Redeeming the Roguish Rake

by Liz Tyner

  The scoundrel of Society…

  …has compromised the vicar’s daughter!

  When scandalous Fenton Foxworthy is beaten and left for dead, he’s rescued by demure vicar’s daughter Rebecca Whitelow. Fox is a cynical rake whose outrageous propositions are the talk of the ton—but his injuries are so great that Rebecca mistakes him for the new village vicar! Too late, Rebecca realizes her error… She’s been compromised into a hasty marriage!

  Foxworthy wanted to kiss Rebecca, but he could not.

  He could not let his face near hers. No woman should be touched by such ugliness. He reached out and rested his fingertips against her cheeks. Then he traced her perfect nose. Even her jawline was perfect.

  He’d thought nothing fascinating about her face, but now he looked closer. In her plainness, she had a simple beauty. The wisps of hair framing her face enhanced the softness of her skin. Such a contrast to the rough hands—the work she did made the woman more delicate.

  He grasped her shoulders and her eyes opened. She’d taken pity on a beaten man and helped her neighbors with whatever they needed. He could see purity. An unaware angel.

  He must kiss her. He must.

  “Kissed?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Never?”

  Her head wobbled a no. Eyes begged him.

  “Later.”

  His right hand rested against her throat. Her pulse hammered. She swallowed.

  “Promise?” she asked.

  He traced the fullness of her lips and without words made a promise to both of them.

  Author Note

  When I wrote The Notorious Countess and The Wallflower Duchess, I included a rakish cousin named Foxworthy and knew I wanted to write his story. The idea of a man who kept proposing to women because he knew they couldn’t say yes fascinated me. People around him would think him incredibly romantic, and maybe he’d even think himself so.

  I even planned that he would fall in love with the sister of a heroine in a previous book. But when I started writing, his path took him in a direction away from the life he’d been living, and took me on a journey, as well.

  I hope you like reading Foxworthy’s path as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Liz Tyner

  Redeeming the Roguish Rake

  Liz Tyner lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her, visit liztyner.com.

  Books by Liz Tyner

  Harlequin Historical

  The Notorious Countess

  The Wallflower Duchess

  Redeeming the Roguish Rake

  The Governess Tales

  The Runaway Governess

  English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses

  Safe in the Earl’s Arms

  A Captain and a Rogue

  Forbidden to the Duke

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

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  Dedicated to Ann Leslie Tuttle

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Excerpt from Married to Claim the Rancher’s Heir by Lauri Robinson

  Chapter One

  Thumps sounded on the stairs outside the bedchamber. Foxworthy sat straight, covers falling to his waist, just as the door swung open. He looked at the visitor’s hands first. No weapons. He raised his glance to his cousin’s face. Andrew wore one of those grim-lipped spectacled looks even though he didn’t wear spectacles.

  ‘Stop swearing,’ Foxworthy said. ‘I do not abide such language.’

  ‘If so, that’s your only virtue and it’s one more than you had last week.’ Andrew paused.

  ‘I’m on an improvement regimen.’

  ‘About time. You look ghastly. As though you’ve not slept a night this week.’

  ‘A bit of tiredness on my face and the ladies flutter about with suggestions on how to make me feel better. I can’t complain.’

  ‘I just heard about your little escapade.’

  Foxworthy nodded his head. ‘A priceless moment I will not forget.’ And he doubted anyone would let him from the look on his cousin’s face. However, at the moment, he simply could not recall it. He’d danced a lot at the soirée—that he remembered. He’d decided to take a turn with every woman in attendance and in the short time of the dance, discover what was most endearing about her. Then Lady Havisham, all of elbow high to him and feisty as a tavern wench, had told him she could drink more than he. Since he’d started much earlier than her it was a difficult competition. She’d conceded defeat and he’d placed a kiss right on the top of the knot of her grey hair and she’d said she wished she had a grandson just like him, only smart and handsome.

  He put a hand on his head. ‘The woman must have been pouring it into her reticule.’

  ‘You proposed.’

  ‘I did?’ He checked his cousin’s eyes to see if he told the truth. ‘To Lady Havisham? I can’t imagine she’d be foolish enough to say yes.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’ Andrew snorted. He kicked the base of the bedpost, but the frame didn’t move. ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ Fox pushed himself from the bed. Pain shot through his knee. He moved to the mirror, favouring the leg.

  ‘Millicent Peabody,’ Andrew continued. ‘Bended knee, in front of six witnesses.’

  Fox smiled, remembering. ‘Yes. It was quite romantic. I only wished I’d had a red rose, but the proposal was unplanned.’ And he was going to pay for the rather dramatic crash to one knee. It played to the group well, but he wasn’t sure if the pain was worth it.

  Andrew choked and swung around on one foot, looking away from Fox. ‘So why must you do it?’

