Redeeming the Roguish Rake

by Liz Tyner

  ‘Trudy said he is the worst of sorts. He pinched her bottom and told a very bad story Trudy would not even repeat.’

  He had perhaps told a story or a hundred that shouldn’t be repeated, but he’d never pinched anyone’s bottom. Ever. He shook his head and grunted dissent.

  ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I shouldn’t say such things. But that is why his father is so disappointed in him and I can certainly understand that. His father said he is thankful that I do not have to associate with men like his son. But he assures me that I wouldn’t even like him.’

  Instinctively, Fox pushed a snort of air from his lungs.

  She stilled. ‘I’m not passing judgement. Or at least, I don’t mean to be.’

  ‘’ou…’ould…like…’im.’

  She shook her head, then put her fingers on his shoulder and snuggled into him, her head resting near her hand. ‘I’m sure I would like him in the same way I like all God’s creatures, but I doubt I could like him very much. His father says he is so immoral.’

  ‘Not…’erfec’…’ Fox didn’t move, savouring the caresses of her hand. The calluses proved the differences of their lives.

  He would talk to his father and insist the earl see that a maid of all work could be hired for the vicarage. Rebecca’s time could be freed to meet the village’s needs. He realised the servant wouldn’t work out the same for her as it would for the women of the ton. Rebecca would probably take her maid along on her treks and they’d both be scrubbing some widow’s home.

  He pulled her around and hated that she could see his face, but he wanted to watch her.

  Her eyes widened and he waited, watching the awareness, and her knowledge of him flourished in her eyes when he touched her face.

  Smooth. He’d never appreciated just being able to run a hand over healthy skin before. Untarnished. Just a face. A quite well-made one. He had his share of easy compliments to give, but he didn’t speak. He could just think about her skin.

  It felt selfish really. Touching her without that wordiness.

  His hand slid to her neck. Her smooth skin intrigued him in a way he’d never valued before. The skin beneath his touch caressed into him, filling some dark place in him with the feeling of innocence.

  He looked at her eyes and felt he could see into her heart. Into the goodness that made her the person she was.

  And he knew. With more strength than the sun used he knew. If he only did one good thing in his life, one good thing, and it would be the biggest good thing he ever did—he needed to leave now and go to his father’s house.

  He had the physical strength. He could walk out the door. He could.

  Then she kissed his mottled, misshapen, unshaved cheek.

  Damn her.

  He shut his eyes, forcing the anger to stay inside his body. How dare she be so good? How dare she? Did she not know that hypocrites were the rule? Even in this little village he’d sat at the tavern table and heard the tales and the lies and knew that when opportunity arose, morals plummeted.

  He stood, unsettled, putting her on her feet. Her eyes widened. He tapped a finger on her nose, quickly, moving away without meaning to insult.

  He walked to the table where the pen and ink were. He would choose his words.

  He pulled out the chair, the feet scraping against the floor, and reached for the pen.

  She put a hand on his shoulder and the touch travelled through him, stopping only where his bare feet pressed against the wooden floor.

  Then she ruffled his hair, and ran her hand back over it, smoothing it.

  Even his blood seemed to stop moving until he turned, taking her hand. He pulled her into his arms, holding her against his body, breathing in the essence of her with more than his lungs. He took her in, the pleasant curves melding against him.

  He pressed her against the length of him, keeping his face out of her view, and surrounding her with his touch. He held her derrière in one hand, pulling her close, weaving their bodies in a stationary dance.

  He heard it before she did. The touch of a hand on the door.

  He grasped her waist, but there was no time for her to move, and even if she could have, her face would have given her away the moment she realised someone was at the door. He held her.

  The door opened and her father walked in.

  Her face reacted with a kicked-in-the-stomach look and she tried to jump back. He held her steady and, as if he took a step in a waltz, he moved to open the space between them.

  In that second, her face looked worse than his.

  Her father’s mouth was open and his eyes darkened. He took a breath and Fox could see the condemnation on his lips.

