Submitting to the Rake

by EM BROWN

  He shook his head. He had denied his lust in favor of honor. To seek another meeting with Heloise would tarnish the integrity of his noblesse oblige. There were others more suited to Château Follet. Perhaps he could amuse himself by seducing Anne Wesley into retracting her unkind words. He was confident she would sing his praises before long.

  Time would ensure that Miss Merrill became but a faint memory. If only that were what he desired.

  * * * * *

  The weeds resisted, and Heloise welcomed their defiance as she tugged at them—anything to command her attention and keep her mind off Château Follet and the Earl of Blythe. A sennight had passed and still it was no easy matter to forget him, especially in the quiet of night. Lying in bed, she would caress the parts of her that he had caressed. Her body longed for his touch and the way he made her feel alive. She missed their exchanges.

  But she had not heard from him since leaving Château Follet. She knew not if he had attempted to contact Josephine. Somehow she suspected he was done with both Miss Merrill as well as Miss Josephine.

  The afternoon sun shone brightly and perspiration trickled down the side of her face as her uncle approached her. He looked very much like her father, only a bit more stout about the belly. She often thought how fortunate she was that she had such a kindhearted guardian.

  “Er, Heloise,” he said, peering at her through his bifocals. He hesitated, apparently deciding not to say what he had initially intended.

  Ceasing her activity, Heloise looked up at him and waited.

  After clearing his throat a few times, her uncle blurted, “How do you know the Earl of Blythe?”

  Heloise felt her stomach drop. “Sir?”

  “He is not a man I thought would be familiar to you.”

  Avoiding his gaze, Heloise wondered how she could answer him. This was not how she had meant to repay his kindness for taking her in, and yet she was guilty of deception and shame. Should she confess the whole truth and offer to take her leave? Surely he would not want to keep her in his household after learning the truth?

  “He has a…” her uncle began again, “a repute of sorts, you know.”

  “Yes, I am aware of his character,” she replied, fidgeting with her gloves. She dug for courage to ask, “Why do you wish to speak of Lord Cadwell?”

  “He is here.”

  Her breath halted sharply. “He—Lord Cadwell came to see you?”

  “He came not for me but for you.”

  “Me?” she echoed. “Not…Josephine?”

  “I, er, asked the same, but he was quite clear. A direct man, this earl. In truth, his candor took me by surprise. Nonetheless, I told him that I would not be deemed a responsible guardian if I were to countenance your acquaintance with him. He said he quite understood my fear that I would be feeding the sheep to the wolf, as it were, but he praised your sense of judgment, and I had to agree. I do wish Josephine shared of your discrimination.”

  The irony of his words made her cringe.

  “I leave it up to you then,” he continued, “to decide if you will see him. If you’ve no wish to, I will send him away.”

  Heloise searched his face and realized there was no anger there.

  “I will see him.”

  When her uncle left, she wished she had asked him to make the earl wait in the drawing room, that she might have an opportunity to attend her toilette. Having exerted some effort in gardening, she must have looked as unkempt as she had that first day at Madame Follet’s. She removed her gloves, wiped the perspiration from her brow, and attempted to tuck her curls into some sense of order.

  But why worry of her appearance? she reasoned. She knew not the purpose of his call. Indeed, she had not expected to see him again after his departure from the château. But perhaps he harbored some guilt for having seduced her? Or wished to point out that he had not seduced her but that she had willingly given herself to him so that she had no claims upon his conscience? Perhaps he wished once more to warn her not to meddle in his affairs. Well, she had no intention of interfering in his pursuit of her cousin. And she had no wish to force his hand. No one knew she was ruined, and she trusted him not to speak of it. Though she had not been able to refrain from thinking of him these past days, he would not know it.

  Still, she could not stay her vanity from smoothing down her gown and being dismayed upon discovering a stain. She tried to rub it out.

  “Miss Merrill.”

  Her head snapped up to see the Earl of Blythe standing before her, as immaculately dressed as ever in his high polished Hessians, trim cutaway coat with brass buttons and starched cravat.

  “Your Lordship,” Heloise returned as blandly as she could, attempting not to be unnerved by the manner in which his gaze bored into her as she bobbed a curtsy.

  Silence settled between them as he took her in. Heloise pulled at the fingers of her gloves. It was he who had called upon her. Why did he not speak? Afraid that he would unearth her true feelings, she kept her eyes averted and waited unsuccessfully for him to begin the dialogue. When he did not, she was tempted to ask him if he had come all this way simply to stare at her.

  “You have a purpose for your visit, Lord Cadwell?” she relented at last.

  He eyed her carefully. “Indeed.”

  The man was insufferable. He was not making this easy for her.

  “My cousin is not here,” she informed him, tossing her gloves into a basket with her gardening tools. She was determined that he would not know the pain she had felt when he had left the château with only the slightest by-your-leave. Nor would he know the anger she felt—anger that now fueled her nerves when a part of her wanted only to flee from him that she might shed her tears in solitude.

  “I came not for her.”

  Of course she knew that. Her uncle had said as much. Nonetheless, and though she knew not the purpose of his call, she felt gratified to hear from his own lips that he was here for her, no matter his purpose.

  “Then why did you come?” she ventured.

  “Our farewell at the château was unsatisfactory,” he answered, his voice dark.

  Ah. She had suspected he had more compassion than he had shown.