  In the mirror, Fox examined his face. ‘I do look like I could use a drink.’

  ‘Why did you propose to Mrs Peabody in front of everyone?’

  Andrew moved closer, eyes tightened. He expected an answer.

  ‘Millicent Peabody’s husband was being such a toad.’ Fox tossed the words out. ‘Earlier, he told everyone in the card room that he could not abide how frumpy she’s grown since the children arrived. Mrs Peabody is lovely and her husband is too daft to know what a treasure she is because he’s chasing every tart in town.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Andrew’s eyes darkened. ‘You do it so you’ll be mentioned in publication. Your sodden brain believes you must rival Lord Byron for attention.’

  ‘Exceed. Exceed Byron,’ Fox said, lips turning up. ‘This proposal even put tears in one debutante’s eyes.’

  ‘Fox,’ Andrew spoke softly, crossed his arm across his waist, re
sted an elbow on his other arm and tapped his fingertips against his lips. ‘How many times have you proposed to a married woman?’

  ‘It is not the quantity, it is the quality of proposals.’

  ‘How many times now have you publicly proposed to a married woman?’ Andrew repeated, voice rising.

  ‘I can’t very well propose to an unmarried woman. Might distress her when I don’t show up at the wedding. Proposing to a married woman is more sensible.’

  ‘To everyone except the husband.’

  Fox quickly pulled on a shirt. ‘That may have entered my mind, but I discounted it. Too minor to concern myself with.’

  ‘I see your point. Mr Peabody is feeling disgraced and is planning to kill you. If he succeeds you will be in the papers again. Good plan. You should have thought of it years ago.’

  Fox looked over his shoulder. ‘I assure you, my demise would be on the front page and not only for one day or two. They would devote considerable space to the event.’

  ‘I could get my wife to draw up a caricature of your passing on as well, and proposing again.’

  ‘Assuming there are married women in the hereafter. Which is an immense leap of faith.’ Fox poured water into the basin and wet a flannel before pressing it to his face. ‘Make sure Beatrice gets my smile just right. I do want to be remembered as I am.’

  ‘Including the wrinkles?’

  Foxworthy patted his face clean and reached for the comb, but he spared another glance for the mirror. Not a line. Nothing. Not even at the eyes. His movements stopped and he stared into his reflection. Nothing. A caricature of a person. He flicked the comb against the glass, hearing the clink as he turned away.

  ‘You’ve moved through the ton, gathering the ladies about you,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s as if you wish to say to the husbands that had you asked the wife first, she would have chosen you.’

  Fox snapped around, his eyes on his cousin. ‘She would have. Nothing to do with me, though. The advantage of inheritance.’ His voice roughened. ‘The heir’s advantage. None of it matters. Not to the women. Not to their husbands. Not to me.’

  ‘No less than three men in this town have threatened publicly to kill you. You’ll hardly be laughing if one decides it’s worth the noose to put you in the ground.’

  ‘They only say it because it is required of them. They must bluster and spout. They don’t care either.’ Fox shut his eyes. The women were fickle. The husbands—cowards. He opened his eyes. The ton had become as boring as the country, only with more elaborate planning going into the staleness.

  ‘You’ve not forgotten that woman who nearly chased you to the altar when you were a child.’ Andrew grabbed the waistcoat the valet had left draped over the lacquered clothing stand and tossed the garment at Fox.

  Fox caught it. His lips curled up. ‘Best thing that ever happened to me was when she lost interest.’

  ‘True. At the time. But not now.’

  ‘I assure you I’ve no feelings for her at all. I wish her only the best her husband’s money can buy. And if you think of it, I’m as good as married to half the women in London. I see them once in a while and don’t live with them. The same as my parents do and they are quite happily wed.’

  Andrew watched him without speaking for a moment. ‘There are decent women out there. You just don’t deserve one.’

  ‘I must agree.’ He looked at his cousin. ‘I’d drown in annoyance.’

  The knocking at the door interrupted them. ‘Enter,’ Fox called out. A footman, hair close cropped at the sides, walked in with a tray holding two notes. He held the salver out to Fox.

  Fox stood, picked up one paper, flicked it open, saw that it was from Lady Havisham and read her warning that Peabody was incensed about the proposal.

  Then he saw the script on the other page. His father’s pen. He opened it. The man would be visiting. He claimed he wanted to see Fox’s new horse.

  ‘I am truly going on a health regime,’ Foxworthy muttered as he read. ‘I’ll pay a surprise visit to my father’s house in the country—since he’s at Bath, searching for a new vicar, and will be in London soon. There’s a tavern near my father’s country estate that I miss.’ He tossed the paper back onto the tray. ‘Put it with the others.’ He motioned the servant away, and the man nodded.

