The Rogue and I (2 page)

After all, what else could you call a man who willingly put his head into the noose? Idiot was actually kind, considering some of the epithets Garret had in his vocabulary.

“Good God,” James huffed with the same affectation of a mother knowing her daughter was running full tilt at ruin, “you’d think, given his own bastardy, he’d be a bit more careful about siring more into this world.”

Garret snorted. “Please, that man will roger anything that stands still. I fear for the sheep in the area.”

Turning back to the youngest Hart, Garret took him firmly by the shoulders. Instilling all the elder brotherly importance he could bestow, he looked solidly into Edward’s eyes. “Now, listen to me carefully, Edward, and I will use very small sentences. It is too late for you. You have committed yourself to the dungeon of matrimony. But—I—hate—weddings.”

Garret poked slowly like one explaining the alphabet to a very small child. “You know I hate all the poncing about. The dancing, the white flowers, the preposterous frolicking. . . The end of a man’s freedom. . .”

Edward merely shook his dark brown head. “Nothing you can say will diminish my pleasure. I don’t know how I could be so lucky. Emmaline is a perfect angel.”

Garret choked and hacked. “Pardon, I do believe that was your nauseating romanticism in my throat. I do hope you’ll wax poetic five children in and one harpy of a wife later.”

Edward’s faced transformed into a mask of great woundedness. In fact, the boy had a remarkable resemblance to an offended basset hound, what with his great, brown eyes. “Emmaline could never be a harpy.”

“They all turn into harpies,” Garret said firmly, letting Edward’s shoulder go. He was failing. He wasn’t convincing anyone that he should be a thousand leagues away.

“How do you know?” James asked with irritating cheerfulness. “You’ve never been married.”

He’d almost been. And he’d avoided a lifetime of hell in the narrowest of escapes.

“And what?” Garret turned on his older, relentlessly, rigid brother. “You’re a happily married member of the conjugal club? You’re near thirty-five and do we see any heirs about?” Garret glanced around pointedly. “No. That would be an extremely large no.”

James just shrugged, an extremely irritating smile baring his perfect teeth. “That doesn’t mean that I have given up hope of finding the lady who will make my life supremely pleasant.”

Garret stopped and turned from one brother to the next. “I am surrounded by Philistines.”

Edward tsked. “Please, you’re only acting like an old lady with her shift in a twist because you’re going to see—"

“Shhh!” Garret arched a brow, a brow known to stop even the boldest French frog in his tracks, daring Edward to go further. “We do not mention that shrew’s name. She is Medusa in the flesh.” Garret drew in a fortifying breath, ready to rant about the woman. “It is indeed a miracle we are not all turned to stone.”

James frowned. “I should hardly go that far. She’s really quite attractive—”

“No,” Garret shook his head sharply. “That is merely an illusion to hide the soul sucking, male destroyer that she is. I swear, she is the goddess Kali. At the first opportunity, she will drink your blood. Smoke shall curl from her nostrils. The heavens will tremble.”

Arching his far less enthusiastic brow, Edward drawled, “My, aren’t we dramatic?”

“Dramatic?” Garret echoed. What exactly did he have to say to make himself clear? “No. There are not words to describe the nefariousness of that woman—”

Edward cocked his head to the side. “There was that rumor. Weren’t you going to marry—”

Garret snapped up a black leather gloved fist and shook it menacingly at Edward. “Would you like a black eye at your wedding? I could arrange for a matching set.”

“And they say women are emotional,” James taunted merrily. “I fear you are about to suffer a fit.”

Garret lowered his fist and smoothed his hands down his cream colored regimental waistcoat. “Please. I am the epitome of logic. I have shaken the mud of emotion from my boots and shall never sink in that mire again.”

“Mmmhhhmmm.” Edward’s lips twitched. “It is sad, but every family must have a crusty bachelor. You’ll do the job admirably old man.”

Garret nodded politely. “Thank you, dear boy. Thank you.”

That was his very intention. He was going to die quite happily unshackled, no imprisoning ring on his finger. And no woman buried for eternity by his very irritated side.

