vision of Annabelle flashed through his mind. Annabelle had just made her debut six years ago when she’d attempted to trap him into marriage. At the age of three and twenty, his father had ordered him to find a wife. When Hart hadn’t taken any steps to do so, his father had threatened to suspend his allowance. Like a fool, Hart had actually believed the old man. The threat had sent him into a round of attending ton balls.
He enjoyed the company of women. Always had. The business of finding a wife couldn’t be that awful. His father had spent most of Hart’s teenage years warning him about the consequences of choosing the wrong bride. Hart was prepared to make a good decision. Then he met Annabelle.
She was gorgeous. Blond, blue-eyed, sweet, shy. She’d batted her eyelashes and laughed at all his jokes. He’d been smitten, no doubt about it. He’d taken her riding in the park. He’d introduced her to his parents. He certainly had contemplated marriage, but something about her kept him from offering. Day after day he put it off, despite his father’s increased frustration. It had been the best decision Hart had ever made.
He shuddered. Looking back, Annabelle did remind him of his mother: cold, calculating, and manipulative. The same woman who’d been willing to take Sarah back after her scandalous journey to Scotland, and lied to her betrothed about where she’d been. His mother had no compunction when it came to securing the most advantageous match for herself or her offspring.
After more than a month went by with no proposal, Annabelle had turned calculating. At a party, she’d begged Hart to take her out to the gardens. Once outside, she’d convinced him to take her deep into the maze grove. When he’d reluctantly complied, her closest friend had just happened to come upon them, threatening to sound the alarm and tell everyone they’d been caught in a compromising position. Neither girl had been a good enough actress to accomplish their plot, however, and he’d told them both that if they insisted upon continuing with their scheme, Annabelle would be ruined and he would not stand up for her. Thank God she’d believed him.
It made him nauseated to think about it. Annabelle’s trap sounded jarringly close to the horror story his father told him about how his mother came to be the countess. After coming so close to marrying the exact wrong woman for the exact wrong reasons, Hart had promised himself never to make that same mistake again. He’d called his father’s bluff, using the money he won racing horses to supplement his allowance until his father had relented in disgust and reinstated it. Meanwhile, Hart guarded both his heart and his company.
He scanned the ballroom. Ladies in pastel ball gowns fluttered their fans in front of their faces while gentlemen in peacock-like attire strutted around in front of them. The infamous London Marriage Mart. Why was this so difficult? So fraught with peril? It shouldn’t be. It should be simple, easy, natural even. Was that how it had been with Sarah and Berkeley?
He’d never heard the details of what had happened when Berkeley found Sarah living in his hunting lodge in Scotland. They clearly adored each other. Though he’d never admit it aloud, Hart wanted that.
He’d never had a problem garnering the attention of ladies, but not the kind he would wish to marry. Until recently he’d been engaged in a pleasant affair with a tempting widow.
Lady Maria Tempest was the exact sort of woman he’d gravitated toward since the debacle with Annabelle. Jaded, knowledgeable, decadent, confident, Maria liked to give and receive pleasure with no strings attached. It had been Maria, he believed, who’d sent him the note the night before Sarah’s wedding. At first he’d been horrified, worried that perhaps Meg Timmons would cry and run off, causing an incident that would result in an attempt to wring a proposal out of him, yet again.
In that case, Hart most likely would have had no choice but to do the right thing and offer for her. He’d been the one to grab her, pull her into his arms, and passionately kiss her, after all. But it turned out, unlike Annabelle, Meg was a capital sort of girl. She had quickly made it clear that she held him in no way responsible for the mistake, which was sporting of her, given the fact that she had been the one to send him a message asking him to meet in a clandestine location. In hindsight, it had been wise of the girl, given that of all the young women in London, Meg Timmons would be the very last one he might marry.
He’d admitted to himself later, however, that the kiss they’d shared in the gardens had been nothing less than … surprising. Hot, passionate, full of longing. He’d looked twice when he’d realized he’d been kissing Meg and not Maria. Try as he might, he’d been unable to forget the kiss.
Hart rubbed his forehead, dispelling all thoughts of his sister’s closest friend. The fact remained that he was in need of a wife. In want of one, actually, and this particular ball on this particular night was sorely lacking in eligible candidates. He stifled a yawn while his sister shook her head at him. Sarah had been the belle of the Season two years ago when she’d made her debut. She’d promptly received an offer from the Marquess of Branford and then run off to Scotland to hide from that same offer, which was where she’d, ahem, met Berkeley. Not everyone could be so fortunate as to literally stumble upon (her chaperone had broken her ankle in the stumble) true love.
“You’re not even trying,” Sarah scolded. Her hands were planted on her hips. Her slipper tapped the marble floor.
