The Right Kind of Rogue

by Valerie Bowman

  As the archbishop intoned the words that would forever bind Meg to Hart, she fought tears. Not happy tears. It was entirely different from how she’d envisioned this moment in her dreams. This should have been a joyful time, a fantasy-come-true. Instead, as she’d walked the length of the drawing room to meet Hart in the front next to the archbishop, she felt as if she walked the gauntlet. She considered running away, hiding even, but those would be cowardly acts. She had to summon the courage to face this.

  It was her fault. She’d been the one to ask for Lucy’s help. She’d been the one to go out into the gardens and wait for Lucy to send Hart. Whether she’d known how it would happen or not, she was still the guilty party and she must face the consequences. She’d fretted over the possibility that Hart might run away or hide. Or might not arrive. In the end, however, she’d known Hart would never be so unchivalrous as to hide from this. He wouldn’t run, and she owed it to him not to embarrass him or his family any further by running herself. It would shame him if she refused to appear at the wedding.

  Hart didn’t look at her. It was the first time they’d seen each other since that awful moment in Lucy’s garden. Meg had hoped he’d pay a call, come and talk to her, give her a chance to explain, give her a chance to offer him a way out. She’d tell him she would be all right. Her parents had planned to take her to the Continent regardless. She could weather the scandal much better from there. Of course there would be visitors from England and the gossip would eventually spread. She wasn’t naive enough to believe she could save her reputation, but she would be more than willing to live a life of shame if it meant saving Hart from a marriage he didn’t want. She loved him desperately, but she didn’t want a husband who had married her out of obligation.

  Hart never paid her a call. The note she’d sent him through Sarah, in which she’d asked him to come so they could decide how best to handle this debacle, had gone unanswered until early this morning when Sarah brought her a note with one scrawled line. Meg had been unable to breathe as she’d opened it and her heart had dropped into her slippers. “The wedding is set for nine o’clock.” Not a word to indicate his emotions, but Meg knew. He was furious.

  Sarah and Cassandra had attended Meg this morning. Jane had recused herself by saying she had nothing nice to say and didn’t intend to aggravate the situation by being surly, a sentiment that Meg appreciated.

  Lucy had been banished by both Meg and Sarah. The duchess showed no remorse for her actions and had merely offered her husband’s experienced help in procuring a quick wedding license.

  So it was that Sarah and Cassandra saw Meg outfitted in a pale peach gown, her hair arranged with white rosebuds. The entire time, Meg and Sarah had been on the verge of tears. Poor, dear, sweet Cassandra had looked as if she might cry, too, while trying to say encouraging things like “Won’t it be lovely for the two of you to be sisters-in-law at long last?”

  Sarah did her best to muster a smile. Meg couldn’t summon any enthusiasm. Her stomach remained a mass of knots as she imagined facing Hart. What could she possibly say to him? What could she possibly do? She entertained a brief fantasy that involved grabbing his hand and running away with him. They could both run, couldn’t they? She could save him and then leave and cause him no further trouble. But the moment she’d seen his stoic face and his ramrod-straight back as he stood in the drawing room, her courage fled and the rest of the wedding was a blur of recited words and worry.

  When it was over and the vows were said and sealed, her husband turned on his heel and walked out of the drawing room without so much as looking at her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  If drinking too much champagne before noon was incorrect, Meg didn’t want to be correct. The wedding breakfast was held immediately after the ceremony and Meg couldn’t manage to choke down so much as a bite. Hart, who sat like a statue at her side, had no such compunction. He ate and drank as if he hadn’t a care in the world and talked to the Duke of Claringdon and Lord Berkeley as if he weren’t steadfastly ignoring his wife. Wife. The word made her gulp, made her belly tie into stricter knots. How in the span of three short days had the concept of being Lady Highgate gone from a fantasy to a nightmare?

