The Rogue and I (20 page)

Aunt Gertrude crossed to her, took her in her arms and kissed her forehead. “You know I won’t be able to go with you. Nor Harriet.”

Emmaline gulped. “I know I must forge this new road alone.”

Gertrude hesitated then nodded to herself. “No, Emmaline. At least not entirely alone. I know someone who will be your guide. But it will be quite the deviation from any acquaintance you’ve ever had. She’s clever, capable, and scandalous.”

“Then I will be in good company, Aunt Gertrude. For I am scandalous now, am I not?”

Gertrude smiled kindly. “The women of our family have never been boring, Emmaline. I’m glad you’re finally accepting that even if something painful caused it.”

Emmaline blew out a shaking breath. “I won’t say I’m not frightened.”

“Only stupid people aren’t frightened Emmaline. It’s how you handle the fear that makes you brave.”

***

J
ohn had proved elusive. Apparently, he had rogered and run. Garret held a hand to his throbbing head as he strode down the hallway in answer to James’ ducal summons. Even with his experience, the gin that had flowed in their failed pursuit of their brother had been tidal.

When Garret opened the study door, he was greeted by dead silence and a face that glowered like thunder.

“What?” Garret challenged.

“That family,” James intoned.

“What family?” Garret replied, choosing to be obtuse. James deserved to suffer as the rest of them were doing. After all, Garret was the one holding Edward’s hand as he stumbled through the loss of his beloved, not James.

James narrowed his eyes. “You clearly have not heard the news.”

Garret stilled, then spotted the tray of coffee on his brother’s desk. Did he dare? Of course he did. He crossed to it and poured out a cup. “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“Miss Manning is engaged to be married.”

Garret sputtered the hot coffee across James’ desk.

“Christ man!” James exploded as he snatched papers away from the beautiful, polished mahogany. James gave him a baleful glare as he held the documents to his chest. “Have you no self-control?”

“Compared to Johnny, boy, I’m a font of self-control.”

“Please don’t mention that walking disaster.”

What else could he do? He had to grasp at something. The world was falling about him. Just a few weeks ago, he’d felt relatively at peace. He’d come home a war hero and was content to spar with his former love from afar. . . Then his brother had to go and play a nefarious trick and bring him and Harriet back together. . .

He really couldn’t bring himself to give a damn about his brother’s need for order. And now, Harriet was marrying. And she’d never be his.
Never
. No doubt, she’d found some good man. Some nice fellow who would take splendid care of her. He hated the man with every fiber of his sinew. Still, he hadn’t entirely struck her rather blunt comments from the previous evening from his mind. And she’d not been acting like an engaged woman, flirting so outrightly with Carlyle.

He scowled.

“We have to talk about John,” Garret said flatly. “You’re the one who welcomed him into the bosom of the family.”

“At father’s request.”

“Father was an ass.”

James let out a grudgingly agreeing noise. “I thought Miss Manning would have the good graces to retire to the country with her cousin.”

“Why should she?” Garret snapped. “She’s done nothing wrong.”

“No, but. . .”

“James, you’re a ponce.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” Garret declared. “Damn it all, you were mooning after her under my nose just a few weeks ago.”

James tensed. “She wouldn’t have me.”

“And then you foisted her at me with lies.”

“Good intentions,” James protested.

“Lies.”

“Fine,” James barely conceded. “Lies. But her family is a disaster. I’d really just prefer to never have to see any of them again.”

“And the duke gets what the duke wants, is that it?” Why were dukes such utter asses? Or was it just Dukes of Huntsdown that were controlling know all pain the arses?

“Yes,” James replied with apology. “And why the devil should that bother you so much? You know how these things are supposed to work.”

“Father got what he wanted. . . How did that
work
, as you say?” It was so tempting to shake James and make him see what a rigid and shortsighted fellow he’d become, even if he did have the externals of a nice man. “So very well?”

James shifted uncomfortably, the parchments in his arms crackling. “I’m nothing like father.”

“No. Not really, you’re not.” Garret sighed. Even he couldn’t say James had the cruel streak their father had. “But you do meddle.”

