Not Quite A Rogue (Ladies Who Dare Book 1) Read online

  So the lady was a mystery, then, Harry thought, as he shelved the information his friends had imparted for a later date. Tonight was for drinking, wallowing, and stumbling home in a stupor.

  Harry observed his friends, who were still amusing themselves with his mother’s list. For them, life went on as usual. They sowed their oats freely, sealed reckless financial decisions, and drank the best brandy coin could purchase. For Harry, however, that had all come to an abrupt end. He had half a mind to snatch the list and tear it into six hundred little pieces.

  But destitution loomed.

  And when destitution loomed, one tucked away one’s pride. So Harry sank back and drank his brandy, continuing to observe his friends as they plotted and schemed.

  Then Warrick started writing.

  Chapter 2

  “Lady Ophelia! Hand me the reins!” the Earl of Hanover shouted, holding onto his hat.

  Lady Ophelia Thornton, daughter of the Earl of Rhodes, allowed only her laughter to ring out in response. It was a notable fact, Ophelia had discovered, that among the crème de la crème, almost anything could be overlooked if one was in possession of a dowry that put the crown to shame. In her humble opinion, a lady in such a fortunate position would be foolish not to seize every opportunity for a spot of fun. Especially when it came to setting a fortune hunter in his place. Ophelia certainly never missed an opportunity to do so.

  “My lady!”

  “Yes?” Ophelia shouted over the wind that whipped through her hair, pretending not to notice Lord Hanover shifting uncomfortably in his seat. She flicked the reins, urging the horses to go faster. The turn that would take them into Grosvenor Square loomed up ahead, and Ophelia dug her feet into the floor. Biting back a smile, she braced to round the corner.

  “Dear Christ!” Lord Hanover exclaimed, losing his composure.

  Ophelia yanked on the reins, and the horses veered sharply to the left. For one thrilling moment, the phaeton balanced on one wheel as they turned into Grosvenor Square from Upper Brook Street. The earl gasped out a strangled yowl as the wheel connected with the road again, his labored breath deepening to a soft whine.

  “Upon my honor!” Hanover shouted, sliding across the seat, barely hanging on. “You are going to get us killed!”

  “I didn’t know you were prone to the dramatic, Lord Hanover,” she replied, a smile spreading across her face. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

  Hanover remained silent as Ophelia drew the horses to a halt before her family town house. She slanted the disheveled earl a merry look. “Do you not agree, my lord?”

  “Lady Ophelia,” he croaked. “Have you no care for your person? Driving such a vehicle is dangerous under the best of circumstances. I beseech you—do not be so reckless with your life again!”

  “My dear Lord Hanover,” Ophelia entreated, suppressing her laughter at his pinched lips. She didn’t quite manage. “Please do not be put out with me. I do so enjoy taking the reins.”

  When he continued to stare at her, reproachful, Ophelia pouted her lips. Visibly, he collected himself, shaking his head as the beginning of a smile formed on his lips. It did not quite reach his eyes either.

  They say the eyes are the window to a person’s soul, but gazing up into the pale green depth of Lord Hanover, Ophelia rather thought it was the smile that gave away untold secrets. Lord Hanover’s smile was that of a man who wanted something. Too bad for him that Ophelia already knew what that was.

  “You are a force of nature, Lady Ophelia,” he murmured after a short pause. “What man could deny such an enchanting lady?”

  Ophelia inwardly snorted.

  Honeyed words never flattered her—she’d heard it all. She could write a book of poetry about her flawless skin, how her voice inspired wars of the heart, how her dark hair, full and wavy, shined in the moonlight, how her emerald eyes glowed with life, how her lips, which were certainly the color of cherries, carried a smile that left the world around her a little bit brighter.

  Though she did in fact possess all the classical features expected of an English rose, she also knew that the flattery was entirely empty. Because she knew that no one ever truly looked at her. In her experience, her beauty, her voice, her personality, and her very person were never truly considered at all. They were all supplemental to her dazzling dowry.

