A Rake for All Seasons
A Regency and Victorian romance boxset
SAMANTHA HOLT
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Rake Who Rescued Me
Sinful Cravings
Kissed at Midnight
Amelia and the Viscount
Wake Me With a Kiss
The Rake Who Rescued Me
SAMANTHA HOLT
Copyright © 2018 Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
HELSTONE PRESS
Chapter One
Hampshire, England 1815
Reed slung his shirt over his bare shoulders and headed downstairs. The plush red carpet cushioned his feet and he squinted at the glittering chandelier in the main hall while it reflected far too much daylight for his liking. He paused to peer at the grandfather clock and grumbled when he noted the time.
Two o’ clock. Mid-afternoon.
He never usually cared if he slept away the day but for a change, he had things to do.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Mosley greeted.
“Christ, Mosley,” Reed grumbled.
He twisted to view the butler as the stern-faced man stepped out of the shadows. The damned man had to have the ability to pass through walls, such was his ability to slip into rooms unnoticed. For as long as he could remember, the butler had been lingering in corners and watching over every aspect of the running of Keswick Abbey.
“Must you skulk so?” Reed demanded and pushed an arm through one shirt sleeve.
“I never skulk, Your Grace.” The thin man’s white eyebrows rose. “Your valet was not available this morning?” Mosley did a slow perusal of Reed’s person, no doubt taking in the bare feet, the open shirt, the mussed hair. The truth was, Reed’s head was thumping, and his stomach grumbled. All he wanted was coffee and sustenance. Then he would worry about his appearance.
He waved a hand. “I’ll dress properly later.”
“Indeed.”
Reed narrowed his gaze at the butler, whose lips remained pressed into an implacable line. “It was a late night, Mosley. I could do without your silent judgement.”
“A butler never judges.”
“This one does.”
“Will you be wanting breakfast, Your Grace, or lunch? Or perhaps supper?”
Reed laughed and shook his head, hearing every drip of disdain in his butler’s voice. Despite it all, Mosley had been with the house for nigh on twenty years and would never go anywhere else. Nor would Reed wish him too. Sometimes it was interesting to have some starched old stick of a man give him a little moral guidance. He rarely paid attention, but it could be amusing.
“This is not the latest I have ever risen, and you know it.” He eyed the door to the breakfast room. “A light breakfast, I think. I shall take it in the drawing room. Eggs, sausage, bacon. Some toast I think. Lots of coffee. Tomatoes. Ask Mrs. Harris if she has any black pudding. Oh, and some of those pastries she makes so beautifully.”
“Of course, Your Grace. A nice, light breakfast. I shall see to it at once.”
“Is my brother around?”
“Lord Courtenay has been up for several hours, Your Grace. He is likely in the study.”
Of course Noah was hard at work already. His younger brother had embraced the running of the estate years ago and could still not let the reins go. It rather suited Reed, frankly.
“I shall hunt him down after sustenance I think.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Reed waited for the butler to move away silently before shoving his arm into the other sleeve. He did not bother doing up his shirt. He would get changed shortly, though not into his finery. He had a task to fulfil and breeches and tailcoats would not do the job.
He pushed open the door to the drawing room.
A woman screamed.
He cursed.
The woman in question scrabbled to standing and nearly toppled over the back of the Louis XIV chair on which she’d been sitting. Reed instinctively leaped forward to aid her, but she screamed again so he retreated whilst his head panged in protest.
Damnation, he should not have drunk so much at the Ellis’ last night. He knew full well he had a busy evening of it tonight, yet he had been unable to resist drowning away his boredom at the dinner party in an attempt to make the evening pass quicker.
It worked relatively well but it seemed the alcohol could not have been of brilliant quality because it had left him with a damnably dry tongue and fuzzy head.
And this woman was not helping one bit.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded, fumbling to do up his shirt. And why had Mosley not warned him he had a visitor?
She turned her gaze to the molded ceilings while he tried to make himself presentable. Not an easy task when merely wearing a thin shirt and breeches. He shoved the shirt into the waistband and grimaced when he realized the placket was fully open. Hastily doing it up, he then thrust a hand through his hair and turned his attention to the woman.
Woman was perhaps a little generous. Though technically old enough, she was a fragile young thing. Thin, bony, with no breasts to speak of. Her summer gown hung from her like a pair of curtains and the print was not much more flattering. Her face spoke of youth and innocence but not in the appealing I should quite like to test that innocence way. More like that of a child.
If the spots of color on her cheeks and the way her body trembled lightly was anything to go by, her innocence was likely far too embedded for his liking. He doubted she had ever seen or done an interesting thing in her life and conversations with this stranger would amount to nothing other than her agreeing with every damn thing he said.
Not that it mattered. Because as soon as he had established why she was in his house, unescorted and apparently unknown to his staff, he would send her on her way.