“I organize,” he countered.

Garret groaned. “Stop.”

James fiddled with a piece of parchment then circled around his desk. “Perhaps you should go abroad for a while. You should take Edward. The change of scenery would do you both a world of good.”

Garret arched a brow, suspicious, now. “Why?”

“Well, you know. . .” James put his papers down on a dry spot and pushed them about. “What with this marriage.”

“Who
is
she marrying by the way? Some nice farmer?”

“With her fortune? Good God, no. What land do you live in?” James had the audacity to chortle. “She’s marrying the Earl of Carlyle.”

“What?” Garret roared.

“Your friend isn’t he?”

“I’m going to rip his balls off.”

“Not your friend then?”

Garret gave James a baleful stare. “Go to hell, your grace.”

And with that he threw his cup down with a satisfactory crash and stormed out of the office. He had an earl to murder.

Chapter 22

The boxing club was full of sweaty gents bouncing about on their boots, dodging fists that had never known a day’s labor in their life. . . Except for the men who’d served in the military. Those men had a certain edge to them, as if they were looking to let loose demons that were dancing nightly in their souls.

When he’d returned from the continent, Garret had come to the club daily. It had been easy to say in the midst of war that he would gladly never raise a sword again. He would be delighted by a life of peace. It was true that he had enough bloodshed in his mind for several lifetimes, but it seemed that once that particular instinct had been awoken in a man, it was hard to turn it off. Violence was as much a part of him as eating and breathing. . . Only he managed it well. He boxed. He rode. He fought with swords in practice. Aggression had never been one of his problems. . . until today.

Today, he was going to tear Carlyle limb from limb. In fact, he was so determined that he strode across the crowded hall towards the blonde giant who was already engaged in a fight with a much shorter, but muscled opponent.

Every part of him demanded he pay no attention to rules and simply stride up to Carlyle and punch him in the face. However, in his society such a thing would brand him lower than filth and he refused to believe that Carlyle had stolen even his sense of honor.

Surely, he still had that if, apparently, he had nothing else.

Carlyle hauled back a hammer-like fist and hit his bull-like opponent on the jaw. The stockier man went down like a crumbling mountain.

A groan of frustration went up from several of the observers. No doubt, some had had money on Carlyle’s opponent. A foolish move really.

Carlyle wiped the drops of sweat from his brow and turned. He spotted Garret and grinned. “Old boy!”

Garret said nothing, only whipped his jacket off and threw it to the floor.

Several shouts and whistles went up from those around them.

Garret knew for a fact that he and Carlyle were an even match in the boxing arena. Where Carlyle was taller, Garret had more muscle and they were both cagey bastards. They also knew each other’s dirty tricks.

“A hundred on Hart!” someone shouted.

“Done,” another man cried.

Immediately there was a flurry of conversation as odds were made.

Garret paid them little attention. He was planning on leaving Carlyle a heaving mess on the floor.

“Why her?” Garret demanded, flexing and unflexing his hands.

Carlyle batted his damned long lashes. “Who?”

Garret ground his teeth together. “Harriet.”

“Why not?” Carlyle shrugged. “The girl is stunning and clever to boot. She’ll make a marvelous countess. . . And just think what marvelous offspring we’ll produce.”

Offspring?
Offspring
. That simple phrase sent the most graphic and horrific image of Carlyle with Harriet blazing through Garret’s brain.

He didn’t even see the first punch.

The world cracked and he saw nothing for a moment. He shook his head, then raised his fists lest he get brained again. Blinking, the first thing he saw was Carlyle grinning.

Carlyle was a villain. A dirty villain.

“Not on your game, old boy?” Carlyle taunted.

“Try that again, you bastard,” he growled.

“Delighted!” And Carlyle tried for another blow to the head.

This time Garret was ready and he dodged left and landed a solid blow right to Carlyle’s lower abdomen.

A shout of glee went up from the watching crowd.

Carlyle let out a grunt as he curled into the blow then twisted away.

They circled each other.

Garret held his fists high, protecting his body with his forearms. “I thought you were my friend.”

