Page 8 of The Risk of Rogues
“What if it doesn’t work out in the end? People will talk.”
“Do you care?” The question was far more important than he dared let on. The wife of a spymaster must be circumspect, but also above all the petty nonsense of society. She would have to lead, not follow; not always be worried that this one or that one had given her the cold shoulder. Could Anne do that?
She thrust out her chin. “Actually, I do care. I can’t stand to lose Delia if things don’t work out between us and she blames me for it. She’s one of my closest companions. As is your cousin Clarissa.”
Ah, losing friends was a different matter entirely. He understoodthat.“You won’t lose them over me, trust me,” he said dryly. “They’ll assume that whatever happens is all my fault.”
“Why? Have you broken their friends’ hearts before?”
“No!” He rubbed his eyes. Bloody hell. She was as bad as the rest of them with twisting a man’s words. “I only meant that they tend to believe the rumors about me, like everyone else. They’re sure I’m a rascal.”
“Then why are they always talking about finding you a wife?”
That threw him off-balance. “How the devil should I know? Perhaps they think a wife will... settle me down. Or something.” It was an excellent question, though, one he might have to ask his relations, and soon.
Then something else occurred to him. “Wait. You said that you’ve heard of my reputation. Didn’t you hear of it from them?”
“No, indeed. They bemoan your bachelor state, but if anyone maligns you in their hearing, they give that person an earful about your virtues.”
“Huh.” From the way Delia had been talking earlier, he’d thought she was warning all her friends away from him.
“Of course, therestof society says you have a string of conquests as long as your arm, and you practically live in the hells and the broth—”
“If I spent as many hours in those places as the gossips claim,” he grumbled, “I wouldn’t have time to breathe. Don’t listen to that nonsense.” The occasional romp with a merry widow was about the extent of it for him. But all the nights he’d gambled and drunk in the stews in his youth with Warren had builthima bad reputation, too, even if he’d rarely used the services of whores himself. “The rumors aren’t true. Or not very true, anyway.”
“Hmm. I should like to see how you’re going to provethatone during our courtship.”
Relief coursed through him. “So you agree to my proposal? A re-courtship? A private one, if you wish, so you are not... embarrassed if it ends badly?”
She held out her hand. “All right. I agree.”
He took her hand, held it up to his lips, and kissed it, thrilled when a shudder of pleasure passed through her.
“What happened to no kissing?” she asked in that throaty voice that turned his cock to iron.
“We changed it to lots of kissing, remember?”
She sighed. “You’re incorrigible, Captain Lord Hartley Corry.”
Except that she didn’t say it in that fond, teasing way Delia had. Her tone was sad, resigned. As if being incorrigible was a bad thing.
But he fully intended to change that impression of him before the week was out.
Mornings were usually Anne’s favorite time. Mama slept in, Anne had the house to herself, and she could go for a walk or balance the household ledgers or create hats to her heart’s content. No one was urging her to work on skills for snagging a husband—like playing the pianoforte (she was awful at it) or painting watercolors (again, justawful) or, worst of all, perfecting her dancing steps.
She had two left feet, and she’d sometimes wondered if her lack of ability was why she couldn’t find a husband.
Hart wants to marry you.
Her heart skipped a little, curse him. Thanks to him, her usual happy morning had already been shattered, because she’d been up half the night thinking of him and then had slept unusually late. It threw her day off entirely, which was why she was now hunched in a very unladylike manner over a cup of coffee at the breakfast table when she should be in the ballroom with her friends, helping prepare for the charity sale.
Suddenly something appeared to the right of her plate. She turned to find an enormous peacock feather lying on the tablecloth.
Her day instantly brightened. It wasglorious, its iridescent greens and blues and oranges glowing in the early-afternoon sun. She could easily imagine which hat she would use it with, and—
Oh, dear. There was a gloved male hand next to it. And she knew instantly to whom that hand belonged.
“What’s this for?” she asked, barely able to bank her enthusiasm. For thefeather. Only for the feather.
