Lucy crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her fingertips against the opposite elbows. “Oh come now, dear. You are a younger sister. I suspect you know the precise way to persuade your brother to do something you think he might otherwise decline.”
That appeared to stump Sarah. She knitted her dark brows together and tapped her slippered foot against the parquet floor. “He tends to do the opposite of what Father tells him to do.”
“Excellent,” Lucy exclaimed, while Meg fumbled in her reticule for her fan. It had become exceedingly hot in the ballroom, and she had no doubt this was going to end in tragedy like a sad Shakespearean play. Hamlet? Macbeth? Perhaps King Lear.
Meg was still contemplating tragedies when Lucy cleared her throat. “Go and tell your brother you overheard your father say how desperately he hopes to never see Hart dancing with Meg.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sarah was midway through her explanation of why Hart should ask Meg Timmons to dance when Hart made up his mind that he would do exactly that. There were several reasons for his decision. First, Sarah had never asked for his help before, and elevating the status of her friend in the marriage mart was not too great a favor to ask. He would do anything for his sister.
Second, his father would hate it, as Sarah had just finished pointing out. Riling his father might be the only entertainment Hart claimed at this mind-numbingly boring event.
Third, Hart was going to ask Miss Timmons to dance because he wanted to. Although she was exceedingly ineligible for him to marry, she was the only young lady who’d impressed him enough to ask for a dance.
Fourth, he was intrigued by the notion that Sarah apparently thought his reputation so great he could somehow turn an infamous wallflower into a sought-after dance partner.
Fifth, he couldn’t stop remembering the kiss they’d shared in the park. Had the passion he’d felt from the little miss been a figment of his imagination? What sort of dance partner would she be? Laughing and entertaining? Coy and flirtatious? Or quiet and shy, which had been his assumption about her all these years until that kiss.
He’d learned that night how much she truly cared for Sarah. She’d put herself in danger in more ways than one, and she’d done it because she was concerned about Sarah’s future. Clearly, Miss Timmons was good at heart. Was there more to his sister’s friend that he’d yet to learn? Hart decided to find out. It was time to stop avoiding Meg Timmons.
* * *
Meg soon discovered that a new gold ball gown, straightened hair, and some rouge, did, in fact, serve to elevate her from the status of wallflower. A discovery that was a bit disconcerting to her. Being lonely and ignored had always held a sad sort of comfort. She’d attempted to resume her usual position on the outskirts of the ball. Only this time she had company in the form of the dashing Duchess of Claringdon whose lovely, popular friends kept stopping by to greet her. One did not simply hide in the corner when one was accompanied by Lucy Hunt.
As a result, Meg had made the acquaintance of the Viscount and Viscountess of Cavendish, Lord Owen Monroe and his lovely wife, Alexandra, and Sir and Lady Cavendish, the viscount’s twin brother, Cade, and his wife, Danielle. These glittering, gorgeous people were nothing but kind to Meg, and after some time had passed, she took a perverse sort of pleasure in her newfound popularity.
Still, it was shocking when she’d wandered off into the corner to greet her friend Helen, another wallflower, and turned around to see none other than Hart standing before her. Her mouth went dry, and she might have made something akin to a squeaking noise. She wasn’t entirely certain.
Seeing him made her gasp and her gasp resulted in a hideously timed bout of hiccups. So it was when Hart Highgate, the man she’d dreamed about for years, finally asked her to dance at a ton ball, Meg grasped at the unfamiliar rubies at her neck and replied with a stilted, “Oh … I … Yes … Hic. I should like that very … hic … much.”
Hart wore black breeches, a startlingly white superfine shirtfront, and an expertly tied white cravat with an emerald-green waistcoat and black evening coat. He looked—as he always did—as if he’d stepped out of a fashionable men’s periodical. While she knew he was only standing in front of her because Sarah had somehow convinced him to ask her to dance, Meg reminded herself that when one’s dreams came to life, one shouldn’t question the means by which they were delivered. She did, however, glance behind her to ensure he was talking to her and not, say, the wall.
