Her Rogue, page 1
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Table of Contents
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Her Rogue (His & Hers, #4)
Her Rogue | Charlotte Russell
Her Rogue
DEDICATION
DANFORTH FAMILY | July 1817
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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About the Author
BATTLING TO PRESERVE HER FAMILY, THE WIDOWED VISCOUNTESS HAS NO NEED FOR A HANDSOME YOUNG ROGUE. BUT IS IT POSSIBLE HE’S ALL SHE COULD EVER WANT?
Benjamin King never yet met a woman he couldn’t charm. Until he strides into the village of Hatherden under an assumed name and meets the Viscountesses Dunstan. Not one of the three is captivated by his winning ways. Ben, though, needs to ingratiate himself into the family as he believes proof of a significant inheritance due him is located in their home. To his surprise and good fortune, he recognizes the youngest viscountess as a childhood friend. Ben proposes they enter into a fake courtship so he can search the house.
Harriet Rutledge, the widowed Lady Dunstan, chafes under the strictures of the guardian of her young son and her mother-in-law. Though she must tread carefully where they are concerned, she agrees to help her old friend. However, under no circumstances will she pretend to be courted by him. Harriet suggests a different ruse to enable Ben to find what he seeks.
Amidst late-night searches, the two discover unfettered passion, and perhaps something more. But for Hattie, the risk of loving a young rogue comes with a steep price. Ben is willing to make sacrifices for his lady’s heart, but can he prove to Hattie that the cost of love is always worthwhile—when shared?
Her Rogue
Charlotte Russell
Her Rogue
Copyright ©2023 Charlotte Russell
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Cover Art Illustration by bookcoversbymelody.com. Cover Text and Logo by Charlotte Russell
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual living persons, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my feline writing companion –
You are missed every single day, Misha.
2008-2022
DANFORTH FAMILY
July 1817
WILLIAM Danforth, 6th Duke of Taviston (1750-1803) m. 1781 Lady CATHERINE Peyton (1758- )
Lady HARRIET Danforth (1782- ) m. 1805 EDWARD Rutledge, 4th Viscount Dunstan (1778-1815) Hon. ELIZABETH Rutledge (1807- )
Hon. CATHERINE Rutledge (1809- )
Hon. LUCINDA Rutledge (1812- )
WILLIAM Rutledge, 5th Viscount Dunstan (1815- )
CHARLES Danforth, 7th Duke of Taviston (1784- ) m. 1812 VICTORIA Foster (1788- ) EDWARD Danforth, Marquess of Marden (1813- )
Lord FOSTER Danforth (1814- )
Lady SOPHIA Danforth (1816- )
Lord PEYTON Danforth (1785- ) m. 1814 Lady (Theresa) TESSA Colvin (1792- ) PHOEBE Danforth (1815- )
PHILIPPA Danforth (1817-)
Lord JAMES Danforth (1792- )
Chapter One
Hampshire, England
July 1817
Harriet, Lady Dunstan, not to be mistaken for Penelope, the Dowager Lady Dunstan, or for Margaret, the eldest Dowager Lady Dunstan, skirted the Hatherden assembly room, attempting to avoid eye contact with any gentleman over the age of twenty. Alas, the task was Sisyphean. Everywhere she turned, there was another gentleman, the possibility of triumph gleaming in his eyes.
Mr. Gaston, the sinfully wealthy and happily married brewer, sidled up to her. “Lady Dunstan, this reel is particularly lively. Won’t you join me in a dance?”
The vicar, Mr. Callan, whose thoughtful reasoning always left her with something to consider, stepped in front of her and bowed smartly. “My lady, I would be honored if you would share this dance with me.”
Colonel Portman, seventy if he was a day but still light on his toes, outflanked Sir John Larwood and took her hand. “Please, my dear, I have but one last request before I shake this mortal coil. Will you dance with me?”
Harriet wanted to dance. Oh, how she wanted to dance. But every time she was asked, she could feel the sharp glare of her mother-in-law, the aforementioned Penelope, Lady Dunstan, turn upon her.
Everyone—correction, every gentleman—within a ten-mile radius seemed to think that two and a half years after the death of her husband, the youngest Lady Dunstan should be allowed to dance. Penelope did not.
What Harriet needed right now was air. The July night was warm, and moisture hung in the air, as if the clouds couldn’t decide whether or not to drop their bounty. Her blue muslin underdress, one of her favorites, was beginning to cling indecently.
Instead, Penelope and her stifling air accosted Harriet. “Why is it so difficult for you to let everyone know you are not dancing this evening? Why must you encourage them?”