“Well?” he demanded when he had finished righting his minimal clothing.
The fair-haired girl caught his gaze and the blush on her cheeks spread down to her chest. With a lack of bosom to intrigue, he found following the color easy enough to resist.
“F-forgive me, Your Grace.”
Her body gave a tiny judder that wracked her frame. He held back a sigh and motioned to the seat on which she’d been sitting. “Do sit.”
The strange woman did so but not before glancing at the chair, as though checking it was indeed a chair and he was not playing some heinous trick like a child might play on his governess. Not that he ever did such things, he thought with a slow grin. His governess had never quite been able to prove that he was behind about every bit of mischief she’d suffered.
She eased herself down and Reed eyed the sofa opposite. He should remove himself from the room really. If he remained much longer, they would be discovered and for all he knew, she was some fortune hunter, looking to snare him and force him into a marriage.
However, when he glanced into pale eyes, he saw nothing but horror and utter innocence. This was no scheming woman.
There was one woman in his household who was, though.
Understanding dawned.
“Did my mother invite you here?”
The woman nodded slowly.
“Ah.”
“She-she asked me to come early. I have been waiting some time. No one attended to me.”
He should not curse the woman who had labored hard to bring him into this world, but he would today. He did a cir
cle of the room and skimmed a finger over the gilded fireplace. “No one has seen you here?”
She shook her head. “No, Your Grace.”
His mother likely wanted her to remain unseen—at least until they could be caught together in some compromising situation.
“Where is my mother?”
“She said she had to leave.” The girl-woman twined her hands together.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Ever since he’d returned from France, the dowager duchess had been determined to see him married off. For the most part, her antics had revolved around forcing him to dance with every woman in England, but she had manipulated a few meetings that made him grateful he did not embarrass easily.
The last one had been when one of his mother’s guests had accidentally fallen in the lake. And needed carrying. By him. Because according to his mother, it would be utterly scandalous for anyone else to touch the young lady. It was a minor miracle his mother had not insisted he strip off her wet clothes and warm her up.
He had to confess, that woman had been slightly more appealing than this one. Dark and comely. He peered at his unexpected guest again. She was not unattractive but certainly not his type. Apparently, his mother was trying out a nice mix of women on him, hoping one might stick.
“What is your name?”
“Lady Edith, Your Grace.” She offered an awkward curtsey which seemed ridiculous in the circumstances.
He narrowed his gaze at her. “You’re Lord Selfridge’s daughter?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” A nervous smile quivered on her lips.
“Forgive me, I did not recognize you.”
“It has been many years, Your Grace.”
Yes, since France. He had only been back a year and had hardly spent much time with the local families. Something else for which his mother scolded him. It was preposterous really, being four and thirty and having one’s mother treat one as though one had never grown out of little breeches.
Not to mention being the seventh richest man in the country. How many other wealthy men had their mothers bringing in strange women and forcing them to social events that they had little interest in? Surely so long as he ensured the estate ran well and made money, all the socializing could be ignored? After all, if he was a tenant, he’d far rather his master spent less time partying and more time working.
Not that he objected to fun. Not at all. In fact, he missed it. But there was only so much fun to be had with the bores that lived in Hampshire. God, what he would not give to be back in France, tangled up in the excitement and thrill of war.
He drew in a breath and considered how to politely rid himself of his mother’s surprise. “I am afraid, Lady Edith, that my mother had been trying to play some trick on us.” He smiled. “I fear old age is taking its toll on her.”
There. His mother might not be here for that comment, but it was a small amount of petty revenge. The truth was, his mother was as spry and intelligent as ever. And far too good at meddling with his life, it seemed.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I would not have come, had I known...”
“But one cannot very well turn down an invitation from the duchess. I do not blame you one bit.”
Reed paced over to the window and peered out. The gardeners were attacking the front gardens with gusto, making the most of the sunny spring day.
He looked over his shoulder at the frail young thing. “Did you walk here?”
Lady Edith nodded.
“I shall have to ask you to slip out quietly, I am afraid. I would not wish to mar your good name, my lady.”
Color blossomed on her cheeks again but from the slight smile on her face, she was either relieved or had found his manner charming. He suspected the latter. He could hardly help himself most of the time. Since he had been a growing boy, he had this innate ability to look and speak to people and instantly charm them. For the most part, it was a handy skill, particularly when he’d been knee-deep in espionage for the Secret Service. However, it was not so useful when he was trying to throw a woman out of his house.
“I-I could stay, Your Grace. Perhaps we could take tea.”
He arrowed his gaze in on her. Apparently, this frail young thing was not as sweet and innocent as he had assumed. More fool him.
“You could, Lady Edith, but I am horribly late. Doesn’t do for a duke to be late, you know. I shall bid you good afternoon and ask that you use the rear entrance. I should hate for anyone to see you and make any incorrect assumptions.”