  Sarah sat on Meg’s left and squeezed her hand reassuringly from time to time, but the two friends didn’t speak. Meg downed glass after glass of champagne, nervously contemplating something she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell upon until this moment: her wedding night. Regardless of how a wedding happened, joyful or solemn, wanted or unwanted, angry or pleasant, a wedding night was inevitable. It had to happen. If it didn’t, their marriage wouldn’t be consummated and that would render it unlawful. The thought of how it would happen was what kept her tipping back champagne glasses.

  Hart wouldn’t look at her. He wouldn’t speak to her. His vows had been recited in a monotone voice while staring straight ahead. She couldn’t think about a cold, unfeeling act in Hart’s bed. Would it be painful? Surely Hart wouldn’t punish her with his body. The only thing that made her feel more calm was the bubbly champagne. Champagne didn’t judge her or ask her questions. Lovely, lovely champagne. When she reached for her fourth glass, Sarah’s hand shot to her wrist to stop her.

  “You may want to slow down,” Sarah whispered.

  “I’m frightened out of my wits,” Meg whispered back, through a fake smile meant entirely for the archbishop, who eyed her over a heaping plate of salmon and eggs.

  “I know, but Hart will have to speak with you eventually.”

  “He’ll have to do more than speak with me eventually.” Meg’s voice shook.

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” Sarah whispered.

  Meg managed a wooden nod. “I can hardly think of anything else.”

  “Come with me.” Sarah pushed back her chair and grabbed Meg’s hand. They both stood. “Excuse us for a moment, won’t you?” Sarah announced to the table at large. The men stood as the ladies left the room, and even though he stood, too, Hart didn’t make eye contact with Meg.

  Sarah pulled Meg from the dining room, through the corridor, past the foyer, and into the front drawing room. She closed the door behind them and turned to face Meg.

  “I hate to ask this, but I feel I must.” Sarah smoothed her hands down her skirts. “How much has your mother told you … about your wedding night?”

  Meg rubbed her hands up and down her freezing arms. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Sarah sighed. She pressed two fingers against her closed eyes. “That’s what I was afraid you would say.”

  Meg made her way over the fireplace to warm herself. “It’s going to hurt terribly, isn’t it?”

  “No.” Sarah cleared her throat. “I mean, not necessarily.”

  Meg turned to face her. “That’s hardly comforting.”

  “Forgive me. This is my brother we’re speaking of. It’s not a comfortable subject for me. If I don’t mistake my guess, Hart’s had, ahem, a great deal of experience, and I would venture to say he knows exactly what he’s doing in bed.”

  “That’s not comforting, either,” Meg said, her stomach performing a somersault this time.

  “Yes, it is.” Sarah smiled. “An inexperienced husband can be a nightmare. Trust me. I’ve heard as much from other married friends.”

  Meg’s eyes widened. “Surely not Lucy, Cassandra, and Jane?”

  Sarah snorted. “No. Not them. None of them. We’re the fortunate ones.”

  Meg continued to rub her arms. “I’m sorry if I cannot summon the enthusiasm to be happy about this.”

  Sarah floated over to her and patted her shoulder. “I know, and I apologize if I’m not making it better. Just know that whatever happens, I’ve no doubt Hart will be gentle with you. I’m certain he’ll make it pleasant for you. Do you want me to tell you the details so you’ll be prepared?”

  Meg swallowed hard. Did she want Sarah to tell her the details? “I’m not certain. If I know the details will I be apt to drink more or less?”


  Sarah wrinkled her nose. “You have a point. Perhaps I should leave it to your imagination. I know if someone had told me the details before my first time I wouldn’t have believed them.”

  Meg gasped. She pressed a palm to her cheek. “It’s that outlandish?”

  Sarah shrugged. “Rather.”

  Meg glanced about. “Oh heavens, where is my champagne glass?”

  “It can be excessively pleasant, too,” Sarah hastened to add.

  “Can be?”

  “When you’re with the right partner. I, myself, look forward to it and I know Lucy, Cass, and Jane do, too.”