Penelope spoke under her breath and while her words were harsh, her smile never faltered. Harriet’s mother-in-law never looked anything but happy and serene in public. The effort must be exhausting. Nonetheless, Penelope’s outward attitude never wavered.
“As always, I did tell them I wasn’t dancing,” Harriet protested.
“Then why do they keep asking?” Penelope tipped her head. Her diamond drop earring swung away from her neck.
Harriet sighed. “I believe the local gentlemen have now made a game out of it. Whoever convinces me to dance first, wins.”
“Wins what?”
“I don’t know,” Harriet replied with growing irritation at the constraints placed upon her. “Gentlemen just like to win. It’s in their blood.”
Penelope stared at her as if trying to decide whether Harriet was having a laugh at her expense or if she was serious. Harriet and her mother-in-law were of a height but that was all their appearances had in common. Despite her fifty-nine years, Penelope’s black curly hair, which she kept short, harbored not a single grey strand. Her porcelain skin was marred by only the finest of wrinkles. Her fine brown eyes still sparkled with warmth. Except when they were turned upon Harriet, as they were now.
“You will not dance.” Penelope snapped open her fan. “Make conversation, play cards, do what you will, but you will not dance.”
Until that dreadful day over two years ago when her husband Edward had died, Harriet had never lived under the cat’s paw. Since then, however, Penelope happened to possess the one thing Harriet could not live without—access to her young son, the current Lord Dunstan. Penelope, in league with her brother, the child’s guardian, unflinchingly but without glee used her grandson to control Harriet.
So, Harriet did not dance.
Repeatedly, she turned down offers from all the local gentlemen, even the Marquess of Edgerton when he deigned to attend. Harriet loved to dance and wished for nothing more than a twirl around the ballroom, and she had no doubt her husband would not have minded. None of the gentlemen wanted anything more than a dance, of that she was certain as well, but it did not matter to Penelope, who insisted her mysterious rules of decorum be followed.
Frustration kindled anew in Harriet’s chest as her mother-in-law hardened her eyes while smiling for all Hatherden to see.
Why should she not dance?
Why should she not live her life as she wished?
She was a woman grown, a mother, a respectable widow, and yet still she chafed under the constrictions of others.
Penelope flipped open her fan as she slipped by Harriet. “Thank you, my dear.”
Her cl
Harriet would dance.
Yes, she would. She would dance with whosoever was persistent enough to ask her next, the consequences be damned.
She would not live her life under anyone’s paw.
Harriet sailed off around the room, head high, for once trying to catch the eye of any available gentleman. Her gaze immediately clashed with that of a young man.
A dashing young man. Out of sickening habit, she looked away. Then looked back. The young man looked familiar, but Harriet couldn’t place him. She blinked, her irritation with Penelope replaced by curiosity, then stared for an unseemly amount of time, searching the far recesses of her memory.
Aha! He resembled Mrs. King, the wife of her father’s former steward. That would make the young man...Benjamin King? Could he really be little Ben?
Abruptly, the man turned his back. Well, that was a first: someone else looking away before Harriet did. She’d caught a brief flash of mischief in his eyes that furthered her assumption of his identity. Young Benjamin King had been a rapscallion of the first order. But what would he be doing in Hampshire?
The last time she’d seen him he had been a ten-year-old hellion-in-training, running neck and neck with her youngest brother, James. Ben was the youngest son of the estate’s land steward, and those two boys got up to more trouble combined than the other dozen children who lived on the estate.
Curious now to know if he truly was Benjamin King, Harriet searched the crowd for the young man. She spotted his burgundy coat and set off in pursuit. After five minutes of chasing after him like a wild goose, she began to suspect he was avoiding her. He did nothing obvious like look over his shoulder, but every time she came near, he slipped away. Feeling a bit foolish, Harriet was about to give up and return to her boring amble around the room when she spied the young man caught in Mrs. Portman’s trap. There was no getting away from the colonel’s wife in under a quarter hour, as Harriet well knew.
Approaching him from behind, she was momentarily distracted by his broad shoulders and so ended up much closer to him than she wanted to be when she addressed the colonel’s wife. “Mrs. Portman, how do you do this evening?”
The man stiffened. Harriet was close enough to notice. She was also close enough for his bayberry cologne to tickle her nose.
Meanwhile Mrs. Portman, a diminutive woman of Indian descent with lively brown eyes and flushed cheeks, smiled in delight. “Harriet, darling, your ears must be burning. I was just telling Mr. Fauntleroy here about our surfeit of viscountesses and how one often finds oneself talking in circles about ‘Lady Dunstan this’ and 'Lady Dunstan that’ and ‘oh of course I don’t mean that Lady Dunstan.’ It is all too much! But we love you all dearly and I can’t imagine life here in Hatherden without each of you.”
