And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (30 page)

For she couldn’t help herself.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Harry—”

“Yes, Roxley?” She tried to appear as nonchalant as possible.

“You cannot come out with me,” he said, pointing the way back to the well-lit patio.

“Whyever not?” she asked, as if she hadn’t the slightest notion what he was saying.

And he didn’t look like he wanted to discuss the subject either. But he did anyway. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper?” She laughed as if he were making a joke. “Oh, bother propriety. How long have we known each other?”

“Forever,” he grumbled.

“And have we ever indulged ourselves in anything scandalous?” She strolled toward him and then circled him like a cat.

“No,” he ground out as he looked at her, at her bare shoulder, and then just as quickly looked away.

Not yet
, she would like to have said, but instead she continued her charade. “So whatever is wrong with you escorting me into the garden for a bit of air, especially since you’ve promised my brothers to keep an eye on me—which you have, haven’t you?”

“Well, yes—”

“Do you think they would prefer I go for a walk in the gardens with Lord Fieldgate?”
More to the point, Roxley
, she wanted to say,
do you want me out there with that bounder?

“Bother you to hell, Harry. No, they wouldn’t like it.”

Neither would she. “So?”

His jaw worked back and forth, and truly he did look like Lancelot caught between his loyalty to his liege and something less honorable.

Harriet hoped the less honorable part would win.

And to her delight it did. For the most part.

Roxley muttered something under his breath, and then caught her by the elbow and tugged her down the path. “Come along with you. Just don’t do that thing with your lashes again.” He frowned at her. “You are done up like a courtesan. If your mother could see you—”

“She’s in Kempton.”

“As should you be,” Roxley said, more as a threat. “I blame my aunt. She should never have brought you to London.” He glanced at her again. “It’s changed you.” Then he added, “And not for the better.”

“I see nothing scandalous about taking a walk in the gardens. I did this earlier with Lord Kipps and there was nothing so very wrong there. Why, your aunt encouraged it.”

“She did?” he said, sounding none-too-pleased.

They rounded the first corner and there was a couple—a water nymph and her Neptune—entwined beneath an arbor, kissing passionately, that is, between murmured endearments and confessions.

“My dearest, my darling—”

“Oh, however did you know it was me?”

“How could I not?”

“You see,” Roxley said once they were well past the other couple. “You are far better off out here with me than with Fieldgate.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She let every word fall with abject disappointment.

This brought the earl to a halt. “You suppose? Do you know what the rogue would do out here? Alone with you?”

Harriet shrugged. Truly, he had to ask? She had five brothers. She knew exactly what Fieldgate would do given the opportunity. But still, she did like to provoke Roxley. “I suppose he would have tried to kiss me—”

“Most decidedly,” Roxley said with a disapproving
tsk
,
tsk
and a shake of his head, as if that made him the hero.

“You truly think so?”

He huffed a sigh. “Of course he would. You wouldn’t have made it past the patio before he’d have tried.”

“Oh, that is excellent news,” she said, and turned on one heel and went marching back toward the ballroom.

Roxley caught up with her about where the couple was still locked in one another’s embrace. Discreetly, well as much as one could, he tugged her back down the path. “Where were you going?” he whispered as he dragged her away.

“I think that was obvious. To find the viscount.”

“Fielding?” Roxley couldn’t have sounded more shocked.

“Yes. Is there another lascivious viscount I’ve missed?”

Roxley’s jaw set as he caught hold of her once again and marched her farther down the path, through the long column of plane trees that lined the way.

Harriet could only hope this was the path to ruin, much as the other young lady had found.

“Why would you want that clod to kiss you?” he asked.

“Because I’ve never been kissed—and that lady—” she said with a nod over her shoulder, “who I believe is Miss Nashe—”

Now the earl’s head swiveled. “I highly doubt that’s—”

But then he must have realized that just as Harriet’s costume was so very memorable, so was the one Miss Nashe was wearing—of course, minus the feathered hem that had caused her so much trouble earlier in the week.

“Told you,” Harriet said triumphantly once they were well out of earshot. “That is Miss Nashe and Lord Kipps.”

She held back an indignant
harrumph
. Lord Kipps had walked her down this very path and hadn’t tried to kiss her.

Then again, Harriet wasn’t an infamous heiress like Miss Nashe. Just plain old Harriet Hathaway. A spinster from Kempton.

Remembering Roxley’s touch at her shoulder, now she finally understood what it meant to be cursed.

Roxley was still glancing back over his shoulder. “Then I suppose we can expect an announcement at midnight. Lucky Kipps. He’s gone and borrowed my family motto.”

“
Ad usque fidelis
?” Harriet said, thinking that “unto fidelity” was hardly the translation for what was transpiring in the arbor.

“No, minx, our other motto. The one we Marshoms find more apropos.”

“Which is?”

“Marry well and cheat often,” he teased.

This took Harriet aback. “The Marshoms advocate cheating on their spouses?”

“No,” he laughed. “Unfortunately, we tend to love thoroughly and for life. We’re an overly romantic lot—we just make sure to fall in love with a bride with a fat purse. And when that runs out, then there is nothing left but living by one’s wits. My parents are a perfect example.”

“You mean your parents lived by cheating at cards?”

“Of course. If only to stay ahead of their debts.”

