The Infamous Rakes

by Amanda Scott

  He had behaved badly, and he knew he ought to apologize, but he knew, too, that he would kiss her again at the first opportunity. Her lips had been soft beneath his, and yielding. He had a strong desire to hold her in his arms again, to soothe her, protect her—or to do whatever else came to mind. He remembered the Chinese saying and collected himself. No doubt she stirred his lust, but giving in to it would never do.

  He had an urge to tease her, but at the same time he wanted to give her comfort. He strove for middle ground. “I was not aware that you were interested in rakes,” he said, “let alone those of such accomplishment as to number amongst the best.”

  She said calmly, “I was told that you fit that description, sir. I merely wondered if it is your habit to kiss every young lady who chances to find herself alone with you.”

  “It is not,” he said, unreasonably annoyed that she should label him so. Getting to his feet, he said stiffly, “It is time to go back. I offer my apologies. My behavior was unseemly.”

  “Well, it was,” she agreed, standing and shaking out her skirt, then picking up her hat from where it had fallen behind the bench. Holding it carelessly by its ribbons, she looked at him, her gaze direct and innocent. “You ought not to take such advantage of your greater strength, my lord. It is unfair.”

  His temper flared. “Now, see here,” he said sharply, “as I recall the matter, I didn’t have to use an ounce of my strength.”

  She flushed deeply and turned away. “No,” she muttered, hurrying toward the steps, “that is perfectly true. I’m sorry.”

  “Here, wait,” he called, fearing she would run away back to the house. But she stopped on the path and turned back. To his astonishment, her eyes were twinkling.

  “I hope you do not mean to scold me, sir. You were quite right to snub me just then, for I said just what I ought not to have said. I also behaved badly, and if it is all the same to you, I’d as lief not discuss the matter further. But it occurs to me now that you must have had cause to bring me here. If I flounce off in a heat of anger, we shall have to do this again.”

  “Will you come back and sit down?”

  The twinkle in her eyes deepened. “I think not, if it does not displease you. We shall be far wiser to walk. Surely you are skilled enough to walk and talk at one and the same time.” Her smile was delightful. He thought he had never seen teeth so even and white, or lips so damnably kissable.

  “I asked you a question earlier,” he said. “You did not answer it.”

  The look in her eyes became grave. “I remember your question, sir,” she said. “You asked me if I would like to tell you who was responsible. I would prefer not to do so.”

  “I want to know.” He saw her flinch at his tone and knew he had sounded angrier than he meant to, but it vexed him that she would keep such information to herself. When she remained silent, he said more gently, “It is my right, I think.”

  She looked up at him, and her gaze was steady. “I will not pretend that I do not know, sir, but it is a matter of honor. I should prefer not to bear tales of someone else. It will be better if the person admits to the error and better by far if we can end the business without a lot of folderol. I am grateful for your concern for my reputation, but since I really have none as yet, beyond the borders of Devon, I cannot believe I shall suffer unduly. I may be deemed a fickle woman, I suppose, but that can do me little harm.”

  “You do not know the beau monde,” he said. “Its members like nothing better than to slice someone’s character to ribbons. They feed on scandal, and unfortunately, I have, in my time, given them much fodder for their meals.” He added bitterly, “My name and position made me a natural target for them, of course, but I confess, I made little effort to be any sort of paragon.”

  “Is it so difficult to be a marquess?” she asked. “I should think the title would have provided you with great advantages.”

  The simple observation stirred an unexpected but familiar wave of resentment, and he struggled to maintain his calm. He had not realized that the old bitterness was so much alive within him. A swift vision formed of his house master at Eton, looming over him—the cane in his hand a long and limber one—telling a nine-year-old Thorne that he would show him a great advantage to being a marquess, for no doubt having been so smiled upon by God, he would not feel his well-earned punishment. The taunting had preceded a period of almost unendurable pain and humiliation, followed by blessed silence when he had been sent to his bed in disgrace. The incident was but one among many. His present state of limbo, that he was expected to wait patiently—and evidently with unmixed feelings—for his father to die before he would come into his own, was far harder to bear.