  ‘I was a…asking… Re…ecca a question.’ Fox’s words hit the air with the authority he would have used to quell a fight between two men.

  Her father paused.

  Fox gazed at Rebecca. Soft eyes, soft mouth and gentle heart, and perhaps tears just at the inside corners of her eyes.

  ‘’arry…’ee?’

  Something he’d said over and over before. Only before, he’d always been jesting with a married woman.

  Her eyes tightened and her lips thinned.

  She nodded. ‘Of course.’ Then her lips thinned even more.

  He took a step back.

  The married women always beamed. He’d expected a little more joy on her face, but then he did look like a monster.

  He touched his cheek. ‘I’ll look…’etter.’

  ‘You already do. And it is what is on the inside that counts.’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘We all fall short.’

  ‘So…some…’ore dan udders…’

  ‘Well,’ her father said at the door. ‘I’ll give you two a few moments to settle this.’ The door closed. Her father was gone.

  She clasped her hands in front of her. The air around them kept her voice barely above a whisper. ‘I knew you would ask me to marry you when you asked about courting.’

  He raised his brows.

  ‘You are an unmarried vicar. A wife is what you need to manage the duties of the parish and who would be better than I am?’ She shook her head. ‘That is not boastful. It is just that I have spent my life preparing for this. I will be a good vicar’s wife.’

  ‘What a…about…not vicar?’

  She glanced down, a smile at her lips. ‘My mother trained me well. She told me many times that a wife was the most noble thing to be. That the good works of a wife reflect on her husband, but even more importantly, it is what we are put on this earth to do. To help others. And I know that I can help more people as a vicar’s wife than as a spinster.’

  She smiled. ‘And I rather think you look nice in your own way. You’ve nice hair and shoulders. And a pleasant height.’ She patted the juncture of his shoulder and arms. ‘I’ve grown accustomed to your face so I don’t see that as a problem. You’re a bit selfish, though.’ She nodded at him. ‘When I gave the nicest biscuit to Father, I could tell you expected it.’

  ‘’iscuit…?’ He didn’t remember a biscuit.

  ‘Yes. I fear you will have to hide that until you are able to overcome it. You must have the respect of others.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. He’d lived a fine life with no respect. In fact, he had a good many people who didn’t respect him and some of them were great fun. He didn’t respect them either.

  He reached, snaking an arm around the tiny waist, and pulled her against his side as easily as he could have pulled a doll.

  She looked at him and her eyes sparkled.

  He owed her. He did. She’d saved his life. And as his wife, she could do more of those meaningless little things she thought made the world better. Her one truly helpful thing, saving his life, would be rewarded.

  Besides, he should marry. The clock was ticking away on that, so to speak. Unless he wanted to be like the man who married Mrs Lake and marry a woman half his age. The young women he’d been noticing at the soirées were younger every year and
the debutantes were practically children to him.

  Rebecca was older, good and unlikely to cause grief in a marriage. That might be something not easily found anywhere else.

  He would make it a point to stay out of the papers in the future. He’d be discreet.

  They’d mostly tired of writing about him in the papers anyway. His revenge would be the exception. She’d seen what they’d done to his face. She’d understand.

  The door rattled this time and the vicar opened it, taking his time to sweep it wide, and was smiling when he walked in the door.

  ‘We’re planning to marry.’ Rebecca’s words rushed out.

  ‘Well.’ The vicar stopped moving and his eyes locked on the floor. ‘I am not surprised. I didn’t expect it to be this soon, but when a thing is right, you go forward.’

  *

  That evening, the vicar laughed at the slightest attempt at a jest, and Rebecca beamed.

  Fox attended the conversation the same as he would have at the club. He added some bantering quips to keep Rebecca and her father talking.

  Then, he stepped outside to shave in the better light because he could not bear the whiskers any longer. Rebecca brought the mirror, bouncing on her toes as she moved to stand in front of him. He took his time, ignoring the pain. Only once did he look closely at his eyes.