“Then it’s a terrible shame,” Harriet said, looking back at Miss Nashe and realizing how convenient it was that she’d found her countess’s coronet with that earl and not Harriet’s.

“What is?” her earl asked.

“Kipps catching Miss Nashe’s eye before you could cast your spell on her and her fat purse.”

Roxley shrugged. They had come to a stop by one of the plane trees that lined the path. “Actually, I’m quite distraught about her choice.”

“You wanted to marry her?” Harriet reached out and steadied herself against the white trunk of the tree.

He laughed. “No, minx. I had no designs on the lady. But I did wager she’d corner Lord Henry.”

“You should stick to cheating at cards.” She put her back to the trunk, leaning against it and letting the solid strength of the tree support her.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Roxley said as he dug the toe of his boot into the sod.

Harriet glanced up. “Which was?”

He looked up at her. “Why the devil do you want to kiss Fieldgate?”

“I’ve never been kissed.” Harriet looked back once again toward the house, toward that bower, and this time with real envy. Not for the heiress’s hefty dowry or her choice of titled lover, but for the simple fact that the Earl of Kipps had wanted her.

Roxley groaned. “Really, Harry! Never been kissed? That’s your reason.” He threw up his hands and began to pace around the tree. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Well, if you were to kiss me—”

“Which I won’t,” he shot back.

“If you insist.” Harriet did her best to appear non-plussed, as if his quick retort was the least of her concerns.

“I do,” he continued to insist.

Truly, did he have to sound so adamant? “But if you did—”

He paused. “Harry, you can stop right there. Kiss you! Now you are being ridiculous. If I were to ruin you, your brothers would shoot me.”

“If they were in a good humor,” she conceded. Actually, all five of them would most likely insist on taking a shot.

Unfortunately, Roxley knew this as well, for he echoed her thoughts exactly. “And since I don’t favor an untimely death by firing squad, I fear for tonight your desire to be kissed is going to have to remain on the shelf.”

Like her life. Like her chances of ever being loved.

Passionately.
Her gaze slid back in the direction of the arbor.

Oh, it all seemed so patently unfair. And yet, a few months ago, she would never have considered such things possible. She had lived her entire life content in the knowledge that as a spinster of Kempton she would never marry, never be kissed, never . . .

But now, having come to London with Tabitha and Daphne, and seeing her two dearest friends find happiness in such unexpected ways.

Not just happiness but
love
.

Oh, it had been like seeing one of her favorite
Miss Darby
novels unfold before her very eyes.

And here she was, with the only man she’d ever wanted to kiss, in this garden, under this moon, and why shouldn’t she want to be kissed?

Just once.

“No one would have to know,” she whispered. “No one would ever find out.”

“Someone always does, minx,” Roxley told her. He’d circled around the tree and stood much as she did, leaning against the great trunk but on the opposite side, so that the wide breadth separated them.

How she longed to cut it down, to make it so that nothing could keep them apart.

“There are no secrets in the
ton
,” he added.

Well, she didn’t care if the entire population of England, Ireland and Scotland knew. It wasn’t like she was an heiress with prospects, or anyone else was going to come along and claim her.

“Roxley?”

“Yes, Harry?”

She pressed her lips together every time he called her that. Did he have to use that horrid name? But taking a deep breath, she dove in. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“Not much,” he said. “If you haven’t noticed, it is rather dark out here.”

She rolled around the tree until she was right beside him. “Oh, do stop being
him
. I deplore him.”

“Him? Who?”

“You know very well who I mean.”

“Harry—”

“Roxley!” Harriet was losing patience with him. If he pushed her much further, she would go find Fieldgate. “Stop being the fool all London takes you for.”

“But he’s quite a handy fellow that fool.”

“He’s an annoying jinglebrains.”

“That’s the point, minx.”

“I know who you are.”

“Do you?” He’d turned a bit and whispered the question into her ear.

Her breath caught in her throat, so that she was only able to answer with one word. “Yes.”

Oh, yes, she knew who he was. The only man who had ever made her heart beat like this.

And then he moved closer, brushing against the hem of her gown, and Harriet clung to the tree to steady herself. “No one would believe you, minx.”

Minx
. Not Harry, but minx. His minx.

Harriet looked up at the bit of the night sky peeking through the thick canopy of leaves above and spied a single star. A lone, twinkling light. And so she wished.

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

It was an invitation, one she knew he desired. She’d seen his struggle for months now—this game he played, this role he lived. This capering fool. Society’s ridiculous gadfly.

But that wasn’t the man she knew.

No, the one she loved, adored, desired was the one with his gaze fixed on hers, his jaw set as if he were determined to do the right thing.

Oh, he’d chosen the right costume for the night. Lancelot. A man conflicted by duty and passion.

And he told her as much, his words almost desperate. ”Why did you have to grow up, Harry? Why couldn’t you have stayed in Kempton—stayed my impossible imp?”

“I still am.”

“Oh, you are, but in entirely new and utterly impossible ways.”

“Why is it impossible, Roxley?”
It
certainly wouldn’t be if you would but kiss me.

“I promised your brothers I’d keep an eye on you.”

Harriet moved closer, caught hold of his lapels and did the impossible, even as she whispered, “Then close your eyes.”

Watch for the rest of

Harriet and Roxley’s story in

IF WISHES WERE EARLS

Coming Winter 2013