  She was watching him, and he saw concern in her expression. Wanting to smooth it away, he said lightly, “What could be difficult about being a marquess? As to putting an end to our betrothal, think no more about it, but trust me to know what is best, for you have not the experience of the world that I do. Believe me, once people have come to know you, they will not be so quick to condemn you when you do cry off. I think we ought to go back to the house, don’t you? The wind is growing chilly.”

  Gillian walked silently beside him back to the house, wondering where he had gone in his mind for those few brief seconds when the frozen look had seized his countenance. One moment he had been speaking in the tone most persons used when they were telling her something for her own good; the next moment he had seemed possessed by some ghost or private demon. Her curiosity to know what had caused such a look was overwhelming. Something troubled him, and she wanted to know what it was, but she knew that such curiosity was an unbecoming fault. One simply did not ask personal questions. Indeed, it had been her own overstepping of those bounds that had affected him.

  At the house they found the entrance hall tended by a young footman in a powdered wig and bottle-green livery. “Merciful heavens,” Gillian exclaimed, “I quite forgot about Porson. Do you suppose that awful man is still awaiting me in the kitchens?”

  “What can you do about him?” Thorne asked.

  She grimaced. “I do not know, precisely. If it were left to me, I should give him notice, but Estrid will fly into the boughs if I do, so I suppose I must not. Perhaps if I simply read him a scold, he will endeavor to behave better in future.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady,” the young footman said, “but Mr. Porson done left already. Said he knew when he was not wanted and would thank you to send his pay to him care of the Fox and Grape in Honiton, which is his brother-in-law’s tavern.”

  Gillian looked at Thorne and saw her own amusement reflected in his eyes, but she was exasperated too. “That odious man,” she said. “Now I shall have to see about hiring a new butler, and Estrid will be impossible to live with until we can find one to suit her. Fortunately, it is not yet three o’clock, so there is time to drive into Honiton to the registry office.”

  “I should be happy to drive you,” he said.

  She did not think that would be a good idea, for more than one reason. “You are most kind, sir, but I should prefer to drive myself. I—I have another errand to attend to as well, and I should not like to put you to any inconvenience.”

  “It would be no inconvenience,” he said.

  “Well, but you must want to wait for your man to return with your gear, and you would not enjoy driving my gig. I am certain of that. It is old and rather fusty.”

  “No, I would not enjoy that,” he agreed, “so it will be wiser all ’round if you put off this expedition until morning, when I can take you to Honiton in proper style.”

  She grinned at him. “In your traveling chaise with your coachman driving and your footman up behind? No, I thank you. Truly, sir, I have a number of small errands to see to before I go to the registry office, and I shall have to hurry if I am to be back in time to dress for dinner. I warn you, Estrid’s notion of town hours is half past seven, which, I daresay, will seem early to you, for my cousin Lydia Vellacott has been to London t
wice, and she said she had dined as late as nine o’clock there.”

  “I shall endeavor to conceal my dismay,” he said.

  The look he gave her told her he knew perfectly well that she was chattering in order to keep him from pressing her to let him drive her into town, but she didn’t mind. As long as he yielded, she did not care what he thought. Not only did she want to attend to at least one of her errands in private, but she was sure that Hollingston must have returned by now, and she wanted to discover if he had brought the new seed.

  “Gillian, my girl!” cried a familiar masculine voice behind them. She turned with a grin to greet her favorite uncle, who was strolling toward them from the direction of the walled garden. He was a tall, dandified gentleman on the shady side of middle age, dressed with his usual flair in pale knee breeches, well-polished Hessians, and a dark coat. As he neared them, he raised a quizzing glass and peered at Thorne through it.

  Gillian said, “Uncle Marmaduke, I must make you known to our guest, the Marquess of Thorne. Sir, this is my uncle, the Honorable—well, most of the time—Marmaduke Vellacott.”

