Free Have You Any Rogues? by Elizabeth Boyle

we were old friends and asked how her cousin fared in France.” Henrietta turned away, for the words still rang in her ears.
    I fear we have little hope of ever seeing him again.
    Henrietta drew an unsteady breath. “That’s what she said,” she told him, her voice wistful. “I thought you lost.”
    “Never. Not when I had you in my heart. You were my star. My siren calling me home each night,” he told her, kissing her lightly on the forehead, his lips eagerly moving down to capture hers again.
    They kissed, their bodies stirring anew, until outside in the hallway, the sound of voices stopped them both cold.
    “I will find where my nephew has gone, and I will find him now!” This was followed with a grand huff . “It is imperative I stop him before he goes mad.”
    “Oh, good God! Aunt Damaris!” Crispin said like an oath, righting them both as he got to his feet and immediately set to work straightening his clothes.
    Henrietta followed suit. “What if she—”
    Crispin put a finger to his lips to silence her, for neither of them truly wanted to face that scene. Henrietta quickly set to work hiding the evidence of her dishabille.
    “He went down that hall not long ago, madam,” one of the footmen intoned.
    “Find him!” the lady ordered. “He’s in terrible danger.”
    From behind him, Henrietta whispered in his ear, “Am I dangerous?”
    “Utterly,” he replied, turning around and taking her into his arms for one last moment. “You’ve stolen my heart.”
    As Aunt Damaris’s determined footsteps rang louder, Crispin looked around the small room for some place to hide Hen, but there was nowhere, save the dark gardens beyond.
    Apologetically, he nodded toward the set of French doors. “Do you mind?”
    She laughed quietly. “What? And escape your aunt’s wrath? I’d walk through hell merrily rather than face that old—” She snapped her lips shut, then clapped her hand over her mouth as if she needed added insurance not to finish that sentence.
    Not that Crispin didn’t know exactly what she had been about to say. “Yes, I know. Old dragon . We call her that as well—but only behind her back and only if one is well north of the Scottish borders.” He kissed Henrietta once more, then prodded her out the doors. “I’ll come to your rooms later.”
    Henrietta’s eyes sparked, and she blew him a kiss before quickly melding into the night.
    B y the time the door to the salon swung open, Crispin had already settled himself in a chair by the fireplace.
    “Whatever are you doing?” Aunt Damaris demanded.
    “Aunt, I never thought of you as one to pry into a gentleman’s business.”
    “Where is she?” Damaris came barging into the room, searching about, even in the corners.
    “Who?” Crispin asked.
    “You know who,” she shot back as she looked suspiciously at the garden doors.
    “Hardly. Especially if I have to ask. Twice.”
    “Don’t be coy with me, boy. I’ve known you since you squalled your first. I saw how you looked at her. A Seldon, Crispin! A Seldon.”
    “A Seldon? Truly? And me without a pistol at the ready.” He rose from where he’d been sitting and nodded for her to take the grand chair.
    There was nothing Aunt Damaris loved more than a good throne from which to scold.
    “Don’t jest with me,” she said, moving to the chair, since her search had been fruitless. “This is most serious, Crispin. What that upstart little cit was thinking seating you next to the likes of her—”
    “You mean Lady Knapton?”
    “No! Lady Astbury—who, but a few Seasons back, was Lady Henrietta Seldon.”
    “No,” he gasped in mock horror. “Then it is a good thing I found her incredibly dull-witted. But then again, all the Seldons are an ill-bred lot, aren’t they?”
    “It didn’t look like you were bored to me.”
    “I was merely being polite.” He settled into the other chair and stuck his long legs out in front of him, as if settling in for a good coze.
    Aunt Damaris