And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(123)
“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.