Once it was firmly established that he had indeed asked her to dance, Hart bowed to Meg and led her to the dance floor. That was the moment when she became overwhelmed by the irrational fear that she had completely forgotten how to dance. She hadn’t done it in years, after all, being a first-order wallflower. That atop the ridiculous hiccups and this was certain to end in disaster. Had Shakespeare ever included hiccups in his tragedies? Juliet with a bout of the hiccups, for instance, may well have made the whole tale slightly less awful.
“I apologize in advance,” Meg said, “if I—hic—step upon your feet—hic—fall, or—hic—trip you.”
She expected him to be horrified by her candor and by her hiccups but instead he … laughed. “Not one for dancing?” he asked, his voice smooth and deep. He smelled like a mixture of starch and some sort of spicy, clean cologne. The same scent his coat had held when she’d worn it in the park last year. She’d never forget it. She wanted to breathe him in forever.
“I quite enjoy—hic—dancing,” she clarified. “I’m just not entirely certain I—hic—recall how to properly do so given my—hic—immortal status as a—hic—wallflower.”
He smiled at that, and she could tell by the way the sides of his mouth curled up that he was trying to keep from laughing more at her hiccups. Oh, perfect. She was ridiculous to him. Perhaps this was more like Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors. Tripping him would decide it for certain.
“I believe it’s like riding a horse,” he said. “One never forgets. You see, you’re dancing quite well.”
She glanced down at her own feet, amazed that he was right. She was indeed dancing as if she knew precisely what she was about. “How do you like that? Hic.” She looked back up at him with wide eyes and smiled. “I am. Hic.”
“I don’t mean to be impolite,” he said, leaning down and whispering to her in a conspiratorial voice. The brush of his breath against her ear sent gooseflesh skittering down her neck. She immediately decided to fake being hard of hearing in order to get him to whisper everything he said into her ear. “But are you, by chance, suffering from a bout of the hiccups?”
Her face was no doubt bright pink when she replied, “Yes. Yes, in fact, I am.” Honesty was always the best policy, was it not? Besides, there was not much use in denying it. Hiccups were hardly hidable.
Another smothered laugh from him, during which he pressed his firm lips together. His green eyes twinkled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She sighed. “Yes, well, it only—hic—makes the ignominy of the fact that—hic—my first dance in years is with a gentleman whose sister—hic—had to convince him to ask me, all the more—hic—excruciatingly embarrassing. Hic. But I still hold out hope that I won’t also trip.”
Hart’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
“I only mean that the glamorous—hic—beautiful ladies you would normally ask to dance of your own—hic—volition would no doubt never do anything as common as—hic—be overcome with a bout of hiccups.”
This time he laughed and shook his head, watching her as if she were a marvel or some inexplicable being like a mermaid or a unicorn. “First,” he replied, “my sister may have suggested it, but in all my years she has never been able to convince me to do anything I did not choose to do, and second, you happen to be the most beautiful lady here tonight.”
“Pardon?” She blinked and glanced behind herself for the second time. This time she was certain he was talking about someone else. Surely, he couldn’t mean … her.
“It’s true,�
� he replied. “Why do you seem surprised?”
He had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if she were the only woman in the room. “You know I’m Meg Timmons, don’t you?”
His tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and he pressed them together, obviously to keep from laughing. “I know who you are, Meg.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “Were you—hic—quite serious? When you said I’m the most—hic—beautiful lady here, I mean? Hic.” She glanced around. “Did Lucy Hunt put you up to—” She snapped her mouth shut. Stupid, naive Meg. Of course he was saying flattering things. That’s what men did at balls while dancing with young ladies. They flirted and bestowed compliments and said things they did not mean. She simply had no experience with such flirtations. She was horribly green. She blushed. She must say something equally nonchalant and airy.
“I thank you, my lord, for taking pity—hic—on a flower of the wall variety such as myself. I daresay dancing is quite—hic—as much fun—hic—as I remember it.”
“Is it?” His lips twitched.
“I think so. I cannot be certain as in the past I mostly danced—hic—with my tutor. It is infinitely more diverting with a—hic—gentleman at a ball. My tutor was elderly and had trouble with his hip. He also—hic—tired easily and danced with a cane.” No doubt he was the least expensive tutor to be had.
“Your dancing tutor danced with a cane?” Hart pressed his lips together.
“I’m afraid so. He also seemed to be inebriated most of the time.” Meg sighed. Poor Mr. Barton. She wasn’t entirely certain her mother hadn’t paid him in brandy.
“Sounds a bit like my valet,” Hart replied. “But I’m glad to hear you prefer dancing with me. I’d hate to be less diverting than a drunken old tutor who uses a cane.”
“Oh no. I only meant … Hic.” Lovely, now she’d gone and insulted him. She really should speak less. It would help with the hiccuping problem, too.
“It’s all right. I understand.”
“No. No. I should have said that it’s infinitely more diverting to—hic—dance with a handsome gentleman, who—” Oh dear Lord. Had she just called him handsome? To his face? This was worse than tripping. Perhaps she could fake a trip to distract him.
“You think I’m handsome?” His grin was legendary.
She winced and scrunched up her nose. “Yes,” she squeaked. “Hic. Frankly, my lord, I didn’t think your handsomeness was ever in question.”
He gave her another knee-weakening smile. “Do you know what?”
Yes. You’re exceedingly handsome. “What?”
“I’ve heard there is a cure for hiccups.”
“Is that so? Hic.” Good. Talk about the hiccups. No more talk about the handsomeness.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear again. More gooseflesh skittered down her neck. “Yes, and if you’ll come outside with me, I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
There had been times in her life when Meg desperately wished for a bout of hiccups to subside. Tonight, however, she had never, ever been so grateful for a prolonged case of them. Hiccups were lovely. Hiccups were magnificent. Hiccups were glorious, given the fact that they had procured an offer for additional contact with Hart and an invitation to go outside with him. Alone. Huzzah for hiccups!
Meg briefly prayed that the hiccups would not cure themselves before she had a chance to take Hart up on his offer. Shamefully, she briefly considered whether she could believably fake a prolonged bout of hiccups if necessary. Fortunately, she did not have to make that awful choice. By the time Hart escorted her outside over the terrace, and out into the gardens to a secluded spot, she was still very much … hiccuping.
He positioned her in front of him, a tall hedge behind him, blocking them from view of the terrace and the house. She watched him, wide-eyed and exceedingly curious. The only remedy she’d ever heard for hiccups involved swallowing a spoonful of sugar upside down. She tried that nonsense before and it had not worked. She also highly doubted Hart was hiding a spoonful of sugar in his waistcoat.
“Ready?” he asked, glancing behind them as if to ensure no one would see what he was about to do.
“I suppose so … hic.” What exactly involved so much secrecy? Especially when it came to hiccups cures.
Hart grabbed her by her upper arms, pulled her close, and of all unexpected things … kissed her!
His warm fingers dug slightly into her skin but she didn’t mind. She was much more interested in the feel of his lips moving against hers and the pure shock. Was this a dream? Perhaps Hart had suffered a head injury and didn’t realize who he was snogging in the gardens. Sarah hadn’t mentioned a head injury but perhaps—
Meg pulled herself away from him and stepped back, prepared to ask after his poor head. She touched her fingers to her burning lips and simply stared at him.
“I beg your…” Wait. She didn’t beg his anything. Indeed he should be the one to beg any pardons. At the very least, she needed to be reassured he’d meant to do it, sans head injury.
“Are your hiccups gone?” he asked with a wide smile on his handsome face.
“Are my…?” She waited. No hic. She waited some more. Still no hic. She counted ten. Then twenty. Nary a hic. “Yes. I do believe they are gone,” she announced, dumbfounded.
“It worked, then?” He was still grinning and looked nothing if not proud of himself.
“What worked?”
“My remedy for hiccups.”
Meg closed her eyes and cupped her hand behind her ear. “Pardon? Are you … do you mean to say that your remedy for curing hiccups is … kissing?” No doubt about it. She was no longer in a Shakespearean tragedy. Definitely Comedy of Errors.
Hart laughed so loud he had to clap his hand over his mouth and glance around to ensure the sound hadn’t drawn an audience. “No,” he said, “not at all.”
She blinked at him. The man was making no sense. Perhaps a head injury had occurred after all. She considered asking him if he’d been listening when she stated her name as Meg Timmons.
“The remedy is surprise,” he explained.
More blinking. “Surprise?”
“Yes. I surprised you, didn’t I?”
No. The man had astonished her. “That is one word for it.”
His face fell. “Please tell me I didn’t offend you, Meg. Normally, I have a strict policy against escorting young women out to gardens. However, in our case … I thought … given the fact that somehow that it wasn’t the first time that we’ve…” He trailed off, evidently reacting to the look on her face, which Meg wanted to believe was nonchalant and practiced but was probably more a mixture between horrified and near-to-crying.
Why, oh why, couldn’t she be a sophisticate? Why couldn’t she pretend to shrug this off the way other ladies of Hart’s acquaintance might if he’d played a similar prank on them? But he had called her Meg in the most heartbreakingly vulnerable tone she’d ever heard from him, and that had been her undoing. Not to mention, her belly was still aflutter.
The kiss had been dream-worthy and, well, she simply wasn’t the type of young lady who could quickly recover from such things. She perceived that she had better do her best to laugh this off as quickly as possible so Hart stopped looking at her as if she were a wounded deer, if she ever had any hope of getting another kiss from him—pretend or otherwise.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips and plucking at the rubies at her throat. “I remember. It was in the park, wasn’t it?”
His mouth drew into a frown. “Yes, the night before Sarah’s wedding.”
“Of course. Of course. My, but that was a silly misunderstanding, wasn’t it?” Was that nonchalant enough?
He stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.
Oh for heaven’s sake. She was being beyond nonchalant now. She’d moved into downright insulting territory, calling his kiss silly. She must sound like a fool. It was official. She was rubbish at pretending to b
e sophisticated.
Hart’s voice was quiet. “I’m terribly sorry if I’ve offended you, Meg, either that night in the park or tonight.”
* * *
“No. No. No. Not at all,” Meg replied in a high-pitched trill, but it was too late. Hart felt like a complete and utter arse. Her hiccups were gone but he’d clearly upset her. She’d looked on the verge of tears a few moments ago. Of course she would. She was a gently reared English girl with little experience, not one of his jaded widow friends who took such things in stride.
Worse, he’d offended this poor young woman, not once, but twice, by kissing her of all unwelcome things. Twice! He was worse than a cad. He was a scoundrel. He wouldn’t blame her if she slapped him.
Wait. No. That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that while he’d used the excuse of surprising her out of hiccups, if he were honest with himself, he’d admit he’d really kissed her because he wanted to, which was selfish and awful of him.
But she looked like a goddess and was even more beautiful up close. She had a tiny smattering of freckles along the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks. She had the darkest black eyelashes that framed her extraordinary bright-green eyes shot with speckles of gold. She had a tiny scar just above her left eye and she smelled like strawberries. How in the hell had he never noticed her beauty all of these years when she’d been traipsing along with his sister? How had he never noticed the strawberries? He knew why … it was because she’d been traipsing along with his sister. She’d always been there, right under his nose.
Hart grabbed both of Meg’s gloved hands, held them, and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Meg. Truly. What can I do it make it up to you?”
The color leached from her face. “Oh, it was nothing, really. A joke. A lark. I understand completely. No need to make anything up to me. You did cure me of my hiccups. Thank you for that.”
The color was slowly returning to her face, a fetching shade of pink. She was such an innocent. So guileless and pure and completely undeserving of his profligate influence. Sarah would probably slap him if she got wind of this. But he didn’t have time to draw a request out of Meg. He had to get her back to the party quickly or there would be ugly gossip. He’d been rash bringing her out here to begin with, but he’d already known after their encounter in the park that he could trust her to remain silent.
The Right Kind of Rogue Page 5