Carlyle narrowed his eyes, circling. “I am.”

Garret snorted. “If you’re my friend, I don’t need enemies.”

Carlyle darted in and punched so quickly, Garret couldn’t move away from the jab to his stomach. They bobbed and weaved, landing blow after blow.

Carlyle’s fist was like a hammer but with each blow Garret landed, he felt a wave of satisfaction. Until finally, Carlyle grabbed him, his arm linking about his neck.

Garret bent low, trying to hit Carlyle and cause the tall bastard to release him.

Carlyle bent towards his ear. “If marrying Harriet makes me your enemy, why don’t you just marry her then?”

Garret let out a roar and slammed his elbow in Carlyle’s sternum.

“Bad form!” someone shouted.

Garret didn’t care. He was beyond good and bad form. He was an open nerve. He wanted Harriet so much he felt like he might shatter into a thousand pieces if someone else claimed her. . . And yet. . . What could they ever have? With their families at war? With the distrust they felt?

Carlyle staggered back and slammed into the floor.

Garret wiped the sweat from his brow and started to walk away.

Carlyle called, “You’re a fool, Garret. A bloody fool if you let her marry me.”

“I’m a fool then,” he said softly and then he left the club before he could let the weight of truly losing Harriet hit him harder than any of Carlyle’s blows.

***

E
mmaline stood in the opera box and gazed down at the crowd gawking up at her. She lifted her chin and smiled.
Smiled
. In a few moments the opera
The Magic Flute
would begin and she was going to look as if she couldn’t be happier to be the object of scorn and derision.

“That’s it Emmaline. Kill them with your confidence.”

Confidence? It was everything she could do to keep from shaking but having Elizabeth Barton, one of the most famous actresses in London, at her side helped. With the beautiful dark-haired woman at her side, she knew she was declaring herself a part of the demi-mondaine. She was forsaking the
ton
. And yet, she’d still be fashionable. . . At least with men.

It was a strange thing, abandoning the path of martyrdom.

Instead of her usual cream colored virgin’s gown, she wore a frock of dark emerald. Diamonds were pinned in her elaborately coifed hair and she felt completely adrift. Luckily, Mrs. Barton was there to keep her on course.

“They won’t start throwing stones, will they?” she whispered as she sat.

“Possibly rotting fruit. One has not truly arrived until they’ve been greeted with a pungent tomato.”

Emmaline winced.

“No, Emmaline,” Mrs. Barton said brightly. “They shan’t do it. You’ll hear gossip but that will likely be all. They’re all too fascinated and stunned by your daring.”

That certainly seemed to be true, because almost everyone was looking at her, whispering behind fans. Some people were blatantly pointing.

She was using every ounce of self-control she possessed not to stare at the Duke of Huntsdown’s box. A significant part of her hoped that none of that family would show, but deep down, she was desperately hoping one of them, preferably James or Edward, would step into that special space and see her. She wanted to shock them. She wanted them to not just hear, but see that they hadn’t broken her spirit.

The orchestra began to tune their instruments.

Emmaline started to fidget.

“Wave your fan in front of your face, my dear. You’re beginning to look like a frightened chicken.”

Well, that certainly wasn’t the image she wished others to see.

She snapped open the fan and the silk folds nearly flew out of her hand. She took in a calming breath then began to wave the fan, savoring the air blowing against her face. It was devilishly hot what with all the candles and hundreds of bodies packing tightly in.

A gasp then a titter of delight went up from the audience.

“Gird your loins my dear, all your hopes are about to come true,” Mrs. Barton said softly. “I’m here for a grand exit if you need.”

All her hopes? Her hopes had been shattered weeks ago. .. But then again, wasn’t that why she was here? Because she hoped to rise from the ashes of her life stronger? Yes, it was and that’s why she turned her face towards the Huntsdown box just as the duke made his entrance . . . With Edward and Garret one step behind.

Her heart slammed in her chest.

Visibly, the duke tensed as his gaze, no doubt, came to rest on her.

She gave him a haughty glare.

He returned the look and it was all she could do not to shrink.

The duke gestured to one of the ushers and whispered to him.