“Now, back to my point,” Garret wheeled toward James and seized his wide shoulders. There was no holding back now. There were only moments till
she
ascended from her fiery throne. “Please! Send me to darkest Africa! I shall find you Solomon’s mines as long as it keeps me away from that woman!” he bellowed.

A long silence filled the air. It was so silent, crickets chirped in the background. A cruel mockery of his still echoing proclamation.

Garret was suddenly hit with the feeling he had fallen into enemy territory. . . and had left his breeches behind, leaving his bum and nether bits exposed to the cruel elements. “She’s right there, isn’t she?” he whispered into James’ twitching, amused face.

“The entire family actually.”

Garret forced a smile to his face. “Marvelous, just bloody marvelous.”

He turned boldly, facing it head on, and held his arms out in welcome. “Miss Harr—”

And then his mind went positively blank.

His Medusa stared back at him with eyes crackling, cheeks blazing and bosom heaving. Good God, she was magnificent. Her white and pink striped gown clung to her bodice like a second skin and those breasts. They were the stuff of young boys’ dreams. He could lay in her bosoms forever. . . If somehow they could manage to never speak to each other.

It drove him mad really. The fact that her blazing blue eyes evoked instant desire in his body rather that hate caused the insanity. He’d tried again and again to convince his irritating physique that she was the devil. But right now, the blood rushing straight to his groin would have nothing to do with his protestations. Devil or no, he still wanted her the same, if not more, as the day he had met her.

She wasn’t beautiful. But the fire in her, the wit in those eyes, and the taunt in her whole stance that suggested she was going to grab him by the balls and lead him in a merry dance should have sent him running. Alas, it didn’t. Quite the contrary. It drew him.

If only their mutual hate wasn’t so established and irreversible, he’d probably haul her off and have his way with her right now.

Hate her, he did though. She’d ripped out his heart and done a jig upon it. No, the only thing to do was wreak his revenge upon his Medusa. Again and again and again. Once had not been enough. And the only way to do that was to drive her to bloody madness.

If she didn’t drive him there first.

Chapter 2

Devonshire

Five Years Earlier

Spring

It really was a pity she couldn’t swim.

Harriet stared out at the vast expanse of silvery pond and considered her meager options. She could fling herself over the side of the small rowboat and hope in epic fashion she too might walk upon the placid surface of the water. However, she doubted that God would be so kind to oblige her with such powers. Especially since she really was quite remiss in attending mass.

If she did fling herself in and God did not come to her aid, her skirts would drag her to the bottom. Then, she would die an exceedingly pathetic death. In her imaginings, she’d always thought if she were to die young she’d look Raphael-like. Her long hair brushed over her shoulders, white lilies in her hand as people sobbed pitifully over her.

Drowning in a lake, in all reality, likely left one unpleasantly bloated. She couldn’t see anyone sobbing pitifully over her then. The coffin would have to be nailed shut, she’d be such a sight.

Still, she couldn’t sit in the boat
all
day. Perhaps if she brought forth her dusty and unskilled prayers, she’d be given a current which would send her boat to shore.

It seemed unlikely.

She squinted at the green shore lined with weeping willows.

An hour ago it had seemed so terribly romantic to go drifting by herself on the lake. Now— her oars mysteriously having abandoned her as she’d stared wondrously at the deep blue sky— she was infinitely bored, her imagination beginning to run rampant with ideas of dying alone in a ratty, wood boat, never having the chance to bid farewell to her poor parents.

A figure emerged in the distance, walking along the cattails and tall grass.

Relief and hope hit her with such force that she couldn’t fight back an immediate smile. She’d been saved! Perhaps God hadn’t forsaken her after all.

“Heeeeeellllp!” Harriet shouted, throwing any sense of ladylike decorum to the wind. . . or fishes as the case was.

The figure kept walking.

Her smile dimmed.

The person wouldn’t leave her. They wouldn’t! If they left her here, what hope did she have? Surely, this person had been sent by divine providence to rescue her from her horrid predicament. The boat rocked warningly as she windmilled her arms. “Hellllloooo!”

The distant and stubbornly oblivious person didn’t even turn their head in her alarmed direction. At last, Harry took the only action she could think to take. With as much care as she could manage given the little time she had, she hoisted herself to her high heeled, booted feet.

Righting herself to her full height, her eyes widened as the boat swayed beneath her. Still, she had to get the person’s attention or she’d die a miserable death out here on this dratted lake.

She drew in a full breath, as full as her tightly laced corset would allow her. Lifting her arms high, she waved them wildly and shouted, “Look here you bloody moron!!!”

With that last shout and thrust of her arms, the boat decided, for a boat such as this surely must have a mind of its own, to pitch her into the lake.

Her equilibrium abandoned her. Harry plunged toward the lake. And the last thought before her face hit the water echoed through her head. . .
Bloody hell. I’m going to look awful
.

*      *     *

T
he Present

The Trent Estate

Nothing had changed.

Harry glared at her nemesis, a strange sense of anticipation smoldering within her. Every time they’d met since he’d left her those five years ago, they’d bitten each other to bits with words as if that could somehow replace the ferocious passion that had once devoured them.

It had become a ritual to see who could best the other first. It didn’t matter that she could barely tear her eyes from his jet black hair which played boyishly over his whiskey dark eyes. His long riding coat swung about his tall form like a devil’s wings. Once he’d been boyishly handsome. Now?

Now, she had to draw in a slow breath to cool her heating blood. The man’s face was a mask of granite that dared her to rise to his challenge.

Rise she bloody well would. With almost as much pleasure as he had once given her.

It was the very fact that that pleasure had been so cruelly withdrawn from her that gave her the desire to verbally castrate him.

His grace, the duke, looked perfectly horrified at his brother’s particularly dramatic and certainly projected gaffe. Perhaps even farmers in Shropshire had heard Garret. His grace stepped quickly forward, his velvet green coat playing about his tall frame.

“Please do accept our apologies,” the duke said.

With a strange moment of awkwardness, the usually so collected eldest brother eyed her with his lime green eyes, then swiped a hand through his russet hair. “My brother—”

Harry stepped forward, a smile tilting her lips, ready to go in for the kill. “Do not apologize, your grace. We did hear that your brother sustained a wound to his brain.” She shrugged her shoulders carelessly. “We know anything he says is without wit or merit.” She beamed up at the duke. “But never fear, we shall be kind to him in any case and listen to his poor, lunatic ramblings.”

A general gasp went up from the group standing on the steps and gravel drive.

Then titters of laughter.

After all, they’d grown to expect this verbal dueling between them. To the slight horror and amusement of both families, it was growing to be legend amidst the
ton
.

Garret on the other hand merely swept a huge bow, his hand nearly grazing the gravel as he twirled it. “My dear
Miss
Harriet, I see that you are withstanding the many. . .
many
years well. Indeed, one should hardly guess you are
no longer
a girl.”

Harry tensed at the very specific swipe to her now fairly publicly acknowledged spinsterhood. A single woman at her age could never quite avoid censure, even if her unmarried state was self-imposed. Still, she bit her tongue waiting for him to finish.

“How ever did you survive without me to criticize you these past months?” he asked cheerfully.

“Never doubt my ability to sharpen my wit, even without you about, easy target that you are.”

He tsked. “How sad that you must always be so sharp.” He crossed towards her, his powerful legs eating up the short space. At last, he stood before her, looking down several inches, his dark eyes glinting. “Someone will soon clip your claws.”

Harry met that gaze and tilted up her chin. With a surprising gesture even to herself, she planted her hands on her hips. “Not before I scratch their face.”

The audience followed their banter like a group watching the ball at a tennis match. All of them were waiting to see who would deliver the final blow.

“A cat, my dearest Miss Harriet, I had no idea?” He looked to the others around her, smiling lightly. “Surely you can purr?”

Harriet smiled right along with him, tempted to stomp on his boot. “Only after I’ve eaten.”

He laughed, a sound full of mocking admiration. “Will you eat me then?”

For one moment the naughtiest of implications to his words flashed before her eyes. Indeed, once upon a time she would have eaten him and with relish.

As if he too suddenly realized what could be drawn from his words, his eyes bloomed with heat.