The Reluctant Rake

by Jane Ashford

  Somehow, the awkwardness disappeared. Georgina’s feet came to rest beside his leg on the footstool, and she rested against the length of his body in the wide chair, arms entwined about his neck. Ellerton’s hands roamed at first gently, then more urgently along her back, firing Georgina with feelings she’d never imagined. It was as if all they had felt for each other, misunderstood and thwarted till now, burst out to submerge them in passion.

  When at last they drew a little apart, both were panting and a bit taken aback by the violence of their feelings. They simply gazed for a long moment; then Ellerton laughed shakily. “You know, my one concern was that we were too much friends to feel great passion. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

  She nodded, still breathless.

  “And I have never in my life been so happy to be wrong,” he added, smiling down at her.

  Georgina nodded again.

  “Have you nothing to say?”

  “I love you,” she murmured. “I…I am so happy, I don’t know what else to say.”

  This, evidently, sufficed, for Ellerton bent to kiss her once again, and they were oblivious of all else for a prolonged period.

  “Perhaps we should, rather, be thankful for my accident,” he said after a while. “I don’t think I could answer for my restraint otherwise.”

  “I’m not thankful,” declared Georgina. Her pale blond hair had come loose from the knot on top of her head and was curling about her face. With her color heightened by emotion, she was achingly beautiful.

  He laughed. “Then I am!”

  Georgina made a face at him, and raised her lips to kiss him, showing the great strides she had made in this endeavor in only twenty minutes. His hands slid caressingly along her sides, and she shivered with pleasure.

  But Ellerton drew away first. “You really must sit here,” he said, indicating the chair arm. “What has become of the quiet, steady woman who nursed me through my injuries?”

  Georgina grinned. “I believe you have swept her completely away.” She offered her lips once more, but he looked stern and pointed to the chair arm. Still smiling, Georgina extricated herself and perched on it.

  He took her hand. “The change really is, er, startling.”

  She shrugged. “You have only yourself to blame.” Then, more seriously, she added, “And it is not such a change, I think. One can know nothing of another’s feelings until one comes close. I suppose many of our acquaintances feel things we don’t imagine, because we don’t know them well enough.”

  “I will not admit they are as extraordinary as you,” he responded.

  She bent to kiss him. Somehow, though neither knew how, Georgina resumed her previous place in the chair, and they forgot all else once more. Then she moved an arm unexpectedly and jarred his injured ribs, eliciting a quickly stifled groan. In an instant she was up and sitting on the arm again. “Your ribs, I forgot!”

  “It’s nothing. I’m all right.” Some of his chagrin had returned. “One feels damnably ridiculous trying to make love from an armchair.”

  “You could never be ridiculous,” she objected.

  The sound of the bell made them both stiffen. Then Georgina said, “They won’t bring anyone here. Gibbs will take them to the drawing room and inquire.”

  But in the hall, Susan scowled. She had been able to hear enough to utterly fascinate her, and the interruption was infuriating. Yet she did not wish to be discovered by the servants in her present position. Grimacing, she dashed to the front door and flung it open.

  Tony Brinmore stood on the step, considerably startled by the violence of his welcome and the presence of Susan rather than a footman. He opened his mouth to speak, but she gestured him in and whirled.

  Mystified, Tony entered, closing the door behind him. Susan had returned to her post. “What are you—?”

  “Shhh!”

  Frowning, he took a step closer. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  “Baron Ellerton is proposing to Georgina,” she hissed.

  “Nonsense.”

  “Shhh!”

  “You must have got it wrong,” he murmured. “No sign of that when we were out—”

  “Listen for yourself,” whispered Susan. “And do be quiet!”

  Unhesitatingly Tony joined her. From within, he dimly heard Baron Ellerton say, “When shall we be married?” and Georgina’s voice reply, “Before William and Marianne, I think. We mustn’t interfere with their plans.”

  “Well, by Jove,” exclaimed Tony.

  “Shhh!” said Susan again, exasperated.

  They resumed listening, but there were indications now that Georgina was about to emerge. Susan jerked upright. “Come on,” she hissed. “In here.” And she dragged Tony further down the hall and into the back parlor. They stood silent for a moment, listening, and heard Georgina walking upstairs.

  “Well, what do you know about that?” said Tony then. “I never suspected it, did you?”

  Susan looked scornful. “Of course.”

  “You never said anything,” he retorted skeptically.

  “I’m not a gossip!”

  He gaped at her, but decided not to contradict. “We’ve had a regular rash of offers hereabouts lately,” he said instead.

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  Tony was struck by a sudden idea. Without thinking, he said, “Maybe you and I should join in, eh?” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Indeed, he was aghast. He began to stammer a disjointed retraction.

  “Are you mad?” said Susan. “Marry you? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Weak with relief, he agreed with her. “Terrible idea. I believe I was mad. Must have been.”

  “Come on,” said Susan disgustedly. “Let’s go and twit Baron Ellerton on his engagement. He will be sorry he wouldn’t tell me what he meant to do.” She grinned wickedly. “And I must remind him that he is to be my cousin now.”

