The Right Kind of Rogue

by Valerie Bowman

  “Sir Winford, are you all right?” Meg searched his face. He was a dear man and she felt entirely responsible for this.

  “I believe so. I just need to … rest a bit.” The knight closed his eyes.

  “Of course. Of course.” Meg reached out and brushed the hair from Sir Winford’s eyes. His hat had flown from his head and was lying on its side several paces away. Meg scrambled over to fetch it.

  “Can we get you anything, Sir Winford?” Sarah asked.

  Lucy came running up behind them. “Sir Winford, Derek has your horse and has given him to one of the grooms. He’s bringing the coach around. We’ll take you to the nearest doctor.”

  Meg came back slowly, turning the knight’s hat over and over in her hands. She’d never forgive herself if Sir Winford was seriously injured.

  “Thank you kindly, Your Grace,” Sir Winford said, his eyes still closed. Ever the gentleman, even when his neck might be broken. Meg swallowed a cry. He looked so still and pale lying on the grass. She glanced at Hart, who was still bent over the knight.

  “Can you feel your arms and legs?” Hart asked Sir Winford.

  Sir Winford’s boots moved and his fingers did, too. “I believe so.” He winced as if he was in a great deal of pain.

  Meg knelt next to the knight and untied her scarf from Sir Winford’s sleeve. She pressed it to his forehead to stop the bleeding. “There, there.” Her gaze met Hart’s over Sir Winford’s prone body. Hart looked … guilty.

  Moments later Lucy’s coach pulled to a stop nearby and all of the men, including Hart, Derek, and the grooms lifted Sir Winford carefully and placed him inside the coach. Meg and Sarah were helped in after him. Derek climbed atop to sit with the coachman and the conveyance headed for the doctor’s house. As the coach rumbled over the heath, Meg fervently prayed for Sir Winford’s health.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hart hadn’t seen Meg since Thursday, the afternoon of the confounded race that he never should have suggested in the first place. Bloody awful idea. He’d known he was a far better horseman than Winford. Why did he always have to bloody well prove it? Why did he always feel the need to be so … competitive? The man’s interest in Meg hadn’t helped.

  Now the poor blighter was laid up with a broken leg and a head injury and Hart had gone and made Meg Timmons’s life worse. The one man she’d been expecting a declaration from, needed one from because she was leaving for the Continent soon, and Hart had gone and challenged the chap to a bloody race and the fool had hurt himself. Blast it.

  Hart was a complete menace to Meg Timmons. He should stay far, far away from her. Which is why he was here, at another blasted ball, trying not to stare at Lady Elizabeth Forester’s décolletage.

  He couldn’t remember a word Lady Elizabeth said, but Sarah had assured him she was eligible. This talking-to-women-at-ton-events-in-an-attempt-to-find-a-suitable-wife business was downright dull. No wonder he’d been avoiding it for years. He hadn’t had a bit of fun at any of the parties except … except the time he’d spent with Meg. In fact, the most fun he’d had since all this had begun was being locked in the silver closet with her.

  Thank Christ it had been Sarah who had found them. He intended to marry, but not at the wrong end of a scandal. He refused to consider the fact that for a few short moments before Sarah had opened the door to the silver closet, he’d actually been at peace with the notion of marrying Meg. His parents would hate it, of course, but he would be … well, it didn’t matter what he would be, did it? The fact was that he’d have done the gentlemanly thing by marrying her. He supposed Meg would have a much better life with the calm, pleasant Sir Winford as a husband. That’s what Sarah said she liked about Sir Winford. That he was pleasant. Not a word Hart would ever use to describe himself. Yes. It was all for the better that Sarah had been the one to open the silver closet door.

  But why was it that the most fun he’d had all Season had been with the most ineligible lady of all? Life was bloody complicated, that’s why. Their world worked in a certain way and the order of things like who should marry whom mustn’t be disrupted by inconsequential things like who was more fun than whom.

  Hadn’t he always wanted to have the one thing he shouldn’t have? Hadn’t he always wanted to do the one thing he shouldn’t do? That was his nature, and his nature was bloody wrong. He might be a rogue, but he would never do anything to dishonor Meg, despite his decent number of indecent thoughts about her lately. The fact remained that Meg should marry Sir Winford or someone of his ilk and Hart should marry Lady Eugenia or Lady Elizabeth or some other lady whose name probably began with an E.