“Yes I am,” Hart replied, trying and failing to stifle a second yawn. “I let Lady Isabella scowl at me for at least ten minutes. I listened to Miss Banks prattle on for what felt like days. I even—”
A commotion by the doorway caught his attention, and Hart turned to look. The Duchess of Claringdon had arrived, dressed in her signature emerald green.
Next to her stood a vision in gold. The woman’s straight blond hair was pulled atop her head. A strand of rubies encased the thin column of her throat. A lovely golden gown that reminded Hart of a Roman g
oddess covered her ample bosom, then fell down her slim body, sparkling like a waterfall with the sun shot through it. From so far away, Hart couldn’t make out the color of her eyes, but they glowed with mirth as she laughed at something the duchess said. He couldn’t take his gaze off her. She seemed vaguely familiar. He elbowed Sarah and nodded toward the door.
“Who is that?”
“The Duchess of Claringdon,” Sarah replied absently.
“No, not the duchess. I meant that gorgeous creature with her.”
Sarah let out a loud sigh. “Oh, Hart. You dolt. That is Meg.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lucy Hunt was not one to waste time. No sooner had the butler announced their names than the duchess had swept Meg into a group of her friends to keep her safely cocooned while the whole of the Hodges’ ball conjectured as to whether it was possible for Meg Timmons to have suddenly come up in the world.
Meg’s heart hammered against her chest. She couldn’t help but feel like both a fool and a fake. She’d spent the day at Lucy’s town house, where a veritable team of seamstresses worked to concoct the most glorious gown Meg had ever seen. Then Lucy’s maid had set about straightening Meg’s confounded ringlets with a hot iron and applying a bit of rouge to her lips and cheeks. Finally, Lucy had emerged from her private bedchamber with a strand of rubies so breathtaking Meg doubted they were real. Lucy had handed them to Meg as if they were nothing more than a bauble, saying, “These were a gift from a Spanish princess.”
Lucy had insisted Meg wear the priceless jewels and while she had to admit the effect was striking, she couldn’t keep from worrying whether the necklace would somehow slip off or go missing. As a result, she touched it obsessively while simultaneously wondering how Lucy had come to know a Spanish princess.
“I cannot pay for them if they are misplaced,” Meg must have said half a dozen times in the coach on the ride to the ball. Lucy had merely laughed, waved her hand in the air, and said, “They’re only rubies, dear.” Oh, to be wealthy.
Neither Mother nor Father was here. Lucy had taken over official chaperone duties from Meg’s mother for the evening. When Meg asked Lucy about it, she’d got another hand flourish and a vague, “Leave everything to me.” That also made Meg nervous. The duchess hadn’t confided in her about her plans. But she reminded herself, she had asked for Lucy’s help, and to continue to question her benefactress would be the height of rudeness.
Meg had given herself a silent talking-to in the coach, one that relied heavily upon attempting to remain calm and enjoy herself. But now that she was here, standing in the middle of the ballroom, glimmering conspicuously like a bar of gold, with all eyes fastened on her, she wanted nothing so much as to turn and run. She wasn’t used to being seen, being watched, being the center of attention.
She greeted the duchess’s good friends Cassandra, Lady Swifdon, the countess, and her husband, the earl, Lord Julian. Lucy had recently shared the news with Sarah and Meg that the countess was expecting a baby, though she wasn’t far along and still able to go out in Society. The couple was good looking and clearly devoted to each other. The earl stayed close to his beautiful blond wife and hovered near her, solicitously inquiring after her health every so often. Meg’s heart ached as she watched them. Their obvious mutual adoration was what she hoped for with Hart.
Next Meg greeted Mr. and Mrs. Upton, the future Earl and Countess of Upbridge. Garrett was Lucy’s cousin and her father’s heir. Jane had dark, watchful eyes that blinked at Meg from behind silver-rimmed spectacles and a reticule weighed down by at least two books. Meg soon learned that Jane was possessed of a biting wit and Garrett of a good-humored nature. They were as devoted a couple as Cassandra and Julian were.
All of the men soon excused themselves to find amusements and drinks in the study, leaving the women standing together in the ballroom. Meg worried her bottom lip, convinced that Lucy’s plan would not work.
“You look breathtaking,” Cassandra said, smiling warmly at Meg.
“Agreed,” Jane added, also smiling at Meg.
Meg returned both ladies’ smiles. Lucy had probably asked her friends to say such nice things. Meg had never in her life been described as breathtaking. According to her mother she was too short, too thin, had too many curls in her hair, and looked too much like her father. Regardless, it was kind of Lucy’s friends to bestow compliments.
Meg hadn’t got up the nerve to glance around the ballroom to see if Hart was there. She desperately wanted to ask one of the other ladies if they’d seen him, but she wasn’t that bold. She didn’t have to wait long, however, because Sarah came hurrying up to their group.
“Meg,” Sarah said after she’d properly greeted everyone. She stood back, and her gaze swept over Meg. “You look perfectly splendid.” Tears shimmered in Sarah’s eyes.