  “I found it decent enough,” she lied and even managed a small smile at him. Her response seemed to unsettle him, but her triumph was diminished by the wretchedness she felt. She wished he would leave so that she might properly grieve over a romance that lived only in her imagination, berate herself for having been such a dolt, and return to being the sensible young woman her uncle had praised but moments ago. A sensible and wiser woman.

  He narrowed his eyes. “It was an abrupt adieu.”

  “It was.” She considered as she picked up her basket, proud that she maintained her composure, but she did not trust it to last much longer. “But pray do not trouble yourself on that.”

  She turned to leave but he grasped her wrist. Her heart hammered violently at his touch.

  “Trouble myself?” he said in a near growl. “I have only slept fitfully these last seven nights since leaving you.”

  For the first time she noticed the darkness beneath his eyes. Had he as strong a conscience as that? Despite her anger at him, her heart ached for his distress.

  When he did not release her, she glanced toward the house to see if her uncle might be watching. He would not approve of such familiarity from the earl. Realizing the same, Lord Cadwell dropped her wrist—reluctantly, it seemed.

  “It was my own fault,” he said. “It was not a proper farewell.”

  Though his jaw was still tight, the look in his eyes had softened. She faltered and could not stop her voice from quavering as she asked, “What…what would you have considered a proper farewell, my lord?”

  His gaze made the space about them intimate without his having to stir. His response was low and husky. “Something I dare not do at present, for I would not cause a scandal in your uncle’s garden.”

  She stared at him with her mouth agape. Groaning, he glan
ced toward the house, then defiantly stepped toward her, placed his finger beneath her chin as he had done that night in the theater, and closed her mouth.

  “Your lips will be the death of me, Miss Merrill,” he murmured.

  The hammering of her heart moved up into her head, making it difficult for her to think. His touch recalled their night of passion, and her body thrilled to it instantly. In his eyes, she now beheld a smoldering agony. Did she dare hope…?

  “My lips?”

  “Yes. The vision of which has haunted me day and night.”

  She closed her eyes and heard his words echo in her head. Haunted me day and night. Just as he had haunted her thoughts and dreams. The anguish melted from her and with it her calm.

  A breeze wafted around them, blowing the scent of the flowers into the air.

  As if encouraged by the look in her eyes when she opened them, Sebastian continued, “I came, Miss Merrill, to inform your uncle of my intentions to court you.”

  Dumbfounded, she could only stare at him. The words he had uttered sounded almost ludicrous. Court her?

  “I intend the courtship to bear all the markings of respectability,” he assured her, unsettled by her silence, “though, damn me, it will be no easy feat when my body burns with desire for you.”

  Her mouth fell open again. If her heart could glow, she would be brighter than a beacon. She recovered from the audacity of his statement. “Respectability from you, Lord Cadwell?”

  “It took me seven days to realize that I have no choice but to attempt respectability if I ever hope to possess you in my arms once more. You deserve no less. But I give you fair warning—you know me for what I am, Miss Merrill.”

  “I do not think I do,” she returned. “I thought our affair confined to the château. Your departure made that quite clear, I think.”

  “I was appalled,” he explained, “that you might be discovered in a compromising situation.”

  She flushed. “You may recall, sir, that you have not the honor of having been the first.”

  A muscle rippled along his jaw. “I will not discuss the particulars of that. I thought that you would wake with remorse for what had happened betwixt us and that you would be relieved for me to be gone.”

  “Yet here you are,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, here am I, for it is the nature of the male sex to pursue, against all odds, until he has been bludgeoned and all recourse dissolved. I want you, Miss Merrill, more than I have ever wanted most other women. If the nature of such feelings should be love, I will not spurn it.”

  She contemplated what he said, her gaze raking over him, saying nothing. She felt mastery of the situation, for he had made clear his feelings but she had yet to reveal hers. He was staring at her as if she were prey he meant to devour. Desire lighted his eyes, and the look made her loins warm and a familiar wetness begin to form. But she continued playing the coquette through her silence for well he deserved it.

  “You disappointed me, Lord Cadwell,” she said at last.

  His brows rose.

  “I had hoped to stay the full three nights at Lady Follet’s,” she finished.

  He beamed.

  “As for respectability…” she continued, her eyes bright as she leaned toward him, “that sounds rather boring.”

  He groaned. “Miss Merrill, you would make a further rake of me.”

  “There is a part of the garden hidden from all view,” she whispered with a sly smile.

  “I could not, Miss Merrill,” he said after some hesitation. “I may be a rake, but you will not find it so easy to question my resolve as you had. I will be a gentleman.”

  Not for long, she thought to herself. She had no qualms about seducing him. But she gave him her brightest smile and took the arm he offered to escort her back to the house.

  “How unfortunate,” she replied lightly, using his words. “Perhaps that can be changed.”

  The Earl of Blythe grinned. “My dear Miss Merrill, you are a perfect rake.”

  About the Author

  Em Brown is a multi-published author who enjoys writing both contemporary and historical romances, but mostly likes to dabble in the Georgian and Regency periods. What’s not to like about men in tight-fitting breeches!

  Finding the time to write while juggling a full-time job and raising two precocious daughters has proven to be quite the challenge for this author, but she has accepted the fact that she’s graying early and can’t imagine a life without writing.

  Em welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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