  It was inevitable. In fact, he might as well go ask Lady Eugenia for her hand now. She’d seemed willing enough, his father approved of her, and one suitable young lady was as good as the next. Yes, that was it. He tossed back his drink. It was time to stop this nonsense of thinking about Meg. He would go inform Sarah.

  * * *

  Meg was standing with Lucy, unhappily contemplating Hart’s dance with Lady Elizabeth. She’d also been considering poor Sir Winford. According to the doctor they’d found near Hampstead Heath, he should remain abed for at least the next fortnight. Thereby ending any chance Meg had to secure an offer from him before she had to leave town. Perhaps they might continue their acquaintance via correspondence. Perhaps Sir Winford might offer for her via a letter to Spain. Hardly the romantic proposal she’d dreamed about as a girl.

  Oh, it was probably for the best. She didn’t love Sir Winford and never would. She’d realized that when she’d seen him lying on the grass, pale and unmoving. She’d been worried about him, but she didn’t love him, and Sir Winford deserved better than that. He deserved a wife who adored him. Meg should go off to Spain and make the best of her new life. Spain would be lovely and bright and affordable and uncomplicated. Perhaps the Spaniards didn’t care about things like outdated gowns and graying gloves.

  Sarah came hurrying up. She wore a gorgeous ruby-colored gown, her dark hair piled high atop her head, and she had a decidedly worried look on her face.

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Meg tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that had come over her the moment she’d seen Sarah’s expression.

  “You do look a bit pale, dear,” Lucy agreed, searching Sarah’s face.

  Sarah wrung her hands. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Quite bad.”

  “How bad?” Meg held her breath, bracing for news of her father suffering another attack or Sir Winford’s health having taken a turn for the worse.

  Sarah winced. “Hart just informed me that he intends to ask for Lady Eugenia’s hand.”

  “What?” Lucy’s eyes nearly bugged from her skull. “No!”

  “When?” Meg breathed, doing her best to keep her voice steady. She could accept this news. It was for the best, after all. But she couldn’t keep from feeling as if her chest were in a vise.

  “Soon,” Sarah replied.

  “How soon?” Lucy prompted, already pacing back and forth and tapping her cheek.

  “I don’t know. I assume he’ll want to speak to her father first,” Sarah replied.

  “You must discover exactly when he intends to do this,” Lucy said.

  “Very well, I’ll find him and see if I can get more details.” Sarah turned, lifted her skirts, and hurried off.

  “We can manage this,” Lucy said to Meg.

  Meg slid down onto a robin’s-egg blue silk upholstered chair that sat next to the wall. “No, Lucy, it’s over.”

  “No, no.” Lucy continued to pace. “It’s not over. It’s not over until he’s legally married to someone else.”

  Meg hung her head. “He’s going to ask her. She’ll say yes, and they’ll be legally married. It’s all right. I’ve already decided it’s for the best. I’m leaving for Spain soon and Hart should be married to someone of his station here in London.”

  Lucy stopped in front of Meg’s chair. She leaned down, looped her arm through Meg’s, and half
lifted her from her seat. They paced together, their arms still linked. “Listen to me. You cannot be discouraged. It’s not over until it’s well and truly over. However, I do admit that this calls for immediate action.”

  Meg blinked at her. “Immediate action?”

  “Yes. I simply cannot take another engagement and last-minute calling-off of a wedding. It nearly turned me gray when Christian and Sarah did it. Something tells me Sarah’s brother is even more stubborn than she is.”

  “No, Lucy, no. It’s over.” Meg gave Lucy a stern stare.

  “Hear me out, please.” Lucy’s eyes sparkled. “I have one final idea. If it doesn’t work, then, and only then, will I admit defeat.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Duchess of Claringdon’s dinner parties were famously odd. On any given night one might find oneself with an eccentric group of people around the long cherry dining table in one of the finest town houses in Mayfair. Tonight’s guest list was particularly odd, however, because it included … a child.