“Doesn’t she look stunning?” Lucy asked. “Of course I can take no credit for it. I merely employed the proper people to make this happen.” Lucy flourished a hand from Meg’s head to her feet.
“Oh, Meg,” Sarah continued. “I’m so pleased you allowed Lucy to help you. I’ve no doubt you’ll catch the interest of some nice gentleman. Why, you should have seen Hart’s face.” Sarah laughed. “He didn’t recognize you at first.”
Meg’s breath caught in her throat. Was it true? Did she really look so different that Hart didn’t recognize her? When she’d seen herself in the looking glass at Lucy’s house, all she’d seen was her same old self blinking back at her from inside a gown she didn’t belong in, wearing a pair of slippers that slightly squeezed her feet. She felt like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. But if Hart had noticed …
Could it be that Lucy was right? Did clothing and hair and rouge truly make a difference? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Sarah where Hart was when Lucy interjected, “Perfect. That is precisely what we need.”
“What?” Sarah asked, blinking at Lucy.
“Yes. What?” Meg echoed, once again worried Lucy would reveal to Sarah her plan to attract Hart.
A slow smile spread across Lucy’s face. “An exceedingly eligible gentleman to show interest in our Meg here, of course.” Lucy nodded to Sarah. “Hart is the perfect candidate. Please go ask him immediately to ask Meg to dance.”
“No!” Meg nearly shouted before clapping her gloved hand over her mouth. On second thought, perhaps that had been rude. The gloves were new, provided by Lucy, of course—and Meg pulled the glove away from her face, worried she’d stained it with rouge.
Lucy turned her head and gave Meg a private what-are-you-doing look, distracting her from her study of the glove. “Whyever not, dear?”
Meg’s cheeks heated. “It’s just that … I mean Hart would not … He’s not…” How could she possibly explain it to someone like Lucy Hunt? Meg wanted Hart, but not out of pity of all things. Asking Sarah to convince him to dance with her was the equivalent of yet another unwanted favor, and that would be both embarrassing and ghastly.
“I’m afraid Meg’s right,” Sarah replied. “Mother and Father are here and are keeping a close eye on Hart. Unfortunately, our lovely Meg is the very last lady they would approve of him dancing with.”
“They approve of your friendship, don’t they?” Lucy retorted.
Sarah laughed. “Hardly. They tolerate our friendship, but only because Meg insisted to our parents when they had their falling-out that she didn’t care what had transpired between them, she refused to lose her closest friend as a result.”
Lucy’s eyes widened, and regarded Meg with respect in their depths. “Well done of you, Miss Timmons. I’m impressed.”
Meg gave Lucy a tentative smile. Sarah’s parents had allowed Meg into their home, but she’d never been truly welcomed there.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Sarah said, squeezing Meg’s hand and smiling at her. “Our Meggie has a spine of steel.”
“I’ve recently learned as much,” Lucy said with a sigh.
This time Meg gave Lucy a what-
are-you-doing look. If Lucy forgot herself and revealed their plan to Sarah, Meg would never forgive the duchess. Sarah had told Meg often enough that Hart would break her heart.
Lucy flourished a hand in the air and addressed Sarah again. “Regardless of your parents’ silly concerns, Hart is one of the only remaining bachelors I know. Most of my friends have been properly married recently. Frankly, your loving husband, Berkeley, used to be the one I’d ask to do such things, but you’ve snapped him right off the marriage mart.” Lucy winked at Sarah. “Besides, it’s only a dance, for heaven’s sake. Surely your parents can abide one dance. We’ll wait right here while you speak to your brother.”
Meg closed her eyes, wanting the floor to open and swallow her. This was not how she’d envisioned this evening. In her mind’s eye, she’d pictured herself floating into the ballroom wearing this gorgeous gown, Hart seeing her and losing his breath, rushing to her side to ask her to dance posthaste, and falling in love with her that very evening. Of course, she’d known that wasn’t likely, but it was also a far cry from Sarah cajoling her brother into asking Meg to dance.
“Lucy, I simply don’t think Hart will agree,” Sarah began. “He’s on the hunt for a wife these days and is spending his time looking for one.” Sarah paused and gave Meg a sympathetic smile.
“Has he found anyone yet?” Lucy asked while Meg held her breath and said a brief prayer to the heavens that the answer would be no.
“No,” Sarah said.
Meg expelled her breath.
“He seems wholly uninterested in everyone here,” Sarah continued, shaking her head.
“Perfect,” Lucy replied. “Then perhaps a turn around the room with Meg will give him a new perspective.”
Meg wanted to elbow Lucy in the ribs, but she remained frozen in her spot, a calm smile (the exact opposite of how she felt) plastered on her face.
“What if I cannot get him to agree?” Sarah tossed Meg another sympathetic look. This time it included a telling wince.
The Right Kind of Rogue Page 4