Throughout this, Harriet smiled at Mrs. Portman while sliding a sideways glance at Mr. Fauntleroy, somewhat dismayed to discover he wasn’t Benjamin King after all. All she spied in her peripheral vision, however, was a burgundy-covered chest nearly as broad as his shoulders. She shifted her gaze up, prepared to gracefully admit that her powers of recognition were off.
Except they weren’t.
Those green eyes and that charming half-smile might have belonged to any young man. But that inch-long scar on the right side of his chin, that unmistakably belonged to little Ben King. She recalled the day he’d tried to jump from the oak tree’s longest limb into the pond and smacked his chin on a floating branch. She remembered because he’d immediately come crying to her even though she had expressly told him and James not to attempt the jump. They had never listened to her.
Harriet shook herself back into the present. Why was he not using the King name? She reached out and clasped Mrs. Portman’s hand. “Would you please introduce me to your newest admirer?”
“Of course, of course.” Mrs. Portman squeezed Harriet’s hand and pulled her close. “May I present Mr. Bennett Fauntleroy? And Mr. Fauntleroy, may I present Harriet, Lady Dunstan? She’s the youngest of the three Lady Dunstans and my particular favorite,” she added with a wink in Harriet’s direction.
Harriet held out her free hand. The young man, who was certainly Benjamin King even if he chose not to say so, took her hand and bowed over it. His hair was the same thick, dark brown it had always been, but heaven help her, this was not little Ben King. This was grown-up, square-jawed too-handsome-for-his-own-good Ben King. Even as ridiculous as it was, Harriet desperately wanted to fan herself.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Dunstan,” he replied in a perfectly grown-up baritone. What had happened to the high-pitched boyish voice that had never managed any level below a yell?
Harriet dipped a small curtsy. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Mr....Fauntleroy.” A sharp glance told her he noticed the hesitation, but she still had no idea if he recognized her or not. She smiled at him benignly and patted Mrs. Portman’s arm. “I hope you haven’t told him all of Hatherden’s secrets. Especially not the fact that we have the most scrumptious cheesecake baking contest in all of southeastern England.”
With that, Mrs. Portman was off and running, regaling the two of them with the tales of her recent victories and past defeats. Harriet knew the stories by heart, but she still listened with half an ear because Mrs. Portman was a born storyteller and her enthusiasm for talking bespoke her need to connect with others. Who was Harriet to deny her that small joy?
She also took the time to evaluate Mr. Bennett Fauntleroy. He was handsome, there was no doubt of that. His thick hair fell just below his ears and curled enticingly toward his neck. His nose was just the slightest bit bent near the bridge. That would be from the very accurate punch one of his brothers had landed during a particularly nasty scrape. His coat fit him well, though the cuffs were worn and some of the seams frayed.
As for his mouth, well, that had always been made for smiling, but also for scowling when he didn’t win. Now, how easy was it to imagine those lips curving in roguishness just before they claimed hers?
Oh dear God. She really did need that breath of fresh air.
She must have made a moue of distaste, for Ben’s green eyes took on a questioning look. Harriet turned her attention back to Mrs. Portman. Ben, too, listened attentively and even asked a couple of polite questions of the older woman. Harriet shouldn’t have been surprised by his civility, but she was. She had so despaired of Ben ever outgrowing his rambunctiousness. Heavens, she still marveled at her brother James’s gentlemanly behavior even though he was a man grown and about to be wed.
At this point she didn’t know what to do about Benjamin King/Bennett Fauntleroy. She wanted to drag him off to a corner and demand answers to a thousand questions, chief among them: why was he pretending to be someone else? Alas, she could do no such thing.
So instead, she asked Mrs. Portman about the rose bush she was cultivating with her husband. “How are your trials with the Hatherden rose coming?”
“Oh Harriet, you would not believe the compost the colonel and I have concocted. It smells absolutely vile, but the resulting blooms are proof positive that it works. If you wish, I can send a batch over for Henry to use on the hydrangeas at Rutledge Manor. I know those are your favorites.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Portman. I will let you know how they get on with your secret composition. Perhaps this might be the year I beat the vicar in the Best Bloom category.”
The two of them reminisced about last year’s garden party for a few more minutes. At a lull in the conversation, Ben turned to the older woman.
“Mrs. Portman, I find I can no longer just stand here with such lively music playing. Would you honor me with a dance, ma’am?”
Harriet stared at him, just managing not to place a hand over her heart at the generosity of his spirit. He would grow into a fine man indeed, one day. So lost was she in her admiration that she missed something crucial, for the next thing she heard was:
