by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
“I see,” he said abruptly. “I was not aware of your prior claim. I am newly returned to London, and as you seem to also know, was a soldier for many years before that. I was not aware of the rules.”
“There are no rules.” Lord Shelton laughed. “Or rather, it’s a game where we constantly reinvent the rules. It’s just that I wondered if you had a new game in mind. Because, you see, it was not only charming Melissa. Just the other week there was also Annabelle, my favorite little minx at Madam Felice’s. Before that, the beautiful La Starr herself, and then that notoriously delicious Turner woman just last month. She still can’t stop talking about you, by the by. It has her husband looking like thunder—not to mention what it has done to my poor self-esteem. I was wondering if you were concentrating on my particular familiars for any reason. Revenge for my dalliances with a friend or favorite of your own, perhaps? Or some other reason I should know of?”
But now the harsh face before him showed something other than impatience; the viscount was clearly stunned.
“I have no quarrel with you,” he said stiffly, “nor had I any idea I was dallying with any of your ... That is to say, I had no idea. I bear you no ill will, either, I promise you. Nor do I like the idea of consorting with women who...” He paused, realizing it was stupid to say he didn’t like sleeping with women who had other men. What did he think opera dancers, actresses, and women who lived in bawdy houses did when he wasn’t with them? His dark face grew darker with embarrassment. “My apologies,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be more circumspect in the future.”
But now Lord Shelton roared with laughter. It was a rich, hearty sound that caused many in the room to smile with him. “My dear boy,” Lord Shelton finally managed to say, “why should you be? It is the nature of men such as we to go after the most delicious females on the town. If we were to mind stepping on each other’s toes, why, we’d be sitting home each night with our tabbies and nice cups of tea. Not our sort of fun at all. Nor fun for the dear ladies of our nights, either. Where would they be without us? No—so long as I know you’ve no intent other than the pursuit of pleasure, why, then, let the best man win. It may be,” he said slyly, “that I can take one from you one day, you know. Youth and appeal are not everything; experience counts, too.”
The viscount’s dark eyes showed a flash of sudden pain. Those luminous eyes of his spoke volumes when he forgot to keep his thoughts from them—which was probably why the man kept himself under such tight control, Lord Shelton thought. Because even as he watched, he could no longer be sure of what he’d seen; the viscount’s harsh and dour expression was back in place, his eyes cold again.
“The field is yours. I have no wish to compete. I am not a rake,” Ian said in a tight voice. “Nor do I wish to become one. It’s merely that it was a long war for me, and I find myself in need—of diversion.”
“Ah, yes. I see,” Lord Shelton said thoughtfully.
“I don’t wish to return to the countryside as yet,” Ian said, as though the words were forced from him. “I only recently came into the succession. My brother died when I was in Spain. It took months for me to hear of it. I returned to England to find that his wife still needs time before I take over her house and home. So I remain in London, and while I do, I...”
“No need to explain, my lord,” Lord Shelton said quickly. “I quite understand. More than you know. After all, I inquired about you when I believed you bore me a grudge. And I did know your father. Yes, we were at University at the same time, different years of course, but there was an overlap.” That was all there’d been. Lord Shelton had been sent down from school so many times his term overlapped many others’. He only vaguely remembered Viscount Hunt. They’d had nothing in common. But the remembrance served to calm his son down now, and that was all he wanted.
“But as for being a rake?” Lord Shelton continued blandly. “I don’t recall exactly vying for the title, either. It was awarded to me without my knowledge because that’s how it is acquired, like honors for work done. One day I was just a young rogue looking for an accommodating female to pass a night with—and when I turned round a few years later, why, I was a full-fledged rake.