  “What you need, lass, is to have your ears soundly boxed,” her uncle announced, hugging her and nodding to Thorne at the same time. “Must forgive me, m’lord,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling, “but hugging my niece must always take precedence, and you don’t look like a lad who will take offense.”

  Thorne smiled and said, “None at all, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you. At least, I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?”

  “You’d remember, lad, I promise you. I do know your father, however, so don’t go asking him about me. I don’t say the duke lies in his teeth, but what he’ll say won’t bear repeating.”

  Thorne chuckled, but Gillian said reprovingly, “You mustn’t try to throw dust in his eyes, Uncle Marmaduke. If his grace of Langshire disapproves of you, it is probably because he has heard some disreputable tale about you and some poor misguided female. In any event, you ought not to be telling his son he lies in his teeth. What will he think of you? And where have you been, sir? You have not been to visit me in weeks.”

  “Oh, only over to Exeter,” he said. “There’s a devilish charming, delightfully wealthy widow there who rather fancies me. But never mind that. Tell me instead what the devil is going forward that I must read of your betrothal in the papers before I hear of it from you? And who the devil is this fellow Hopwood?”

  Gillian felt a rush of heat to her cheeks, but said as calmly as she could, “Now, don’t be vexed, sir, it is all a hum.” She had never had occasion to tell him about her rescue, but she did so now, adding, “Hopwood is Thorne, only I did not know his true title, and whoever put the notice in the papers did not know it either. But someone on the paper recognized it and sent the notice on to the London papers. So we have a mess on our hands.”

  Vellacott gave her a sharp look and she feared he might demand to know more, but he did not. Instead he looked at Thorne and said, “Giving out false titles, lad? I daresay the duke didn’t look any more kindly on that than he’s looked upon some of my more enterprising adventures.”

  “No, sir,” Thorne said, still smiling. “He did not. It has been decided, however, that for Lady Gillian’s sake we will continue the charade for a time, long enough to silence the tabbies and allow her to become known in London. Then, of course, she will cry off.”

  “Ah, going to make a jilt of my niece, are you?”

  Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “It was thought the lesser of two evils, sir. The matter cannot be put to rest with a simple disclaimer, you know.”

  “Aye, that wouldn’t do, but how the devil did you get yourself into this mess, girl? No, no, I don’t want to know. Look here, I can’t stay. Only came to discover the facts, and what with my widow keeping herself warm for me and all—”

  “But you must stay to pay a proper visit, sir. You have already gravely offended Estrid, I fear.”

  “Have I?” Vellacott’s demeanor hardened. “Daresay she’ll survive it. Know she’s generally safe in her bedchamber at this hour, refreshing her wiles for the evening ahead, so I thought I’d pop in, but that’s all, m’dear. Don’t press me to stay.”

  “I shan’t,” Gillian said, “but only because I must drive into the registry office in Honiton to ask them to find us a new butler. Our last proved to be a drunkard and has gone.”

  “Dear me.” But Vellacott grinned. “Appears as how your father’s second wife is no better at picking servants than my second was. Always taken in by an attitude, Grace was, and never saw beneath the surface. Now, Millicent—that was my first,” he added for Thorne’s benefit, “she was a fine judge of men. Stands to reason, don’t it? She picked me. But would you believe it, the second one filled our house with nidgets and twiddle-poops till there was no abiding it. Makes one almost glad she was took off by the influenza. Providence, that’s what it was.”

  “Uncle Marmaduke, what a dreadful thing to say!”

  He had the grace to look abashed, but said stoutly, “Well, she wasn’t worth a hair of Millicent’s head, and that’s the truth of the matter. I’m for London soon,” he added with a brighter look. “I shall go and talk to Millie at once. Always makes me feel better when I’ve had a word with her. I’ll just pop down to the kitchens now without troubling anyone and see what Cook has to keep a man alive on the road.” He turned and left them as suddenly as he had arrived.