  Meg wrinkled her brow. “Are you certain about that?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because my mother hasn’t mentioned much to me but from the few things she has said, I got the distinct impression it is something she has in no way ever looked forward to.”

  Sarah twisted her hands together. “Oh dear, that’s unfortunate. It depends entirely upon your partner, I’m afraid.”

  Meg sighed and stared into the fireplace. “He hasn’t looked at me. He won’t talk to me.”

  “Which causes me concern. I think you need to speak with him, privately, before … you know. Try to explain what happened.”

  Meg rubbed her arms more quickly. “How can I explain it when I don’t even know myself?”

  “You must explain to him how you intended to tell him you loved him that night.”

  Meg rubbed the back of her hand against her forehead. “Oh yes. It’s not possible that that won’t sound entirely made up at this point. He’ll never believe me.”

  Sarah placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You have to tell him, Meg.”

  Meg blinked back tears. “No. I don’t. I can’t. I never will.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  It was his wedding night, but Hart took his time undressing. He dismissed his surprisingly sober valet so the man wouldn’t have anything to gossip about and proceeded to remove every last shred of his clothing as slowly as possible. It was petty of him, but he wanted to make Meg wait.

  She was worried. She was nervous. Good. She should be. He hadn’t decided how this evening would go, but as each article of clothing came off he was more and more certain.

  His father had gifted him a magnificent town house. One his father never used. One meant for Hart since birth, to live in with his wife. Raise a family. Hart had had his things brought from his apartments in St. James and put into the master suite. That’s where they were now.

  He and Meg had spent as long as they could at his parents’ house today. The wedding this morning, then the insufferably long breakfast celebration, in which his new wife had become decidedly drunk. Then a long afternoon of talking in the study with his father and Berkeley while the ladies took naps. Finally, they’d had a late dinner, one during which his wife seemed particularly sober and nervous, and then they’d been carted off to Belgravia to spend their first night together in their new home.

  Father had been ruthless this afternoon after the Timmonses had left. “Not only did you manage to get yourself forced into marriage, you couldn’t have possibly picked a less deserving bit of baggage. Didn’t I warn you about this? Hell, didn’t you already have one such experience with that Cardiff chit? Yet somehow you managed to fall into the same trap with the last girl on earth I’d pick for you. She is a money-seeking whore.”

  Some of what his father said had been true, of course, but he refused to listen to the old man call Meg a whore. Hart slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk his father sat behind. “She’s my wife now, Father, and I won’t allow you to call her names.”

  Why he’d defended her, Hart didn’t know. Perhaps it was because he enjoyed taking the opposite stance of his father. Partially it was because he’d been the one to traipse out to the gardens. He’d walked directly into the scandal that brought him down. That was his fault.

  “So she is your wife,” Father had replied. “I hope you’re happy with her. Especially since she didn’t bring a bloody red cent with her in marriage. Your mother said she doesn’t even have a trousseau.”

  “There was no time for a trousseau,” Hart ground out.

  “Yes, because you couldn’t bloody well keep your hands off that rubbish.”

  “Call her a name one more time and I’ll call you out,” Hart ground out, bracing both fists on the desktop and glaring straight into his father’s eyes.

  While the two men argued, Berkeley had merely raised his brows and taken a stiff drink of brandy—and if Berkeley was drinking, you knew it was serious.

  Father leaned back in his chair and contemplated Hart over his steepled fingers. “I knew all along that Annabelle Cardiff wanted nothing more than your title and your money. I tried to tell you that. But did you listen? No.”

  “Are you serious? You pressured me to marry her.”

  His father ignored that. “I even tried to warn you about this Timmons chit recently when you brought her up, and you still didn’t listen. What’s wrong with you?”

  Hart paced away from his father’s desk. “I don’t know. I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  His father half rose from his seat. “You dare to compare yourself to me? At least I didn’t marry a penniless nobody who brought shame upon my household.”

  Hart lunged toward his father. Berkeley intercepted him, backing him away until he’d calmed down enough to pace in front of the fireplace.