“You seem discomforted,” he said, seeing the viscount’s unease. “Please don’t be. Just think of the other roles a fellow of title and fortune can play in our weary world and you’ll see being a rake is not such a bad thing. It’s certainly more interesting than being a dandy. Clothes are important, but those fellows make haberdashery their religion and their tailors, high priests. And being a rake is far less exhausting than being a Corinthian. All that sport wears one out before one’s time. Not like my sort of sport, which is amazingly revitalizing. We rakes do tend to get a measure of healthful, restorative sleep as a natural result of our accomplishments, you know.”
The harsh face before him grew a slight grin, which softened it.
“Nor is it like being a ‘Peep o’ Day’ boy, either,” Lord Shelton went on, encouraged, “which is only a jolly name for a nasty fellow who enjoys roughing up old men trying to eke out existences as watchmen, or tipping over barrow monger’s carts, when they’re only attempting to make a living as well, or bullying women they find defenseless, or forcing them ... No, no. That’s not in our line at all. Rakes like females. Nor do they dally with underage girls—that’s for men who are afraid of grown women. No, rakes want full-blown willing females. And in order to succeed with them—for a rake is not a man who always buys his pleasure, that’s a hedonist—why, then, he must have manners, charm, and intelligence. The dance is just as important to a true rake as what happens when the music stops, you see. The rake’s ideal is to make the acquisition of a female as interesting and pleasurable an experience as the having of her is.
“Or so it used to be. But those were different days, when I shared the honors with the likes of Torquay and Bessacarr, Kidd, Austell and North—men of wit and title whose quirkish personalities were distinctly rakish. True rakes, to a man, in that they enjoyed women, sequentially. Alas, they’ve all fallen to matrimony, and all that changed. They’re as constant as they were inconstant before, and that is to say considerably. While they’re still excellent fellows, they’re staid as standing stones now. I like them very well until they begin to talk about their families. I have none, you see—except for some tedious relatives who are beginning to wonder what I’ll leave them besides a bad reputation. Perhaps that’s why I was so quick to claim you as one of my diminishing fraternity. You remind me of myself in my salad days, you see.”
The viscount’s smile slipped.
“At any event, no hard feelings, eh?” Lord Shelton asked. “I hope we meet again at some more opportune time. But I find myself quite unable to concentrate just now,” he said, pointedly staring at a pretty little dancer who was smiling at him from across the room, “so if you’ll excuse me?”
The viscount bowed. Lord Shelton stuck out his hand. “Courtesy is all very well, but I’d feel much more assured of your goodwill if we shook hands on it.”
“Gladly done,” the viscount said, and they shook hands.
The hand Lord Shelton took was a hard one, the clasp strong, but tempered. As he’d expected. He’d seen that hand many times during this past week as he’d watched the viscount from afar: seen it holding cards and wineglasses, as well as a woman’s waist as he’d steered her across a room. It had told him more about the viscount than rumor could. Because the way a man touched a woman could show another man much about him. Ian Hunt didn’t grab, or grasp a woman greedily or roughly. That lean, tanned, long-fingered hand held a woman carefully but firmly, with possession yet consideration, with grace and manners, no matter what her station.
Yes, this was the man he needed, Lord Shelton thought, pleased and reassured. He smiled, bowed, and then wandered off into the crowd.
Alone again, Ian stood deep in thought. He’d left Madam Felice’s because he had been waiting to see the girl he’d enjoyed last time, and finally had—but as she was re
turning from a trip upstairs with another man. It shouldn’t have bothered him. That was her business. He was no boy; he knew the popular jest about her sort: they were the luckiest tradespeople in the world because they could keep selling what they had and still have it to sell. But he’d never seen himself as one in a line before, as a man buying the same goods someone else just had. At least he’d never let himself see it. Tonight he had. And so he’d left, to see if he could meet a woman at the theater, perhaps one who wanted a person instead of a patron.
Because tonight he wanted more than a willing body. He’d had enough of that in London. It hadn’t been what he’d needed. But instead of finding a merry, yielding woman, he’d met a man who considered him a rake. Maybe he was becoming one. Maybe it was time to leave London.
