Redeeming the Roguish Rake

by Liz Tyner

  ‘So your inheritance—your birthright—is to tend others.’

  ‘Yes. I thought there would be more to do here. But it’s different when you’ve not known everyone their whole lives. They have no trust.’ She took off her pelisse and draped it over her arm.

  ‘Give them time,’ he said. ‘If anyone can earn such a thing, it is you.’

  She walked to her room and put the coat away.

  He followed.

  ‘Half the time when I hear your voice and look towards you,’ she said, ‘I don’t recognise you. Only if I close my eyes can I match you with the hurt man I found. You healed so differently, both on the outside and inside. I miss the way you looked. I miss the other person I knew.’

  ‘There was no other person.’

  ‘This person wants to smile and cajole and dance through the days. When I thought you were a vicar and I imagined all good thoughts, I put a person inside you that I conjured from the inside of me. Not what you truly were. Now, I see the clippings about you and I can’t even imagine the hurt man and the well man are the same.’

  ‘I couldn’t smile. I hurt. I didn’t care about anything but the pain stopping.’

  ‘And now do you care about anything?’

  His hand stopped. He’d unbuttoned three buttons down on his waistcoat.

  ‘I care about many, many things.’ He paused. ‘Too numerous to mention.’

  He finished unbuttoning the waistcoat. ‘Another question for me?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I would have expected you to ask if I care about you.’ He slid the waistcoat off.

  ‘And you would have answered with some flowery words. Some fluff. Perhaps true, but still…fluff.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have made you happy, though…at least for the moment?’

  ‘I think they might have made the emptiness inside me a little bigger. It almost swallows me now.’

  He stepped nearer her, reached out, touched one of her arms, stilling her, and with his free hand brushed back a wisp of hair at her forehead. ‘I must beg your pardon. You have caught that from me.’

  ‘No. It is from the world around me. I know no one. Not even you. The servants trip over their own feet trying to please me and I don’t even know what to ask them for.’

  ‘Just be yourself.’

  She raised her brows. ‘I am. That is the problem. Everyone else is at home. I am not.’

  ‘Give yourself time.’

  ‘I’m giving you time,’ she said. ‘And it’s not easy.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘I always expected my husband would fall in love with me. Quickly. It happened to my parents. My mother’s first husband had died and I was only a month old, and my father heard of her, and her big heart, and he wrote to her and asked if she would consider marriage.’

  ‘They were fortunate.’

  ‘And he was a vicar. They have hearts full of love.’

  ‘You saved my life and that counts for a great deal.’

  ‘I wish you had reciprocated some other way besides marriage. Perhaps a soirée for the villagers instead of a wedding breakfast.’

  ‘You accepted.’

  ‘You were the vicar, to me. Even though I had heard the words that you weren’t, some small part of me could not believe otherwise.’

  ‘Perhaps you find weakness in others comforting. Less threatening.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The calm look stayed on her face, she was certain, because if he could see inside her, the charm would have burst from him.

  ‘Don’t love me.’ He had no emotion she could detect. ‘Let my care for you be enough.’

  ‘I don’t love you.’ At the moment she was having to remind herself that pretend kindness was a virtue, perhaps even bigger than true kindness because it had to be gripped from the insides and forced into place.

  ‘My honest wife.’

  ‘And your care is not enough, but it is all that I have.’

  He drew her over to the edge of the bed and gently encouraged her to sit down on it.

  She moved, shifting more to the other side of the bed. ‘I miss the country.’

  The bed depressed on his side. He pulled off a boot. ‘I don’t miss my father and I refuse to live in the country.’ He dropped the boot, and she heard a thud and a bump. ‘I have put my foot down.’

  ‘Well, you’re about to lift it again to climb into bed so I’m not worried.’

  He took off his other boot, tossed it and the noises reoccurred. ‘Other foot is down as well.’

  ‘Keep them there.’

  ‘Is that really how you feel?’

  ‘I am a stranger living in a new world that I must learn to like or I’ll be miserable.’

  He turned around and pulled her, still sitting against him. Strong arms imprisoned her. His face rested against her hair.

  He touched his cheek to the side of her face and moved gently. The warmth soothed her, erasing some of the ragged edges inside her heart.

  ‘You will. You’ll find plenty of ways to help others.’

  ‘And what about you?’ she asked softly. ‘How will you keep busy?’

  He pulled her on to his lap. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘I don’t know if you love me more than your second-best pair of boots.’

  ‘I lost my innocence about love when I was very young.’

  ‘I even loved my cat, Ray Anna, and I miss her.’

  ‘Send for her.’

  ‘But Father needs her.’

  ‘With my father, it’s almost as though I only want to be with him to joust words with him. He is the man who insisted I be sent to university. I tell him I thank him because my joyous school days taught me to drink and wager, and to pursue new adventures.’

  ‘And me? Do you want to be in the same room with me?’

  ‘I do. Very much.’

  His kiss was the touch she’d waited for and wanted, chasing all thoughts but one from her head. He did want to be in the same room with her, as long as it was the bedchamber.

