And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,118

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.

Roxley groaned. “Really, Harry! Never been kissed? That’s your reason.” He threw up his hands and began to pace around the tree. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Well, if you were to kiss me—”

“Which I won’t,” he shot back.

“If you insist.” Harriet did her best to appear non-plussed, as if his quick retort was the least of her concerns.

“I do,” he continued to insist.

Truly, did he have to sound so adamant? “But if you did—”

He paused. “Harry, you can stop right there. Kiss you! Now you are being ridiculous. If I were to ruin you, your brothers would shoot me.”

“If they were in a good humor,” she conceded. Actually, all five of them would most likely insist on taking a shot.

Unfortunately, Roxley knew this as well, for he echoed her thoughts exactly. “And since I don’t favor an untimely death by firing squad, I fear for tonight your desire to be kissed is going to have to remain on the shelf.”

Like her life. Like her chances of ever being loved.

Passionately. Her gaze slid back in the direction of the arbor.

Oh, it all seemed so patently unfair. And yet, a few months ago, she would never have considered such things possible. She had lived her entire life content in the knowledge that as a spinster of Kempton she would never marry, never be kissed, never . . .

But now, having come to London with Tabitha and Daphne, and seeing her two dearest friends find happiness in such unexpected ways.

Not just happiness but love.

Oh, it had been like seeing one of her favorite Miss Darby novels unfold before her very eyes.

And here she was, with the only man she’d ever wanted to kiss, in this garden, under this moon, and why shouldn’t she want to be kissed?

Just once.

“No one would have to know,” she whispered. “No one would ever find out.”

“Someone always does, minx,” Roxley told her. He’d circled around the tree and stood much as she did, leaning against the great trunk but on the opposite side, so that the wide breadth separated