A Rake for All Seasons: A Regency and Victorian Romance Boxset

by Samantha Holt

  There was only so many ways one could entertain oneself all alone in such a house. Travelling to the House of Lords from Hampshire took a good day so he did it only when vital and the rest of society there bored him. Even the men he’d gone to Eton with were dull and old to his mind. They all seemed to have suddenly become grey and tiresome during his time away.

  Unlike the vibrant Orelia. With her colorful scarves and interestingly bold manner of speaking, no one could ever accuse her of being grey and tiresome.

  They began their way down the slope toward the house. Most of the lower rooms were lit with a fine glow that spilled out onto the lawns. The stars and moon reflected off the lake to one side of the house. For the most part, he forgot how impressive the house could be. What would Orelia make of it in the daylight?

  And what the devil was he going to do with her?

  In truth, ‘buying’ her had been an ill-thought-out move. Not that he intended to keep her or any such thing. But, having seen how her mother and her mother’s lover treated her, he could hardly let her be given away to some lout of a man. He’d done the easiest thing he could do and thrown money at the problem. His instincts had guided him, and they were rarely wrong. Instinct had saved him from many a sticky situation during his time in France.

  If he could persuade her to help him, it would be easily worth the one hundred pounds he promised her mother.

  “These places are costly, that is true,” he conceded, “but they are about more than cost.”

  “Are they?”

  “What do you think they are about?”

  “Oppressing people. Making sure they know their place. Displaying wealth.”

  He could not help but grin at her impassioned tone. “Admittedly, my father made many of the renovations with the intent of making it fine indeed. But it was also because he enjoyed architecture and wanted this place to last for generations. Houses like these are our history.”

  Good Lord, he practically heard his father intoning the same words to him. When exactly had he become just like his father? That would not do at all.

  She shook her head. “Your history, you mean. Not mine.”

  “The Romani are intent on preserving their culture, are they not?”

  “Of course.”

  “My family is the same,” he pointed out. “This is part of our culture and heritage. We want future generations to look back and see the history.”

  He smirked to himself. He could hardly believe what he was spouting. The truth was, he had never much thought about what it meant to be an heir to a title. It was just how it had always been. His entire life had been lived for one moment—the day his father died. It was a rather morbid prospect, truth be told.

  Orelia did not respond until they moved past the lake and toward the grand entrance way. The two sides of the pale building jutted out slightly and two doors sat at either side of the massive gothic windows. He opted for the nearest, knowing he could sneak around and lead Orelia upstairs without questions from Mosley.

  Pausing to remove his disguise, he shoved his hat under his jacket and motioned for her to remain quiet.

  “What—?”

  “Shhh.”

  Orelia followed his instruction thank the Lord and followed him through the secondary hallway. He kept having to tug her along as she gaped at the high arched ceilings. Her bare feet at least made no sound on the floors though the housekeeper would have a fit when she saw the muddy footprints.

  Reed led her upstairs into one of the spare bedrooms. The garden room—named so because it had the best view of the gardens—was tastefully decorated by his mother for guests. Not that Orelia would be able to see that. He hastily lit a candle and set about lighting several more.

  She stood in the center of the room, hands clasped together, turning to view every angle of the pale green and gold room. The curtains were heavy and tassel-lined, and the bed canopy had been made from the same expensive fabrics. A marble fireplace dominated the room but had not been lit. Thankfully it was a mild spring evening so there was no need of it.

  “Orelia,” he prompted when she turned again, her mouth open, eyes wide.

  She stopped and looked down at her muddy feet and hem. “Why did you bring me here? I shouldn’t be here.”

  “What else was I to do with you?”

  She shrugged. “Leave me at the camp.”

  “I could hardly leave my investment behind.”

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “It may be commonplace for men like you to see women as objects to be bought and sold but I assure you, my people do not.”

  “Yet your mother offered you up for a pittance,” he pointed out.

  She gave a huff and a smile teased his lips. What a picture she made in her headscarf and her simple, mud-streaked gown. If it was not for all the dirt, he might have found himself having a tough time denying the desire to push her back onto the bed and twine his fingers into her loose, dark hair.

  A flash of an image came to him. Her hair around her bare shoulders. Breasts thrust up. Lips begging. No, apparently even a good deal of mud would not dissuade him from desiring her.

  “You clearly do not want me here if you had to sneak me in.”

  “I was sneaking myself in,” he explained. “My servants have little idea of what I do, and I have no intention of letting them know, either.”

  “You do not trust them.”

  “Never.”

  Orelia moved to the fireplace and used a finger to trace the swirling carvings in it. “It seems strange to surround yourself with people you do not trust.”

  “There are a few who have been with the house for many years whom I do trust. But maids and footmen come and go. They can rarely be trusted to keep a master’s secrets.”

  “Perhaps you should pay them better. Then they shall be less likely to leave.” She flashed a cheeky smile at him.

  Minx. She liked to toy with him apparently. And he could not help but like it.

  “I am a generous master I shall have you know.” He took a few steps closer. “Generous indeed.”