  Nothing. Whatever he had been before his sister died was gone. In all ways.

  Rebecca chattered about Mrs Berryfield. He nodded.

  After they married, he would make certain she had a lady’s maid who could listen to the tales of her good works. He would also convince her to let others do the actual labour, as her time could be better spent instructing others.

  He wouldn’t batter her gentle nature. She was innocent. A bit too naive. He would shelter her, provide for her and see that she was respected and could keep her naivety.

  He would make it known that no one dare speak ill of the marriage and, after he’d found the men who’d beaten him and taken care of them, everyone would know that his words carried the weight of the peerage—the heir’s advantage—and the ability to fashion revenge into its finest point.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, at the table, the vicar mentioned finding somewhere else to live after the marriage. Rebecca’s eyes darted to Fox and he reassured the older man that he would always have a home with them.

  The vicar’s chest doubled in size. ‘If you’re in agreement,’ he said, looking at both of them, ‘I have thought it would be nice to tell the congregation of the betrothal at the end of Sunday Services, with you both present.’

  Fox nodded. He would go along with that, but only after everyone knew who he was. ‘I don’t want…seen like…his.’ He indicated his face. ‘No…p…pity for Re…ecca.’

  ‘No one will pity her, but I understand.’ The vicar stood and, beaming, left to go about his morning visits.

  Inwardly, Fox laughed at his pride. He didn’t want to be back in his own world yet. His face would still recover, somewhat, he knew. And he didn’t want anyone seeing just how decidedly he’d been thumped.

  Rebecca flew around the room, chattering, more of the vicarage nonsense about Mrs Addlepate’s ingrown toenail or Mrs Stumblebum’s digestion. He didn’t really pay attention, finding it little different than the chatter of any other woman caught up in her own world. And Rebecca was caught up. A bee buzzing around, focusing on one bit of pollen to the next. She only paused once, her eyes crinkling in worry.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his curiosity genuine.

  ‘My mother. I wish she’d lived to see my marriage.’

  He didn’t brush the words aside. He understood. He would have liked to have had his sister still in his life. She’d made games of everything, dragging him along behind her like a puppy she was particularly fond of.

  ‘The dress.’ She looked at Fox as if that explained everything and perhaps it did.

  ‘New dress… London?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes widened. She stepped towards him. ‘I have it. Already. It was one of the last things she did before she died. She made my dress. A new dress to be married in. Just in case.’ She forced her words slowly, controlling emotion behind them. ‘In case I needed it.’

  He nodded.

  Rebecca moved to work on the little garment she’d started, averting her face.

  ‘Ring?’ he asked. ‘Family…heirloom?’

  She didn’t raise her eyes. ‘Oh. No. My mother’s band was buried with her. A simple one will be best for me. Like hers.’

  Fox shook his head. In time, she’d discover the lure of jewels and adornments, but it wouldn’t matter to him if she did or didn’t.

  She wasn’t plain, as he’d first thought. He just hadn’t been used to seeing a woman without a bauble or two and fripperies.

  He had to force his face still when he thought of how surprised she’d be to discover how many good works she could do once she married and had funds at her disposal.

  *

  When her father returned, his smile was broad. He and Rebecca chattered over dinner, but Foxworthy discouraged their attempts to include him in the conversation. Speaking made his jaw ache. The pain had only recently subsided completely when he didn’t move.

  He wasn’t ready to go to the estate, though. In fact, perhaps he would be best to miss seeing his father altogether. The banns could be read to give his face time to heal. A Special Licence might take some of the pride in the marriage from her father.

  The evening wasn’t the kind Fox preferred. The quiet clatter of dishes being put away made him think he was in the servants’ quarters. Rebecca would learn soon enough how to let others do the routine chores for her, but the setting sun put a nice glow on the end of the day.

