Have You Any Rogues? by Elizabeth Boyle Read Free Book Online Page A

argue with that. In fact, she silently agreed with him. How her life might have been different if only . . .
    “I tried to meet you,” Hen told him. “I would have gone to Paris with you.”
    “Actually, I’ve always been a bit relieved you didn’t,” Crispin offered. “Whatever would I have done if you had been caught up as I was? No, it was better that you remained in London.”
    For Crispin hadn’t come home as he’d planned.
    And all the while she’d waited, her fury at Christopher knowing no bounds.
    But even that had faded once any hope of Crispin’s ever returning was lost.
    Bletcher House
    Surrey, 1805
    “L ady Astbury?”
    Henrietta turned around slowly. She’d come down to dinner early, for there wasn’t much to primping and dressing when one could only wear black. “Yes, Lord Michaels?” She smiled slightly at the rake. Not to encourage him but to tease the fellow a bit.
    She shouldn’t even have been attending a house party, but when the invitation had arrived, she’d hardly been able to refuse—not when she’d learned that her hosts had engaged a noted tenor to sing for the party.
    Besides, it was only another month before she’d be out of her weeds for good, so it was hardly that unseemly for her to appear in public.
    Not that her mourning period had mattered much to the rogue’s gallery of suitors who had been sniffing about since Astbury’s accident—including this handsome devil, Lord Michaels, the baron being one of her more persistent admirers.
    “Lady Astbury,” the baron repeated in that sultry voice of his, a rich, deep baritone that left her shivering.
    Of all the men in her circle of admirers, she found him the most intriguing.
    In another time, Lord Michaels would have been the sort to catch the eye of a Virgin Queen, his sharp tongue and sweet words convincing her to finance his pirate adventures. In fact, it was rumored that was exactly how one of his forebearers had managed his barony and the family fortune. This Michaels had inherited not only the title and the money but also the infamous Michaels features—bright eyes, a hawkish nose and dark, coal black hair.
    The man had left a wake of swooning ladies and broken hearts in London, but Hen alone had remained aloof to his overtures.
    Her grief—she told herself—so raw and fresh was what was keeping her heart from being engaged. But that was merely the lie she told herself to keep from admitting the truth.
    She was still waiting for another. As foolish as that might be.
    Rather like her flirtation with Michaels. Though she did like the way he made her laugh. Forget her misery, which for the last few months had wound around her like an unbreakable chain—having lost her mother, her husband and then her father in quick succession.
    And yet here was Lord Michaels, writing her poetry. Foolish bits of nonsense, so that she couldn’t help but be touched.
    Perhaps this poetic streak was what had finally convinced old Queen Bess to raise up the first upstart Michaels.
    “Have you heard?” the baron teased. “That there has been a horrible mistake with supper.”
    That caught her attention. “A mistake?”
    “Yes,” he told her, coming into the empty drawing room. “A most dreadful one. Our hostess—” he shuddered a bit, and Hen knew exactly what he meant.
    Lady Bletcher was a horror—a dim-witted flibbertigibbet who could barely order a proper tea, let alone arrange a complete supper. But what did one expect when Lord Bletcher had been married three times, with each wife considerably younger than the last?
    And if it was possible, sillier than her predecessor.
    The newest Lady Bletcher was no more than seventeen, an ornament merely, and worse, a cit ’s daughter who had brought an enormous dowry to her marriage and now fancied herself quite the tonnish Original. And her knowledge—or, rather, lack thereof—of the simplest matters such as precedence at the table was shocking.
    And honestly, no one of any