  Hart had been introduced to one Lady Delilah Montebank, the fourteen-year-old cousin of Lady Daphne Cavendish, one of the duchess’s closest friends. Lady Daphne and her husband, Rafe, the Viscount Spy, were seated at the table, along with Mr. and Mrs. Garrett Upton, Lady Cassandra and Lord Julian Swift, the duke and duchess, of course, and Meg, Sarah, Berkeley, and … Lady Delilah.

  Lucy had declared the young woman one of the most witty and outlandish souls she’d ever met and told everyone that despite the fact that the girl had yet to make her debut, she was entitled to eat, wasn’t she, and why couldn’t she partake with them and keep them all company? All the other guests seemed to be in complete agreement and so Hart found himself sitting two chairs down from the precocious girl, half listening to her chatter, and wondering if Meg hated him for putting Sir Winford out of commission on the eve of her departure to the Continent.

  Hart had intended to go to the Medfords’ ball tonight and ask Lady Eugenia for her hand. But Sarah had insisted—rather vehemently—that he had already promised to come to the duchess’s dinner party tonight. Hart hadn’t recalled accepting any such invitation, but Sarah had been so adamant that he doubted his recollection. Then he discovered that Meg would be at the duchess’s dinner party and that made up his mind. He hoped to have a moment alone with Meg sometime this evening. He wanted to ask if she’d been in contact with Sir Winford and if her father still intended for them to leave town soon. Surely if the man knew his daughter was about to receive an offer from an eligible gentleman, he would see the sense in delaying the family’s departure. However, Meg’s father had never been a particularly sensible man.

  At any rate, Hart had decided to delay his own marriage proposal for one more night to meet his previous obligation to attend the duchess’s dinner party. He was seated next to Meg, thankfully, and even more thankfully the duchess broached the subject he himself had been planning to.

  “Meg, dear.” Lucy waved her wineglass in the air as the footmen served the first course. “It’s such a shame Sir Winford couldn’t make it tonight. Have you had any word from him?”

  Hart tried to concentrate on his cucumber soup, but he couldn’t help but perk up at that question.

  “His leg is broken, poor man.” Meg took a dainty bite from her bowl.

  “No!” Cassandra Swift said.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” Meg replied. Was it his imagination or was she not looking at him? She was angry with him for ruining her chances with Winford, wasn’t she?

  “Pity,” he murmured.

  Sarah cleared her throat. “If you two hadn’t been racing like a couple of foolish lads—”

  “Don’t blame your brother,” Jane Upton interjected. “He wasn’t the one who came unseated. Nor did he cause Winford to fall. The man was entirely unfit for that horse.”

  Hart liked Mrs. Upton, liked her a great deal.

  “I can still think it’s a pity the man was injured, can’t I?” Hart directed this question at his sister.

  Sarah turned back toward Meg. “Did he say how long the doctor thinks he’ll be abed?”

  Meg took another dainty bite of soup. She swallowed and dabbed at her petal-pink lips with her napkin before replying. “At least a fortnight.”

  “More’s the pity,” Lucy said, taking another healthy swig of wine.

  The dinner progressed with polite banter including discussion about the obligatory topics like the weather and politics. Lady Delilah gave a discourse on the proper care and feeding of a pet bird. Apparently, once she’d discovered there were pirates in her family—she outrageously insisted Cade Cavendish and his French wife, Danielle, were pirates—she’d decided a parrot must join the lot.

  Hart could have sworn he heard Delilah telling Lucy she’d taught the bird naughty words and something about walking the plank. Hart shook his head. Lady Delilah was quite unique indeed. He couldn’t blame Lucy for inviting her to dine with them.

  Hart still wanted to speak with Meg alone. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for any part he had in injuring her beau. He didn’t happen to care for Sir Winford, but that didn’t mean Meg wasn’t free to marry the man.

  Just before Lucy declared the dinner at an end, she stood and made her way over to Meg. She leaned down and whispered in Meg’s ear. Hart couldn’t make out what she said, but Meg turned a shade paler and shook her head. Lucy said something more emphatic and Meg finally tossed down her napkin, stood, and excused herself. What was that about? Where was she going? He needed to speak with her.

  After Meg left the room, Lucy clapped her hands. “Don’t let’s be formal tonight, everyone. I hate to miss my husband’s company. Let’s all go into the drawing room together and share drinks and laughter there.”

  Everyone agreed. Delilah was sent upstairs and the entire party, minus Meg, adjourned to the drawing room.

  Hart was in a discussion with Berkeley and Sarah about how he needed to pay them a visit in Northumbria the next time they went to Berkeley’s estate when Lucy strolled up to them.

  “Highgate, may I speak with you for a moment?” the duchess asked, her voice slurred.

  “Of course.” They moved off to the side so they wouldn’t be overheard.

  Lucy had another glass of wine in her hand. “Won’t you be a dear and go fetch Miss Timmons? She’s in the gardens.”

  Hart furrowed his brow. “In the gardens? Alone? What’s she doing there?”

  Lucy waved a hand in the air. “She’s troubled.”

  Hart narrowed his eyes on the duchess. He had two thoughts. First, Lucy was a bit into her cups this evening. Second, regardless of why Meg might be in the gardens, he wanted to speak with her.

  “Very well. I’ll go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Meg had been standing between two ten-foot hedges in the duchess’s garden for the last ten minutes. She was doing absolutely nothing but worrying. When Lucy had declared her “one final idea” yesterday, Meg had wanted to argue with her, to insist that Lucy stop. Instead, Meg had heard herself ask, “What do you have in mind?” She’d told herself she shouldn’t care, shouldn’t continue this madness, but another part of her still held out the faintest hope. She should go to Spain and leave Hart alone. She was an awful, awful person.

  Which was only proven by the fact that she’d allowed Lucy to stage this dinner party and had listened to the duchess when she’d insisted Meg leave the dining table and go out to the gardens. A pit had formed in Meg’s stomach. Surely, Lucy didn’t intend to do something as outlandish as the last time and lock her and Hart in a room together to be found in a compromising position. She’d refused Lucy at first, but the duchess said, “How in the world can I lock you in a garden? That makes no sense.”

  That logic had ultimately been the reason Meg relented, but each moment that ticked by had her more and more nervous. She suspected Lucy intended to send Hart out here to speak to her. Lucy wanted Meg to tell him she loved him. The duchess had said as much this morni
ng when they’d been discussing tonight’s party.

  “Now is no time for timidity, Meg,” Lucy had insisted. “The man is about to propose to another woman. If he has any feelings for you whatsoever, and I strongly suspect that he does, you have an obligation to tell him.”

  “But what if he refuses me, Lucy? What if he chooses Lady Eugenia’s title and dowry over me?”

  “Courage, my dear, courage. There is no way to know whom he will choose until you tell him the truth. And then you must face the future with courage.”

  Sarah had been there, a sad little look on her face. She knew what it would cost Meg to tell Hart the truth.

  “What do you think, Sarah?” Meg had asked. “Do you think I should do it? Do you think I should tell Hart how I feel?”

  “I know it will be difficult, Meggie,” Sarah responded. “But at this point, I believe Lucy is right. It’s the only chance you have. If he doesn’t choose you, at least you’ll know you did everything you could. You’ll live the rest of your life knowing that.”

  Meg nodded. She’d thought about it all day and finally determined that her friends were right. She must tell Hart how she felt. He deserved to know how desperately she loved him before he betrothed himself to another woman. If he chose to do so regardless, at least she’d know she’d given love her best attempt.

  This afternoon, the idea had sounded both brave and correct, but now, standing in the gardens, clutching at her own arms, anxiety filled every pore. Her courage appeared to have fled, because all she could think about was the pit in her stomach and the thought that roiled through her mind over and over: What if he doesn’t choose me?

  It didn’t take long before she heard the steady crunch of boot steps over the gravel pathway coming toward her. “Meg?” came Hart’s deep voice just before he rounded the hedge and found her standing there.

  “Hart,” she said inanely. There were a few twinkling candles spread throughout the path, but otherwise only the moon illuminated the gravel, the shiny dark-green leaves of the hedges, and Hart’s ever-so-handsome face. He wore dark superfine trousers and a dark blue coat. His cravat was a startling white against the shadowy darkness, highlighting his perfect white teeth when he smiled.