  A rumbling sound caught Fox’s ear. Carriage wheels. Only the earl would have a carriage. Well, he supposed his father was old enough to handle the news that his son had had a misadventure. Fox just hated the smugness he would see showing from his father’s face.

  ‘Ree…ecca.’ He put a smile in his voice. He clasped her elbow and walked outside with her. The vicar followed along behind.

  In the darkness, he could see the outline of her grasping at a strand of hair and poking it back into the twist of pins.

  ‘We’re about to be visited by your patron,’ she said.

  The carriage wheels rumbled closer.

  She laughed, the richness of the sound fading away with the approaching wheels.

  Fox felt a chuckle inside himself and he reached to her hair and brushed it up, pretending to help. He mumbled an assent.

  His father would be pleased. The heir was marrying and, yes, she wasn’t a lady of station, but the earl was odd in that regard. He’d written Fox enough letters telling him to keep out of the papers and marry a decent woman. Rebecca had the gentle, wifely demeanour his father would appreciate. She wasn’t one of the fallen women his father had written stacks of letters warning his son against. Her purity would please the Earl of Boredom.

  The carriage was rumbling closer at a too-fast speed, but slowed as it neared the house, the hooves stirring up a choking dust. Before anyone could speak, the carriage stopped and the bundle of a man surged out. The earl first. Another man behind. The earl looked straight to Rebecca’s father. The grooms rushed down from their perch—one grabbing the lantern and another two bounding from the back. The driver had a fowling piece and two had cudgels.

  Fox’s pleasure exploded into tiny bits, flittering away like gunpowder after a shot. Not again.

  ‘I heard you have a man living here claiming to be the new vicar I hired. Where is he?’ the earl asked, peering into the darkness. ‘Mr Gallant and I decided to travel together.’

  ‘But he’s here,’ the vicar said, arm waving to indicate Fox. ‘He arrived early.’

  ‘It’s me.’ Fox stepped forward.

  The earl shouted, pointing a long finger at Fox, ‘Apprehend the imposter.’

  The air burst with activity as the men
surged forward. Rebecca stumbled back. Two men with clubs lunged for Fox. He moved forward, diving for the nearest weapon. He grabbed before the man could react, swinging him into the other one charging forward. They tumbled like balls rolling down a hill.

  The one with the gun aimed.

  ‘Father,’ Fox exclaimed. ‘Shooting…e will not get you an heir any faster.’

  The earl stepped closer, peering into the darkness, his head cocked. ‘Fenton?’ He took one more step. ‘Fenton?’

  Fox clenched his teeth. ‘D…don’t call…’ee…Fen…on.’ He would have preferred to have been named Penelope.

  ‘It’s a good name,’ his father grumbled. ‘Your grandfather was named Fenton. I’m named Fenton.’

  Fox heard the quick intake of breath from Rebecca’s father.

  The man with the gun didn’t move, however.

  ‘Are you…? Have…’im shoot…’ee?’ Fox asked his father.

  A small female voice whispered into the darkness, ‘I might.’ She ran past her father, into the house, and the door shut.

  ‘I asked…’er to…’arry…’ee,’ Fox said, tapping the ring finger of his left hand.

  ‘I take it she declined.’

  ‘She said yes.’ His mouth easily formed the words.

  The earl’s eyes darted to the door. ‘You might wish to ask her again to verify that.’

  ‘…said yes.’

  ‘Lantern.’ The earl waved a hand.

  The servant held the lantern so the light reflected from Fox’s face.

  The earl took a step closer, examining Fox. ‘You could have been hurt.’

  Fox took in a breath. ‘I think I was.’

  ‘But, son, you could have been killed.’

  Fox shook his head. ‘Wasn’t…y time.’

  ‘Who did this to you?’ His father’s chin jutted and his voice shook. ‘I will have them hanged.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Fox said. ‘I will take care of the…in my own time.’

  ‘No—’ his father’s voice reached the treetops ‘—I will have them hanged and their bodies sold to those who hack them apart to study.’