  His gaze fell to her lips. It was a move he had not considered, yet at any other time, it would have been. He would have intended to use it to throw someone off balance, to draw back the power to him. However, with Orelia, he acted entirely on instinct. The problem was, he could hardly tell if that was a good thing or not.

  She faced him head on, her chin lifted, her eyes daring him. “So, what do you want with me?”

  “Your help.”

  “You said as much. Why should I help you?”

  “Because I just paid for your services.”

  “No, you paid my mother.”

  He grinned. Beautiful—if a little filthy—intriguing and quick. She was quite the woman. “Very well, I shall pay you too.”

  Her chin dropped a little. He imagined she had not expected him to acquiesce so easily.

  “One hundred pounds too,” she said once she’d recovered.

  “Absolutely.”

  Damn this mission was costing him. But if he got to the bottom of this and found the would-be killers, perhaps the government would want his services again. One could only hope after all.

  “If you are willing to pay me, you had better let me know what you wish me to do.”

  “First, have a bath. You are filthy.”

  Color burst onto her cheeks, turning them a dusky pink that was far too enticing.

  “You made me walk across the fields.”

  “I did, but I am offering you my hospitality in return.” He scowled at her bare feet. “And some shoes. We must find you some shoes.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “So I am to stay here? Is that what you are paying for?”

  “No. Yes.” He paused and pinched the top of his nose. Damn his instincts and rash actions. What the devil had he done? “You will stay here whilst you help me,” he explained.

  “And will people not think it strange and scandalous you have a Romani woman staying with
you.”

  “Probably.”

  “But you do not care?”

  “If you do not.”

  Orelia laughed. “I am a Romani. What reputation do I have to preserve? As far as my mother and my people are concerned, once she sold me to you, I am no longer an innocent.”

  Innocent. The words rattled his brain a little. It shouldn’t have mixed with the visions he’d been having. Certainly should not have made them all the more appealing. But the idea this brazen woman had never felt the touch of a man fired something inside of him. It made him hungry to be the first to touch her.

  He waved a hand. “I can weather scandal easily enough. Being one of the richest men in England tends to help smooth these matters along.”

  “You are really one of the richest men in England?”

  He nodded.

  Her lips tilted. “I never would have guessed.”

  “Yes, well as we both know, your gift for sight is not exactly perfect.”

  Her smile widened. It struck him like a bolt to the heart. That was what had intrigued him to begin with. After that first night in her tent, her smile had lingered with him the rest of the night. How easy and genuine it was. Unlike the calculated smiles of the ladies he usually associated with.

  “I think I should be offended,” he added.

  “Do not be. It simply means you are not as prissy and uptight as most rich men.”

  He dipped his head, taking the compliment for just that.

  “So while I stay here, what will you have me do?”

  “Ah yes, the mission.” The damned mission that he somehow managed to keep completely forgetting. “I need information on your people. Somehow, I have to find these men. Yet I have been unable to find out anything. Those who are willing to talk tell me little and the rest refuse to speak to me.”

  “I’m not surprised. We do not trust gadje—outsiders,” she added.

  “But they trust you. You can help me.”

  “Help you lay the blame at the feet of my people you mean.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “The evidence points at them.”

  She shook her head then thrust out a hand. He lifted a brow and eyed it.

  “I will help you,” she declared, “but only to prove that my people had no hand in these dealings.” She motioned with her hand again. “We shake on this do we not?”

  He hadn’t the heart to tell her that he never shook hands with women as it wasn’t the done thing, so he took it and smothered a laugh when she tried to take his hand in a crushing grip.

  “We have a deal then.”

  He nodded. “We have a deal. Now let’s get you that damn bath.”

  Chapter Six

  Orelia stood to one side while the slightly fatigued-looking maids brought up buckets of warm water to fill the metal bathtub. She twined her hands together and hardly dare breathe. It was not all that late if the golden clock on the mantelpiece was anything to go by, but the women looked thoroughly annoyed with having to wait on her. She couldn’t blame them. Part of her longed to tell them to go away and she would do it herself except she would never find her way downstairs to fill it.

  She glanced around the room again. What was it with rich people and their love of gold and swirls? The ceiling was covered in swirls, all picked out with gold paint. Gold trimmings, candlesticks, picture frames. The room could easily have fit her Mama’s wagon inside it, yet with all the heavy fabrics and excessive ornamentation the room felt more cramped than it should have. Now she almost longed to be outside, sleeping under the stars.

  “All done,” one of the maids declared.

  Before she could say thank you, they left. She eyed the tub with mistrust. It was not that she had never seen them before or even taken a bath, but she usually bathed in the river or occasionally filled the wooden tub and sat in that when she had the chance. But steam rose from this water and a sweet fragrance teased her. The maids had poured some concoction in it and she had little idea what it was.

  Almost feeling as though something might jump out of the water at any moment, she took a tentative step forward and peered at the water.