  It would be best for all involved. His father didn’t see the humour in marriage proposals, or anything else.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s a sad day when Lady Havisham can handle her spirits better than I can. That tavern ale should put some iron in my stomach.’

  Andrew nodded, pushing himself up from the chair. ‘I’ll tell everyone at White’s that you’re going to the country estate. Perhaps someone else will divert their attention before you return.’ He paused. ‘Peabody isn’t the straightest arrow and everyone knows he’s vengeful.’

  Fox waved the words away and checked the mirror again. His blasted eyes looked soulless. As though they didn’t care about anyone or anything. His cousin was wrong. He wasn’t soured on marriage. He was soured on the world and there wasn’t one better anywhere. He’d travelled just enough to know that.

  ‘Don’t get yourself killed by proposing to anyone in the country,’ Andrew said.

  ‘You have my word,’ Fox said. ‘I’m leaving London. I will stay from public view for a time. I am not proposing again…’ he paused, thinking ‘…unless it is to Lady Havisham. I rather like her.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I doubt she’d take her vows seriously.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Do I take anything seriously?’

  ‘Perhaps the taste of brandy.’

  Fox gave an upward tilt of his head, and Andrew stepped out the door, closing it behind him. Fox stared at the wood for a moment.

  He didn’t even feel much for Andrew. They’d grown up together and had their fair share of adventures. But now they were men and Andrew had married, and his thoughts always seemed somewhere else. Not that Fox didn’t understand. His own thoughts only half-attended the revelry around him. That last proposal had been a performance and a stale one at that.

  Fox had to leave London. The stench of all the hypocrisy was flooding into him. Particularly his own hypocrisy of the easy smile and the game of getting his name mentioned in the newspaper.

  He felt as if he had a bit of sand inside his boot all the time.

  The tomb-like walls of his father’s house would fit him well. Particularly since his father wasn’t there. But first, he would have a crate of brandy sent ahead. Maybe two, since his father wouldn’t be there to share. Or three. His father would not see the humour in returning home with a new vicar and finding all the servants with sotted smiles.

  *

  The next morning, Foxworthy ignored the superfine silk coat the valet had left out and went to the dressing chamber. He found the half-rag brown garment that suited the country better. He and his father agreed on that one thing. Just as Fox wasn’t suited to the country life, neither were the clothes he preferred.

  He didn’t wait for the carriage. He wanted the power of the horse at his command.

  Foxworthy left the house, taking a bite from the apple in his hand. The groom handed the reins to Fox, and he took Rusty’s reins, moving to hold his palm flat at the animal’s face. The horse nibbled with his lips and then crunched the fruit. The beast looked at Fox and then Fox reached out and gave him a scratch under the chin.

  In moments, they were headed to the countryside. Fox leaned forward, giving Rusty a pat on the neck. Rusty’s ear twitched his response.

  Foxworthy looked around him as he rode. The sunbeams warmed his face. Servants with baskets under their arms walked along the road. A few carriages here and there.

  He’d just been in a mood when he was at home. Probably from all the soirées and all the nonsensical talk he did. Damn. He got tired of his own voice sometimes. All the pretty words and all the right things to say. The ladies would flutter and he’d continue and he’d wonder why they didn’t slap his f
ace. And they’d chuckle and brush up against him, and he’d spout even more nonsense.

  *

  The saddle was getting a bit smaller and Rusty’s ears had lost their joie de vivre when the horse stepped onto the road that would take him only one turn from his father’s estate, leaving the commerce of London behind them. He had to be thankful the road wasn’t mud soaked. The clouds had darkened and he hoped the weather wouldn’t trap him at his father’s house. The chilled air bit into his face.

  He noticed the tracks in the road. Definitely well travelled. More so than usual. When he raised his head, he saw a man with an old, wide-brimmed hat that flopped over his face, standing, holding the reins of a horse in one hand and a cane in the other.

  ‘Ahoy.’ The man spoke. His clothes… His clothes were sewn by a fine tailor. Fox recognised the gold buttons. He’d seen them before.

  Hooves thundered from the woods and, before he could turn his horse, a club thwacked at the animal’s rump. Rusty bolted forward. The man in front raised the cane. The horse surged to the gold-buttoned man and the man stepped aside, swinging the stick. He knocked Fox backward, breaking the club. Another stick caught Fox as he tumbled from the horse. When he slammed into the ground, he noted the face of the man who’d been behind him and the other one charging forward with both fists gripping the broken club.

  It wasn’t a good sign that they didn’t have their faces covered.

  *

  Rebecca pinched the frond of the thorn bush, moving the long strand aside carefully so it didn’t prick her fingers. She stepped forward on the trail, then released the briar, and one thorn scraped along her skin as the stem swung back into place. The handle of her basket slid on her arm and the eggs she carried jostled, but barely moved, cushioned by the cloth. She checked her arm for blood, but only a white scratch marked the skin.