  Seeing Thorne’s look of bewilderment, Gillian said, “He has not accepted Papa’s marriage yet, but he keeps a close eye on me. As for his talking to Millicent, you mustn’t think he talks to spirits, sir, for it is no such thing, but my aunt was a charming woman and he misses her dreadfully even now, so he goes to the churchyard to visit her whenever he can.” Turning to the interested footman, she said, “Francis, take his lordship up to the peach bedchamber, if you please, and see that the door into his sitting room is left open for him and that the dressing room adjoining the bedchamber is prepared for his man, Ferry, to use. Ferry will want an iron and no doubt a few other sundries. You will know the sort of thing, but send one of the other lads to see to it. You must not leave the hall unattended for long.”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  She held out a hand to Thorne. “I enjoyed our walk, sir. Pray, do not be vexed with me for knowing my own mind. I am sorry if I seem to flout your wishes, particularly since I do understand that you are generally blameless in this matter, but I must be allowed to think things out for myself.”

  He bowed over her hand, his own feeling warm and strong when he clasped hers. Smiling wryly as he straightened, he said, “I will allow you what you please, my lady, up to a point.”

  Something in his expression made her want to snatch her hand away, but she controlled the impulse and returned his smile politely. Leaving him, she turned at the half landing to look back, and she could see that he was still standing, watching her, while Francis waited patiently beside him for a sign that he was ready to be shown up to the peach bedchamber.

  Gillian made haste, not bothering to call for assistance, but flinging on her red cloak—wonderfully refurbished by Meggie after its October ordeal—and hurrying back downstairs by the service stairs lest she encounter the marquess again. As she crossed the stable yard, she heard the clock ring the hour in the bell turret over the northern entrance. Hailing one of the grooms, she ordered him to bring out her gig and asked him if Hollingston had returned. Receiving an affirmative reply, she went on to the steward’s room, located in the stable wing to the right of the clock tower.

  Mr. Hollingston, a barrel-chested, auburn-haired man with some fifty-five years to his credit, got up from behind a large, cluttered desk with a broad smile of welcome on his face. “A good day to you, m’lady. I’d have wagered I’d see your bright face before sundown, and it’s good news I’ve got for you too.”

  “Do you, Hollingston? How wonderful! Did you speak to Mr. Coke himself? I warned you not to let yourself be fobbed off by a mere minion of h
is.”

  “No trouble about that, m’lady. A fine man Mr. Coke is, a right pleasant gentleman, and bound to help anyone wanting to establish a wheat crop, or any other for all that. He spoke to me as if I were a nob m’self.”

  “Well, I should hope so,” Gillian said, “when you had gone all that way to meet with him.”

  “Oh, as to that, it were only to South Molton, for you know, m’lady, he were a-staying wi’ m’lord Percival, and he’s bound to be there a week or more yet by what he was tellin’ me.”

  Gillian nodded. It had been the fact that Coke of Norfolk was known to be visiting Lord Percival Worth at South Molton that had spurred her to send Hollingston to meet with him. She had not dared write Coke herself, fearing that he would only laugh at such a letter from a female, but she had thought he would be perfectly willing to discuss crops with Hollingston. The thought reminded her that she had meant to ask him about Thorne.

  “Hollingston, do you know of a Baron Hopwood?”

  “No, m’lady.”

  “Perhaps you know the Marquess of Thorne.”

  Hollingston grimaced. “Not to say know, precisely, but I’ve heard of that one.” He regarded her searchingly. “Not a man your grandfather Vellacott would have approved of, if you’ll pardon my taking the liberty to say so, Miss Gillian.”

  “I see. Well, did you get any seed?”

  “Aye, a bit to try and more to follow as soon as them at Holkham send it. Says it’ll come straight off last year’s crop, and a bounteous crop it were. Bound to feed all his own people and a right good few others as well. Says if everyone would plant like he does, there’d be no shortages and an end to the fussing. And Mr. Coke says the seed’s to go into the ground just as soon as it arrives. In Norfolk they’ll be waiting nigh until May, so as to be sure the last frost is gone, but he says we can be doing it here now, and I agree with the man. We saw scarce a drop of frost the entire winter hereabouts. Odd to think that not two years ago we had snow!”