  And it was that dazzling dowry that had Lord Hanover’s eyes gleaming even though his hat sat askew on his head and tendrils of his of waxed russet hair curled around the brim of his hat.

  “You are too kind,” Ophelia said, lips curving at the corners of her mouth, as she jumped from the phaeton with little effort. He rushed to help her to the door. “Do not trouble yourself on my account, my lord.”

  “But—”

  “Do come calling again soon,” she said, cheerfully cutting off the flustered earl and bounding up the steps. His reply was lost as Ophelia breezed through the door the butler held open with impeccable timing as always. As the door shut behind her, she tugged off her gloves finger by finger.

  “Did you enjoy your ride, my lady?”

  “I always do, Charles,” she murmured, tossing the gloves on the side table. “I am not available for further callers today.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Charles said. “However—”

  “Breaking some poor chap’s heart again?” an unexpected voice drawled, causing her to jump in surprise.

  Ophelia’s gaze whipped to the silhouette of the tall man whose shoulders almost expanded to the width of the green drawing-room doorway—a room her mother had named for the velvet emerald furniture that not-so-coincidentally matched Ophelia’s eyes. For the hundredth time, Ophelia wondered if there was anything that a mother wouldn’t do to improve her daughter’s chances of marriage. Then she refocused on the man before her.

  As always, Rogan Pierce Felton, Earl of Rochester, made an impressive figure: black hair feathered at his collar, a toothsome smile set in chiseled features, gray eyes alive with mischief.

  “Rochester! Upon my soul, must you forever surprise the wits out of me?” she chastised with a smile.

  He bowed, lips curving. “I live to see that expression on your face. So yes.”

  She cut him a chiding look and marched past him into the drawing room. He fell into step beside her, heading straight for the decanter of port, and poured them each a glass. Their families had been neighbors for generations, and the two of them had become fast friends at an early age. Inseparable, in fact, each privy to one another’s deepest fears and brightest hopes.

  “It’s not even noon,” Ophelia remarked, accepting the offered glass.

  “Your point?” he asked, plopping down on his usual spot. “Time has never stopped you before—and your father dulls the wine.”

  “Only because he cannot have it removed entirely. He does not drink, you know.”

  “More for us.”

  Ophelia laughed. “And Mother. The last time she fought with my father, he removed all the wine from the house. Needless to say, after that he learned not to stand between my mother and her port.” She joined him on the sofa and raised her glass. “To drinking before noon.”

  “To drinking before noon,” Rochester echoed. He brought the glass to his lips and peered at her. “Lord Hanover looked rather askew when you arrived. Did you enjoy your drive with your swashbuckling opportunist?”

  “It was delightful,” Ophelia answered, turning her attention to her port. “I do not believe Lord Hanover shares my sentiment, however.”

  “They never do.”

  “Nor do they ever protest.” Ophelia snorted. “My dowry hides all men’s true sentiments. I cannot tell head from tail.”

  It vexed Ophelia more than she cared to admit. Most gentlemen saw her not as Ophelia Thornton or even Lady Ophelia Thornton. They saw her only as an heiress. More specifically, “that heiress with the strange name”—a statement that Ophelia could have lived with had the phrase not ended with “and a face that resembles the Bank of
England.” Not only did she represent a thick stack of banknotes, but apparently, to some, her face had become so synonymous with coin that she had become the personification of the bank.

  Quite disheartening.

  So Ophelia had done what any self-respecting heiress ought to do: she had declined every single offer of marriage.

  “I tell you, Rochester, one of these days I am going to speak my mind. All the puffery is giving me headaches. There seems to be an excess of fortune hunters knocking on my door these days.”

  “You are seen as a challenge, I’m afraid.”

  “And why do you suppose that is?” Ophelia inquired.

  Rochester arched a brow. “You have refused nineteen—

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one offers of marriage. The answer to that ought to be clear.”

  “Much to the disappointment of my mother,” Ophelia said dryly. “She is pestering me to make an advantageous match—a prince, if she had her way.”