  She could feel the heat starting where he touched her arms and flowing into the rest of her body, but she didn’t move.

  He stopped, looked at her and left the room.

  She listened closely, expecting to hear the loud crash of a door slamming and then silence. Instead, she heard little thuds and little slams. He didn’t leave the house.

  *

  Rebecca stared at the darkened window, wishing she hadn’t been so irritated with him.

  But the marriage didn’t feel right to her. It felt like having a large ring on her finger, made with gold, and having a bit of chipped glass for the jewel.

  She stared at the band on her finger. She’d thought a wedding ring would feel comforting, not heavy.

  And she had so little to do in her life now but be a wife and the only place she was to be a wife was the bedroom. And of course, later, the nursery.

  She had no need to sew. That would be done for her. Her letters were all written. The maid had made certain each and every last flounce in the main sitting room had flounced just the right amount. Rebecca had told the maid she could take care of it, but the girl’s eyes had widened in fear and she’d needed reassurance that she was doing a perfect job.

  No wonder the women spent so much time and care on hair and appearance. They had to do something.

  Her good works simply could not consist of telling others how well they did. She could not bear it.

  Something thumped again in the main sitting room.

  She crossed her arms. Marriage had not brought her more good works to do. It had ceased them. She stood.

  She moved to the writing desk. Picking up the corner of the desk, she edged it askew. She let it crash to the rug.

  She heard a muffled sound in the sitting room. He was making entirely too much noise.

  Rebecca stared at the desk as she touched her forehead. She was giving herself a headache.

  She slapped her left hand down on the desk, the ring giv
ing a clunk when it met with the wood.

  No answering thwack. She moved to the door and opened it.

  Walking inside the main chamber, Rebecca locked her eyes with Foxworthy’s. He stood by the writing table. Several books had been pulled from the bookcase and were at his feet.

  Crumpled paper littered the floor around the wastebasket at the other side of the room. She didn’t want to go near him. She would smell his shaving soap, or the leathery scent that always surrounded him, and she would forget how dangerous he could be to her heart. She mustn’t love him. She mustn’t love anything about her new life. It was all built on the shoulders of a man who blinked away everything she believed in.

  Without a word, she walked over, picked up one wad and straightened it. The page was blank.

  ‘Someone will get that,’ Fox said.

  ‘Yes.’

  He walked over to the lamp and turned it up.

  ‘Can you not be still?’ she asked.

  Fox looked over his shoulder for a few seconds, not commenting, then he moved to the fireplace. He lifted the fireplace poker and raked it through the bottom of the fireplace, moving the coals about, causing sparks.

  She picked up the books and put them away.

  A few minutes later, he moved to the window tapping his finger on the moisture condensation, causing little dots.

  ‘Don’t your friends have anything planned for tonight?’ she asked.

  He examined her face. ‘I want to stay home. I have done that on rare occasion.’

  ‘I suppose the newspaper will next say, “Where was Foxworthy?”’

  ‘I’ll just send someone out in the morning to give a tale of my exploits to the newspaper.’

  She popped the cork from the ink bottle and looked at him. Picking up the quill, she flicked the tip of the feather along her jaw. ‘I’m sure I could do that for you.’

  She leaned forward and pretended to write on the crumpled paper. ‘Foxworthy proposes to an unmarried woman. And marries her.’

  Then she dipped the pen and wrote.

  What was he thinking?

  He stood behind her, reading over her shoulder.

  ‘That she was beyond compare and the fairest in the land.’

  Balderdash. She dipped the pen twice for enough ink to underscore it.

  He took the pen from her, their fingers brushing, sending her insides fluttering. Until she looked at the writing.

  It was time I married. I had tried everything else.

  ‘Consider me your good work,’ he said.

  ‘I asked for good works to do, but you are not one of mine. You are your own.’ She looked to the ceiling without moving her head much, then back at him. ‘If I have learned one thing from my father, it is that you cannot deter people from the course they are determined to take.’

  ‘You cannot possibly believe that. Your father is a vicar. It is his job to put people on the path to goodness.’

  ‘It is his job to show them that it is an admirable path. It is their job to take the steps.’

  He took the pen and splashed it into the ink.

  I would think you would be happy to have me home.

  She flipped her hand out, palm up. He put the feather flat across her palm. She collected it and wrote.

  But you are not.

  When he reached to take the quill from her hand, she used her other to put the cork in the ink bottle and left her hand resting on the cork. ‘Perhaps you should say your thoughts to me.’

  ‘I have none.’

  ‘To repeat?’

  ‘Rebecca, I have carefully and methodically wasted my education. I took no time with learning when I was in school. It is a wonder I can write my own name. I took no interest in politics, while knowing I would be expected to move in my father’s footsteps at some point.’

  ‘Why did you do such?’ she asked. ‘Waste your education?’

  He put his hand over hers, bringing them closer. ‘Why should I do more than enjoy my life? The path was chosen for me. I was to be the peer. It is my role. That is the education I needed. To be able to gather eyes to me. To bring attention to the events I attend. I never lack for invitations.’