  “Silly girl,” she scolded herself. She was a Romani. They were brave and bold people. They travelled wherever they pleased and faced many a foe. A little water should not scare her.

  Lifting her foot, she dipped a toe into the water and mud immediately dissolved into the water and vanished.

  “Goodness.”

  She put her foot all the way in and let the warmth surround it. “Oh goodness.”

  Removing her foot, she hurriedly stripped off her clothes and discarded them in a messy pile. Orelia stepped into the bath and sank down slowly. A groan escaped her.

  She laid back and let the water lap over her body. Perhaps these rich people did know a thing or two. Their love for gold might be a little much but she could quite happily have a proper bath every day for the rest of her life. In truth, she was unsure how she would ever take a dip in a river again without remembering this experience.

  Eyes closed, she recalled the day’s events. So Reed—not Noah—really was a duke. And a spy, if he was to be believed. Her mother had sold her. She had a mighty fine bruise popping out on her cheek.

  Oh, and she was going to be a rich woman.

  Well, not as rich as the duke but it would be enough to give her freedom to do anything.

  What would she do with it?

  She opened her eyes and lifted a handful of water, letting it trickle between her fingers and splatter on her chest.

  She certainly would not stay with her mother. Not that that was an option. She had made that much clear.

  An annoying tingle started in her nose and she sniffed it away. She would not cry over that woman. Mama had never been a true mother to her. As much as she had ached for the love of a mother in her younger years, she had long since resigned herself to the fact she would never get it. Her mother was a selfish, cold woman and this was the last time she would let her hurt her.

  So she would leave her people? Strike out in the world on her own?

  Hopefully she would have time to think about it. She’d help Reed, but he was wrong. Her people were not responsible for this plot to kill Napoleon. As she had reminded him, the Romanis did not care about politics and wars. They had their own battles to fight and those were usually with the people of Britain.

  The door swung open and Orelia clamped her hands over her chest. A squeak escaped her when a maid walked in carrying a bundle of clothing.

  “What are you doing?” Orelia demanded.

  “I’m just bringing you some clothes,” the maid said, her tone disgruntled. “His Grace thought you might need some.” She put the pile on the end of the bed. “And some shoes.”

  Fighting the desire to sink down into the bath and hide herself completely, she asked, “Where are the clothes from?”

  “The dowager duchess,” she said and put the shoes on the floor.

  Even from her position in the bath, she could tell the shoes were worth more than her fee for helping Reed.

  “I cannot wear those!”

  “I said the same myself.” The maid’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “However, His Grace commands it.”

  The woman left, shutting the door behind her and Orelia took a few moments to let her heavily beating heart slow.

  “He commands it,” she intoned.

  Of course he did. He was rich and used to everyone doing as he commanded. Well, if he thought she would follow his every command, he was wrong. She was a Romani. Born free. She would never be told what to do by anyone.

  Orelia dragged herself out of the bath and dried herself on the towel draped over the back of one of the chairs.

  Wrapping the towel about herself, she picked up the shoes, one by one. The delicately pointed shoes were a pale blue silk, decorated with tiny dots and lace trimming. She eyed her own bare feet that, though now clean, were hardly delicate.

  She’d had shoes once or twice, but they we
re expensive and as soon as she had outgrown them, she had not been able to afford new ones. The years had grown leaner with her mother’s drinking so even once she’d stopped growing, she could not purchase any.

  She turned them over in her hand, touching the delicate fabric. Who did these belong to? The dowager duchess, the maid had said. What would Reed’s mother think of a gypsy girl wearing her finery?

  Turning her attention to the gown, she fingered the silk.

  The thought of the fabric near her skin enticed. It should not have done so, though. She was a Romani, unmoved by expensive belongings. As long as she was free, did it matter what she wore on her back?

  She glanced back at her filthy clothes and sighed. She could hardly wear them in this beautiful house, so she resigned herself to wearing the duchess’ clothes. She had little idea what the lady would be like, but she could imagine she would fall into a fainting fit at the idea of Orelia wearing her finery.

  Orelia had to admit that picture of a fine lady tumbling over at the sight of her in all this silk made her smile.

  Hopefully that was where that meeting would stay—in her imagination. She had little intention of putting herself in such an uncomfortable position.

  She slipped on the chemise and gown and grimaced as her damp hair began to stain the beautiful fabric. Snatching up her scarf, she bundled her hair up and tied the scarf around it.

  “You look a fool,” she told herself, when she peeked in the full-length mirror in one corner of the room. “You do not belong here.”

  Why she had to remind herself of that, she did not know. It was not exactly unobvious. Even all the maids loathed her on sight. It would not do to get used to the comfort and space of a house like this, nor the luxury of warm water and fine clothing. Even if she did rather enjoy the bath.

  Holding a breath in her lungs, she stared at herself while the candle light played across her face. She looked younger in the silk. Perhaps she even felt younger. She released the breath slowly. There was something about working so hard to survive that made her feel old and worn—far older than her one and twenty years. She imagined the ladies Reed spent time with were more youthful and innocent than she.