  “The wealthy wed the wealthy,” Rochester said. “Perhaps offer number twenty-two will be the charm.”

  “I have my doubts,” Ophelia said in an irate undertone. She touched her lips to the brim of her glass and took a sip of wine. “None of my suitors see me for me. It’s quite maddening.”

  “That is why I am here.”

  Ophelia raised a brow. “Do you wish to throw yourself into the race for my fortune?”

  “You should be so fortunate.” Rochester’s grin turned crooked. “I am here to keep you sane, my dear. And remind you that you are indeed interesting, intelligent, and fun, regardless of whether your admirers fail to appreciate your talents or not.”

  “Of course you are. And of course I am all of those things—if only one of them would care to notice!” Ophelia sighed. “You know, my mother believes I have declined every offer of marriage because I’m waiting for a declaration from you.”

  That declaration would never come, of course. Their attachment did not reach beyond the bounds of friendship. Never would. Ophelia was certain on that front. Her mother would have to set her hopes on another man.

  Rochester groaned. “She still has her dreams set on us?”

  “She will until I marry, I’m afraid.”

  “I do not see how you will marry in your foreseeable future with the list of fortune seekers growing every day. They are keeping all the proper suitors at bay,” Rochester muttered. “Perhaps it’s time to take proactive measures.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Pick the best scoundrel from the available pool before one succeeds in dragging me into a scandal? I do not wish to marry a man that sees only blunt when he looks at me.”

  “Then do not pick any of those gentlemen,” Rochester offered. “Choose a rich, titled lord and pursue him.”

  “You mean for me to court a man?”

  “Why not? These are peculiar times.”

  “Not that peculiar,” Ophelia said, turning the notion over in her mind. That could not be the only way for her to make a good match, could it? There had to be another way. But no matter how she looked at it, the fact of the matter remained: with each passing year it became harder and harder to tell apart the wolves from the sheep. They all wore silky cravats and embroidered waistcoats.

  “What would courting a gentleman even entail?” she mused aloud. “Scout for a man who catches my eye and fill my name on his dance card? Call on him? Send him brandy-flavored candy? Cheroots?”

  Rochester’s lips twisted upward. “I’d advise a more subtle approach, one befitting of your station.”

  “Honestly, Rochester,” Ophelia drawled in a dry voice. “Courting a gentleman at all does not befit my station. It goes against my very breeding.”

  “That is why God gifted women with wiles.”

  “I am not fluttering my lashes or simpering coyly at whatever tedious insights a gentleman provides about my beautiful banknote-shaped face.”

  “Assuming you choose wisely, there will be no need to do so.”

  “It’s a futile notion. I am not a woman of wiles,” Ophelia said, a note of frustration escaping her throat. “And it does not aid the matter that the only man I trust is you. How will I choose a gentleman and trust him to see me?”

  His features softened. “The right man will see you, Ophelia, and will fall hopelessly in love. You do not need to be a woman of wiles, Ophelia. Just be you.”

  “It’s not enough to be just me.” She swirled the liquid in her glass between her fingers, watching it coat the crystal in red. “I have been me for three full seasons with utter failure. I must be more than me and shine above my dowry, which up until now has proven impossible.”

  “Not impossible.” Rochester paused in thought. “Daunting, perhaps.” He reached out to rest his hand over hers. “When you find a gentleman you fancy, Ophelia, do not underestimate the power of a good laugh, a listening ear, or a sincere smile. That is all you.”

  “Finally,” Ophelia teased. “Compliments that aren’t puffery.”

  Rochester laughed and then rubbed his chin, eyeing her with a speculative glint. “I can help you select a suitable gentleman if you wish.”

  “I do not want a suitable husband, Rochester,” Ophelia said with hot honesty. “I want a husband that steals my breath and then obstinately refuses to hand it back.”

  “If that is what you wish for, you most certainly require my assistance.” He waggled his brows. “I have a spectacular sense of chemistry, but more importantly, I know which gentlemen to avoid at all costs.”