  “Why would you defend her?” His father leaned back in his chair, his face still red with wrath.

  “She’s my wife,” Hart said through clenched teeth.

  “Don’t remind me.” Father nearly spit the words.

  Hart growled but finally took a seat.

  Berkeley made his way to the sideboard and poured more brandy into his glass. “Come, gentlemen, there is a bright side to this.”

  “What’s the bright side?” Father glared at Berkeley.

  “Your son is finally married. An heir is certain to follow,” Berkeley replied.

  Those words haunted Hart now. An heir? An heir is certain to follow? He wasn’t less certain of anything at the moment. The last three days had been a blur. A blur of anger, confusion, and betrayal. Every dark emotion had roiled around in his brain while the words Delilah Montebank had called out were seared in his mind forever. “Your Grace. I found them. And it’s a scandal just like you said it would be.”

  The events from the days prior to that moment had kaleidoscoped in Hart’s mind. The dinner at Lucy’s house, her asking him to fetch Meg from the silver closet. The dancing, even Sir Winford. It had been an elaborate ruse. A ruse that his own sister had been part of. Sarah had been the one to insist he go to dinner at Lucy’s house so Lucy and Meg could spring their trap.

  He’d never forget the moment he saw Lucy whispering to Meg in the dining room just before she got up and left. Left to go out in the gardens. Left to hide in wait for him. He’d walked straight into it, fool that he was. He’d trusted Meg, but she and Lucy and Sarah were nothing more than wretched schemers.

  Meg had been clear about wanting to find a husband. She’d been nothing but honest about the fact that she needed a proposal to keep her father from taking her off to the Continent. After Sir Winford failed to come up to scratch, she’d sprung her trap on Hart.

  Damn it, how had he made it all these years, escaped the scheming clutches of Annabelle and become more world-wise, only to be trapped into marriage by his sister’s meek little friend? He pulled his shirt over his head. That was why, wasn’t it? Meg didn’t seem scheming, didn’t seem evil. She seemed sweet, and pretty, and kind, and gentle. With Annabelle, he’d always been on edge. Something about her told him she wanted him enough to stop at nothing to get him. With Meg, he’d let down his guard. He’d trusted her. Idiot that he was.

  He ripped off his breeches. Completely nude, he stomped over to his wardrobe and yanked his navy-blue velvet dressing gown from a peg inside the door. He shrugged
it on and belted it tightly around the middle. Then he made his way to the door that separated his bedchamber from his wife’s.

  He knocked only once, one harsh rap before twisting the handle and pushing open the door. The room was dark save for a brace of candles burning on the mantelpiece and the fire in the hearth. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he scanned the room. Meg sat on the bed, wearing a gossamer white dressing gown. Despite himself he sucked in his breath. Blast it. Why did she have to be so bloody beautiful, his treacherous wife?

  “Meg?” His voice sounded thunderous in the tomblike quiet of the bedchamber.

  She was shaking and her eyes were wide. He fought against a surge of tenderness as he slowly made his way over to the bed and looked down at her. She hadn’t been crying. No. Her eyes were quite dry. She’d got her way, after all. Why would she cry? The shaking and wide eyes were probably an act. He would call her bluff.

  He traced his finger along the décolletage of her gown and tilted his head to the side. She shivered but didn’t pull away. Gooseflesh popped along her skin where he’d touched. He moved his hand up to her cheek and cupped it. He owned her now. He could do whatever he wanted with her.

  “So beautiful,” he said.

  She blinked at him.

  “But such a liar.”

  She flinched and pulled her cheek from his hand.

  “No maidenly tears to accompany your act?”

  “What act?” Her voice shook.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t orchestrate that entire charade in the garden along with Lucy Hunt. Sarah admitted it.”

  “I—”

  “What? You didn’t go out there hoping I’d follow you? Is that what you’re going to tell me?”

  She hung her head.

  “Lucy didn’t send me out there knowing what would happen?” he continued.