  Tony, who would have gladly followed her anywhere short of the altar at that moment, walked behind her into the hall.

  About the Author

  Jane Ashford discovered Georgette Heyer in junior high school and was captivated by the glittering world and witty language of Regency England. That delight was part of what led her to study English literature and travel widely in Britain and Europe. Her books have been published all over Europe as well as the United States. Jane has been nominated for a Career Achievement Award by RT Book Reviews. Born in Ohio, she is now somewhat nomadic. Find her on the web at janeashford.com and on Facebook, where you can sign up for her monthly newsletter.

  If you’re interested in the earlier adventures of Susan Wyndham and Lady Marianne MacClain, you can find them in Jane’s books First Season and The Impetuous Heiress, respectively.

  Can’t get enough Regency romance? Read on for a sneak peek of An Inconvenient Duke by Anna Harrington, available from Sourcebooks Casablanca February 2020!

  An Inconvenient Duke

  One

  May 1816

  Charlton Place, London

  Marcus Braddock stepped out onto the upper terrace of his town house and scanned the party spreading through the torch-lit gardens below.

  He grimaced. His home had been invaded.

  All of London seemed to be crowded into Charlton Place tonight, with the reception rooms filled to overflowing. The crush of bodies in the ballroom had forced several couples outside to dance on the lawn, and the terraces below were filled with well-dressed dandies flirting with ladies adorned in silks and jewels. Card games played out in the library, men smoked in the music room, the ladies retired to the morning room—the entire house had been turned upside down, the gardens trampled, the horses made uneasy in the mews…

  And it wasn’t yet midnight. God help him.

  His sister Claudia had insisted on throwing this party for him, apparently whether
he wanted one or not. Not only to mark his birthday tomorrow but also to celebrate his new position as Duke of Hampton, the title given to him for helping Wellington defeat Napoleon. The party would help ease his way back into society, she’d asserted, and give him an opportunity to meet the men he would now be working with in the Lords.

  But Marcus hadn’t given a damn about society before he’d gone off to war, and he cared even less now.

  No. The reason he’d agreed to throw open wide the doors of Charlton Place was a woman.

  The Honorable Danielle Williams, daughter of Baron Mondale and his late sister Elise’s dearest friend. The woman who had written to inform him that Elise was dead.

  The same woman he now knew had lied to him.

  His eyes narrowed as they moved deliberately across the crowd. Miss Williams had been avoiding him since his return, refusing to let him call on her and begging off from any social event that might bring them into contact. But she hadn’t been able to refuse the invitation for tonight’s party, not when he’d also invited her great-aunt, who certainly wouldn’t have missed what the society gossips were predicting would be the biggest social event of the season. She couldn’t accept and then simply beg off either. To not attend this party would have been a snub to both him and his sister Claudia, as well as to Elise’s memory. While Danielle might happily continue to avoid him, she would never intentionally wound Claudia.

  She was here somewhere, he knew it. Now he simply had to find her.

  He frowned. Easier said than done, because Claudia had apparently invited all of society, most of whom he’d never met and had no idea who they even were. Yet they’d eagerly attended, if only for a glimpse of the newly minted duke’s town house. And a glimpse of him. Strangers greeted him as if they were old friends, when his true friends—the men he’d served with in the fight against Napoleon—were nowhere to be seen. Those men he trusted with his life.

  These people made him feel surrounded by the enemy.

  The party decorations certainly didn’t help put him at ease. Claudia had insisted that the theme be ancient Roman and then set about turning the whole house into Pompeii. Wooden torches lit the garden, lighting the way for the army of toga-clad footmen carrying trays of wine from a replica of a Roman temple in the center of the garden. The whole thing gave him the unsettling feeling that he’d been transported to Italy, unsure of his surroundings and his place in them.

  Being unsure was never an option for a general in the heat of battle, and Marcus refused to let it control him now that he was on home soil. Yet he couldn’t stop it from haunting him, ever since he’d discovered the letter among Elise’s belongings that made him doubt everything he knew about his sister and how she’d died.

  He planned to put an end to that doubt tonight, just as soon as he talked to Danielle.

  “There he is—the birthday boy!”

  Marcus bit back a curse as his two best friends, Brandon Pearce and Merritt Ripley, approached him through the shadows. He’d thought the terrace would be the best place to search for Danielle without being seen.

  Apparently not.

  “You mean the duke of honor,” corrected Merritt, a lawyer turned army captain who had served with him in the Guards.

  Marcus frowned. While he was always glad to see them, right then, he didn’t need their distractions. Nor was he in the mood for their joking.

  A former brigadier who now held the title of Earl West, Pearce looped his arm over Merritt’s shoulder as both men studied him. “I don’t think he’s happy to see us.”

  “Impossible.” Merritt gave a sweep of his arm to indicate the festivities around them. The glass of cognac in his hand had most likely been liberated from Marcus’s private liquor cabinet in his study. “Surely, he wants his two brothers-in-arms nearby to witness every single moment of his big night.”