  “You have proven valuable in the past,” Ophelia murmured, lifting her glass to her lips. “If I do decide to court a gentleman, and I cannot believe I just said that, you shall be the first I approach for advice.” She took a generous sip of wine, hoping the rich, ruby substance would provide a measure of insight.

  “Are you attending the Radley Ball tonight?”

  Ophelia nodded. “Will you be attending?”

  “Of course.” A grin touched the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to miss the selection process.”

  “Selection proce—” Ophelia shook her head sharply. “I have not decided I will take your advice to heart.”

  “But I shall be there when you do.” He saluted her with his glass. “And remember, fortune hunters do not count.”

  Ophelia lifted her glass. She could always drink to that. “Fortune hunters do not count.”

  Chapter 3

  Harry felt like a tiny pond fish in an ocean full of snapping sharks. Precious hours were wasted on idle chatter as mothers paraded their daughters before him, hoping to sink their teeth into his flesh. Which might not have been half bad if he hadn’t felt like a complete fraud.

  Did they not care that he was in mourning? To that point, Harry could not believe he had agreed to indulge his mother and attend the Radley Ball.

  Converse with the ladies on the list, dear, she had said. That is all I ask.

  Well, Harry was here. That was about as much as he would commit to on the matter. He had men out searching for the missing purchases. And he chose not to dwell on his mother’s astonishing lack of faith in his capabilities to retrieve those pieces of art.

  One thing, however, had become abundantly clear tonight: the marriage mart was a treacherous place. He couldn’t entertain the idea of marrying any of those ladies. Because if he had been in the market for a wife—he wasn’t in the market for just any wife, it seemed. Even dwelling on the mere thought made him feel that at any moment someone would point a finger at him and cry, “Charlatan!” Or worse, that the gossipmongers would unearth the fact that his mother wanted him to shop for a wealthy wife—one of six heiresses—and ruin her chances at a rich match for him.

  The truth was deuced uncomfortable.

  Hopefully, when he found his father’s purchases, he could burn his mother’s damn list.

  Harry scowled when he caught sight of Saville approaching him with the Countess of Bridgeley and her daughter, Lady Theodosia King, in tow. He
had never been formally introduced to the girl, and Harry had the sudden urge to turn tail and run.

  His eyes met Lady Theodosia’s annoyed gaze, and he grimaced. Saville had been right. Dark, almost black eyes pierced like sharp shards of icicles into his skin and caused him to shiver. Satan eyes, Saville had called them. Indeed.

  “Avondale, old chap, have you had the pleasure of meeting Lady Bridgeley’s charming daughter, Lady Theodosia?”

  He shot Saville a discreet, albeit murderous look. They had been close friends since their days at Eton, and Harry loved him like a brother, but the man was enjoying Harry’s wretched circumstance too much for his liking.

  Harry forced a smile. “I have not,” he bowed over Lady Bridgeley’s hand. “A pleasure, my lady.”

  “Avondale, my condolences for your loss,” Lady Bridgeley said. “Your father was a good man.”

  Harry inclined his head in acknowledgment, his eyes shifting to Lady Theodosia.

  “This is my daughter, Lady Theodosia,” she introduced. “A true beauty.”

  “Mother.”

  Harry bowed, suppressing a smile. “My lady, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Yours as well, my lord,” she responded. “My condolences on your loss.”

  Again, Harry inclined his head. How many times had he bowed his head in such acknowledgment tonight? His fingers twitched as he was reminded of the reason he was attending this ball. Hell if his father’s passing hadn’t left an abundance of grief and inconvenience in its wake. Harry was in no mood to make light conversation with Lady Bridgeley or her daughter.

  He forced himself to engage with Lady Theodosia and opened his mouth to compliment her dress—what color was that? Seaweed? Was seaweed even a color?—when the sound of sweet laughter rising above the low chatter of the room drew his attention to the dance floor. The playful sound rippled down his spine, and Harry shivered at the velvety richness of the voice wrapping around him.

  It’s a woman laughing, Harry. Nothing more.