  ‘From the ladies? I bet their husbands are not so thrilled about that.’

  ‘I have not been lonely.’

  ‘I read every bit of writing I could get my hands on, then read it again. Your father loaned my father books and I read them and told him and my mother what they said as we ate our breakfast and dinner.’

  ‘I have not read a book of my own free will in my entire life.’

  ‘Well, I have not drunk an entire bottle of brandy in my life so I suppose we are both green in certain areas.’ She paused. ‘I plan to keep my inexperience. What of you?’

  His lip turned up a bit at the side, then lost its humour. ‘I see no need to change.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘No. I cannot live my life staring out a window, tossing paper into a basket or pulling books from the shelves and only seeing words that tire me, suffering the feeling that I am imprisoned. And while you are the most lovely gaol mate a man could ask for, I cannot be a different person. Just as I can’t change my hair colour, I cannot change the feeling of imprisonment.’

  If he continued the rituals of before, then in time their marriage would mean little more to him than an unfinished book. If he left the house alone at night, she couldn’t imagine good coming of it. He would not be out helping a blacksmith shoe a horse.

  ‘I cannot be your gaoler,’ she said. She moved, pointing to the stairs. ‘The door isn’t locked. And I don’t wish to be in close quarters with someone imprisoned.’

  Little eruptions of anger, so foreign, began to bubble inside her and she didn’t know if she’d ever felt that much irritation before.

  He studied her, one quick perusal, and she could tell he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  He stepped forward, but she stood her ground, arms crossed.

  Then he ran one finger up the length of her arm, taking his time. He doused the anger, banishing it completely, causing an awareness of him that she didn’t want to feel. An awareness that warred with her control, pushing aside everything but knowledge of the sensations of pleasure he could bring to her.

  Which caused a second, different burst of anger. How dare he?

  At that moment her body didn’t care one speck that she was fuming. All it cared about was what his hand was doing and how he stood casually, black coat, simple cravat, and yet so different than anyone she’d ever seen before.

  Then he reversed and retraced the path he’d made on her skin.

  ‘I don’t like you very much right now.’ She used her willpower to keep herself immobile.

  ‘I understand.’

  She believed him.

  He ran his finger up her arm again and tilted his head closer. His breath touched her lips, teasing her with the memory of his kisses.

  ‘You know what you’re doing.’ She challenged him with her eyes, or at least tried to. Even her eyes were traitorous—as misguided as her body, which kept wanting to melt against him.

  ‘You can be angry at me again afterwards,’ he whispered, his voice rough, but softening her resistance. ‘Let us just stop this moment for a time and find some joy in each other, and you can return to this exact moment of not liking me—later.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave it.’ She needed to stand her ground with him. Very much. But the earth was crumbling under her feet.

  ‘We should have some comfort from each other.’ His face had the softness of someone lost. And she remembered how close he’d been to death.

  ‘Comfort is important in a marriage. Step aside from your feelings and return to them tomorrow.’ He caressed her waist with one hand, and she felt cherished and small and protected and all the things she’d hoped for. Just from that one touch.

  ‘It might not be that easy.’ She blinked, taking him in on the upsweep of her lashes. ‘It’s very hard to be angry when—’
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  ‘Not as difficult as you’d think, sweet.’

  ‘For me, it would be.’

  ‘You can sort it out later.’ He took her hands, unfolding her arms, and his lips moved so near that she didn’t know who closed the distance, him or her. ‘You will have time.’

  Their bodies pressed together, and he pulled her even closer. His hands at her back and then lower, guided her into the firmness of his body. He wanted her. She could see it in his eyes and feel the proof of it.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but she had nothing to say. The kiss at the edge of her lips erased the memory of everything except what his touches felt like.

  ‘Unbutton me,’ he whispered.

  She reached to untie his cravat.

  His laugher was silent against her face. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he whispered. ‘Not at all.’

  His hands clasped hers. ‘I will show you.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  She’d dozed when he’d moved from the bed and he’d leaned down and kissed her. Whispers and caresses had lulled her back into half sleep. But somewhere between the dreams, she’d noticed he’d donned his boots.

  She was right, she realised, when she woke fully the next morning. Anger rushed back into her, forcing her from the bed. He’d not needed boots to make the walk to his room.

  She reached and grabbed the covers from the bed, wanting to remove all the scent of him from her world. She pulled them into a heap on the floor and threw the pillows on top, leaving the bed completely bare.

  She dusted her hands against each other. Let the maid think what she wanted. Let the world think what it wanted.

  A knock caused her to turn towards the door. ‘Enter,’ she called out.

  The maid opened the door. The woman’s eyes didn’t flicker.

  ‘Yes?’ Rebecca spoke without inflection.

  ‘The countess is here. She wishes to see if you might allow her to escape a bit of loneliness and have the joy of shopping with you.’

  ‘Please let her know it would be grand.’ Rebecca didn’t move until the door closed. The servant had to have seen the bed and would have to know that Foxworthy wasn’t in the house—or if she didn’t now, she’d know when he returned. The villagers were not as close as the walls in this world made people and yet they could piece together every action around them.