After all, Christmas was coming. He couldn’t escape knowing that here. Every shop window proclaimed it. From jewels to jellies, every item in the merchants’ windows was displayed with holly, every bakeshop bore Christmas on its brandied breath, street vendors cried wares for the coming holiday, street musicians caroled it, and every beggar whined its name. Even Madam Felice’s had been draped in evergreens, and as a rare old jest, slung with mistletoe. When he’d been soldiering in Spain, he’d missed Christmas at home. But so had all the Englishmen there, and he hadn’t felt so alone. Here, home at last, the coming of Christmas made him homesick for a home he dared not return to.
That might have been what sent him into the arms of so many women. He wanted to believe that, and not that he’d become a rake like Shelton. Because whatever else a rake might be, Ian was sure he couldn’t be a man of honor. And that was what he tried to be.
A second son, junior to his brother by more than a decade, by the time he’d come along his brother and his father had become more than father and son, they were fast friends. They’d tolerated him, but never let him into their magic circle, and had only grown closer to each other after his mother died. He regretted that but reckoned they taught him a valuable lesson, one that had saved his life many times in Spain: to never be sure of his welcome.
His brother was the heir, and like his father, of robust health. Ian had never thought to inherit, and there were traditional careers open to a younger son he thought he could be happy with. The church wasn’t for him, so he’d bought his colors. He’d thrived in the army. For the first time in his life he’d felt he belonged, and found the uniform and regulations easy to endure in exchange for the pleasure of feeling he was in the right place doing the right thing. He hadn’t been a harsh man then. But then he’d gone to war.
He found he hated killing, whatever the cause. But he’d also found he had to kill in order to live. The man who had split his face for him had died on his sword as retaliation, and he didn’t need the scar to remind him of it. He understood the necessity but regretted that death—and all the others he’d dealt the foe. It wasn’t only the enemy he could see. A mistress of his in Spain had turned out to be a spy. He’d left before she was hanged, and had grieved for the thought of what she’d done more than for her. He’d helped a starving child once, in a ruined village in the mountains of Spain. He rode away feeling that maybe he’d done one good thing in that ravaged land, and turned his head to wave good-bye—just in time to see the boy fire at his back and run when he saw he’d missed. It turned out the boy had wanted his horse, not his charity.
Ian Hunt had come to realize he couldn’t trust anyone, except his own men. And yet now when they invited him to their homes, he found he couldn’t bear to go. He’d had enough of war; he didn’t even want to reminisce about it.
When he’d heard that his brother had died in a hunting accident, he’d been stricken. Since he was sole heir, he was ordered to leave the army and take up his responsibilities. He was amazed to find himself relieved, and glad to go home. But he soon saw he couldn’t stay. His brother’s wife was not much older than himself, and mother to a baby girl. She wanted another husband, and silly, shallow creature that she was, she badly needed one. And though he’d tried to disbelieve it, it seemed she considered him her likeliest candidate. His father had died some years past, which meant that if he remained at home there was no way he could escape her constant company. Ian was an abrupt, plainspoken man, and he knew it. He didn’t want to hurt her, but neither did he wish to so literally fill his brother’s shoes. Home was not possible for him now—at least not until she found another man, or removed to the dower house.
By default, it was London for Christmas for him. But he reckoned it didn’t have to be unpleasant. London had many thousand souls in it; surely he could find someone he could enjoy the holiday with, someone to be close to, have a good time with—without using money, or false charm. Someone he was not trying to use solely for his own pleasure—so that he wouldn’t become a man like the one he’d just spoken with. Who was, he realized in alarm, possibly the only person he’d talked to since he’d returned from the war who really amused him, and who made any sense.
Ian Hunt, Viscount Hunt, pulled on his greatcoat, clapped on his hat, and left the Green Room as precipitously as he’d arrived in it. Leaving behind several disappointed young women. And one very thoughtful older gentleman.
“Hunt! My dear fellow, how delightful a surprise to find you here!”