  Marcus grumbled, “Every single moment of my humiliation, you mean.”

  “Details, details,” Merritt dismissed, deadpan. But he couldn’t hide the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

  “What we really want to know about your birthday party is this.” Pearce touched his glass to Marcus’s chest and leaned toward him, his face deadly serious. “When do the pony rides begin?”

  Marcus’s gaze narrowed as he glanced between the two men. “Remind me again why I saved your miserable arses at Toulouse.”

  Pearce placed his hand on Marcus’s shoulder in a show of genuine affection. “Because you’re a good man and a brilliant general,” he said sincerely. “And one of the finest men we could ever call a friend.”

  Merritt lifted his glass in a heartfelt toast. “Happy birthday, General.”

  Thirty-five. Bloody hell.

  “Hear, hear.” Pearce seconded the toast. “To the Coldstream Guards!”

  A knot tightened in Marcus’s gut at the mention of his former regiment that had been so critical to the victory at Waterloo yet also nearly destroyed in the brutal hand-to-hand combat that day. But he managed to echo, “To the Guards.”

  Not wanting them to see any stray emotion on his face, he turned away. Leaning across the stone balustrade on his forearms, he muttered, “I wish I could still be with them.”

  While he would never wish to return to the wars, he missed being with his men, especially their friendship and dependability. He missed the respect given to him and the respect he gave each of them in return, no matter if they were an officer or a private. Most of all, he longed for the sense of purpose that the fight against Napoleon had given him. He’d known every morning when he woke up what he was meant to do that day, what higher ideals he served. He hadn’t had that since he returned to London, and its absence ate at him.

  It bothered him so badly, in fact, that he’d taken to spending time alone at an abandoned armory just north of the City. He’d purchased the old building with the intention of turning it into a warehouse, only to discover that he needed a place to himself more than he needed the additional income. More and more lately, he’d found himself going there at all hours to escape from society and the ghosts that haunted him. Even in his own home.

  That was the punishment for surviving when others he’d loved hadn’t. The curse of remembrance.

  “No, General.” Pearce matched his melancholy tone as his friends stepped up to the balustrade, flanking him on each side. “You’ve left the wars behind and moved on to better things.” He frowned as he stared across the crowded garden. “This party notwithstanding.”

  Merritt pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it on a nearby lamp. “You’re exactly where you belong. With your family.” He puffed at the cheroot, then watched the smoke curl from its tip into the darkness overhead. “They need you now more than the Guards do.”

  Marcus knew that. Which was why he’d taken it upon himself to go through Elise’s belongings when Claudia couldn’t bring herself do it, to pack up what he thought her daughter, Penelope, might want when she was older and to distribute the rest to the poor. That was how he’d discovered a letter among Elise’s things from someone named John Porter, arranging a midnight meeting for which she’d left the house and never returned.

  He’d not had a moment of peace since.

  He rubbed at the knot of tension in his nape. His friends didn’t need to know any of that. They were already burdened enough as it was by settling into their own new lives now that they’d left the army.

  “Besides, you’re a duke now.” Merritt flicked the ash from his cigar. “There must be some good way to put the title to use.” He looked down at the party and clarified, “One that doesn’t involve society balls.”

  “Or togas,” Pearce muttered.

  Marcus blew out a patient breath at their good-natured teasing. “The Roman theme was Claudia’s idea.”

  “Liar,” both men said at once. Then they looked at each other and grinned.

  Merritt slapped
him on the back. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to convince us that the pink ribbons in you horse’s tail were put there by Penelope.”

  Marcus kept his silence. There was no good reply to that.

  He turned his attention back to the party below, his gaze passing over the crowded garden. He spied the delicate turn of a head in the crowd—

  Danielle. There she was, standing by the fountain in the glow of one of the torches.

  For a moment, he thought he was mistaken, that the woman who’d caught his attention couldn’t possibly be her. Not with her auburn hair swept up high on her head in a pile of feathery curls, shimmering with copper highlights in the lamplight and revealing a long and graceful neck. Not in that dress of emerald satin with its capped sleeves of ivory lace over creamy shoulders.

  Impossible. This woman, with her full curves and mature grace, simply couldn’t be the same excitable girl he remembered, who’d seemed always to move through the world with a bouncing skip. Who had bothered him to distraction with all her questions about the military and soldiers.

  She laughed at something her aunt said, and her face brightened into a familiar smile. Only then did he let himself believe that she wasn’t merely an apparition.

  Sweet Lucifer. Apparently, nothing in England was as he remembered.

  He put his hands on both men’s shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s someone in the garden I need to speak with. Enjoy yourselves tonight.” Then, knowing both men nearly as well as he knew himself, he warned, “But not too much.”

  As he moved away, Merritt called out with a knowing grin. “What’s her name?”

  “Trouble,” he muttered and strode down into the garden before she could slip back into the crowd and disappear.

  Two

  Danielle Williams smiled distractedly at the story her great-aunt Harriett was telling the group of friends gathered around them in the garden. The one about how she’d accidentally pinched the bottom of—