He swiveled to leave but a blur of muslin flung itself at him. Lady Edith flattened her mouth to his and gripped his neck with surprising strength. He forced her off him and she tumbled back.
“You kissed me! You shall have to marry me now!” she declared triumphantly.
Reed perfected his coldest look. It was one that few people ever saw. “I can assure you, I have kissed many a lady and, as you can see, I am still not wed. I am afraid you shall be disappointed to know that you shall not be changing that.”
Her wiry body seemed to deflate. “But your mother said…”
“My mother is close to being put in a lunatic asylum at this rate.” He straightened his not very straight shirt and motioned to the door. “Good day, Lady Edith.”
“But…”
“Good day,” Reed said firmly.
Lady Edith lifted her chin and gave a little sniff. Snatching up her bonnet, she strode past him and made a fine attempt at slamming the door. Thankfully the large white and gold door merely squeaked shut and Reed released the air from his lungs.
Rubbing a hand across his face, he silently cursed his mother. He was of a mind to remain forever a bachelor and his brother could inherit when he died instead. That would serve her right.
Slumping onto the sofa, he scrubbed a hand across his face and searched for signs of his lingering headache. He couldn’t say he’d enjoyed his meeting with Lady Edith but apparently surprise had cured him of that, at least.
Reed tilted his head back and eyed the cornicing on the ceiling. It was something he’d done since he was a child—traced the patterns over and over. Except when he had been a boy, he had usually hung backward off the furniture and was scolded for getting his feet all over the furnishings.
Staring at the ceiling had allowed him time to plot. How would he sneak into the kitchens? How many more tricks could he play on the maids? Would Mosley ever notice he had switched the sugar for the salt?
Now he was using the time to plan his evening. The missive he’d received from London only two days ago had come as quite the pleasant surprise. Until he had realized what a bore the task was to be. Gads, what he would not give to be in France or the underbelly of London society. But once Napoleon was defeated and exiled, they had no use for him. He had to go back to his Ducal duties.
Reed forced himself up from the chair and made his way to the morning room, where hopefully his meal would be ready. Then he would look to getting on his disguise and slipping out unnoticed. A smile crept across his face. Investigating a gypsy fair was hardly the same as mingling with the upper echelons of French society or becoming a French peasant in a dilapidated inn but at least it was something for him to do. With any luck, if he did an excellent job, the Secret Service might find more work for him. One could only hope, after all.
Chapter Two
Snores echoed from the wagon. Orelia shook her head to herself.
“Mama?” she tried. But there was no response.
Sighing, she made her way up the steps and eased open the door. Her mother lay slumped across their shared pallet. She gave another sigh. “Oh, Mama.”
Further noises that sounded more like they might escape from a beast rather than a fairly small, if plump, woman emanated from her mother’s open mouth. There would be no waking her. Which meant Orelia would be telling the fortunes tonight—again.
Orelia climbed down the steps and made her way to their tent. Visitors were already beginning to fill the land on which the travelers had
parked their wagons. Some came out of curiosity, others to make fun of the Romani. Others would enjoy the food and hospitality and spend a little money on crafts. Orelia and her mother usually made their money from fortune telling and selling lucky heather. Unfortunately, since Mama had decided she was in love with Simen, she had taken to drinking more heavily.
Orelia set up the sign and tied back the curtain before ensuring everything was in place. The dark tent housed only two chairs and a rickety table. It was up to her to create some magical effect. What a shame she had no ability to tell fortunes at all. Her mother had all the skill but no interest in ensuring they had food in their bellies and a wagon that did not leak. No, she was far too interested in Simen, Orelia thought bitterly. Heaven forbid her daughter might need something.
“Tell your fortune?” she asked a passing man, but he ignored her.
Of course, this was how it had always been, had it not? Her English father had overlooked her then left to fight in the war. Her mother had ignored her unless she could somehow use her to get some drink. As half-Romani, she was either disregarded or spat on by others. She could not even say her community cared that much about her. After all, they were too busy trying to make a living too, and many did not trust her thanks to her mixed blood.
She tried again. “Good lady, tell your fortune? Will you find love? Wealth? Happiness? I can tell all.”
The lady in question ignored her too.
“Well you won’t find any with a face like that, I can tell you that for free,” she grumbled.
“What of my face?”
Her heart thudded against her rib cage and she whirled to come face to face with a pirate. No, not a pirate. A man. But he had an eyepatch. She glanced down. No wooden leg as far as she could see. And, actually, in the torchlight, he was too handsome to be a pirate, even if his curly moustache did him no favors. Perhaps she could tell him that his future prospects would improve without the facial hair?
“You have a very fine face, sir. And an excellent future ahead of you, I suspect. But I can only say for certain if you allow me to tell you your fortune.”
A Rake for All Seasons: A Regency and Victorian Romance Boxset Page 1