Ian looked up from his plate at the sound of the merry voice to see Lord Shelton beaming down at him. “Indeed?” he asked the older man harshly, his knife and fork lowered but held in clenched hands. “But this is my hotel, and it is breakfast time. I, however, am surprised to find you here. It is not your hotel. And only army men rise this early.”
Lord Shelton laughed. “By your leave?” he asked, as a footman pulled out a chair for him.
The viscount nodded abruptly and turned his attention back to his plate. Another man might have taken umbrage at such curtness. It was just this side of incivility. But it was just this side of it, so Lord Shelton seated himself, requested coffee and toast before he sent the footman away, and then sat smiling, as though he’d been greeted with open arms. At least the viscount wasn’t reading his paper, he thought. It would do. He wondered if he was right when his companion lowered his knife and fork and looked at him steadily from eyes the color of pistol barrels.
“What is it?” Ian asked in a dangerously soft voice. “Cut line, Shelton. You may be the world’s most successful seducer, but if so, it only points out the frailty of women to me. I don’t want flowers, smiles, or charm. You’ve sought me out once too often. Why?”
“I need a favor,” Lord Shelton said calmly.
“Ah. Well, then,” the viscount replied, nodded, and went back to eating his beefsteak and eggs. He looked up after a minute to see a bemused expression on his companion’s face. “Fire away,” he said, putting down his cutlery and sitting back to listen.
“Indeed, one is tempted,” the older man murmured. And was rewarded with a harsh laugh.
“Yes. To be sure,” Ian said ruefully, “and you’re not the first to say it, either. Your pardon, my lord. I have manners. Sometimes, I forget. Please, do the same for me. What can I do for you?”
Such a turnabout! But of course, Lord Shelton thought with satisfaction, further proof this man was more comfortable doing for others than himself. “I need a friend,” he said without preamble, and was gratified to see the puzzlement and concern that temporarily appeared in the viscount’s eyes. It’s as well that he guards that face of his, the older man mused. Those emotions are deep as the man himself is. Good.
“You see, as I said the other night,” Lord Shelton went on, “most of the men I know and trust have wives and families now, and so much as they might be willing to help me, they’re not able or willing to go haring off on an adventure with me, especially now. They’re snug at their hearths at this Yuletide season. I should know—they’ve all invited me to share in the pleasure of it with them. But I’ve managed to restrain myself from the rapture of romping with their sticky children and beaming at their adoring wives whilst lifting a c
up of wassail with them.” He paused to let a footman pour his coffee and waited for his companion to stop chuckling before he continued.
“I have my own interests to pursue at this joyous season, you see,” he went on. “I’ve been invited to many house parties, but there is one, in particular, that I wish to go to. It’s to be given at Moon Manor, to the north of here, in Buckinghamshire. The problem is...” He gave an embarrassed cough. “... that I am what I am. You see, my name entitles me to many honors, but being at a respectable gathering is, alas, not one of them. In other words, I might be welcome at the home of a former rake like Torquay because although he’s a righteous family man now, he was never a sanctimonious prig. Moreover, he knows he can trust me to behave, if behave I must. Similarly, I’m welcome at my Lord Talwin’s gala gatherings right here in London because he’s still a rake—his daughters are safely married and out of the house, and his wife, wise to his ways, manages to be otherwise occupied at their home in the countryside.
“Ah, but Squire Moleswirth!” He sighed. “He’s a very distant relative, squire of Moon Manor, and a most respectable man. I know I say it as though it were a rare disease, but in his case it might as well be. It’s almost as if he suffers from it. Well at least I do. He has moderate wealth, adequate learning, but certain expectations. He wants to climb into the highest society. He has daughters he’s wishful of marrying off, brilliantly. He also has sons he wants to see in high places. He dimly perceives that despite my gamy reputation I am much more likely to gain admittance to such places than he, or else he’d never let me set foot in his house.”