How To Marry a Rake

by Deb Marlowe

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘These tears? I do not understand them.’ Josette sounded as baffled as she looked. ‘You didn’t want that English lord. No?’

  ‘No.’ Mae, perched on the edge of her bed, dabbed at her eyes. ‘They aren’t tears. I’m not crying. I’m just … leaking a little.’

  It was no wonder Josette was confused. This morning, Mae had felt lost. Now, after yet another physical encounter with Stephen—there were no words for her bewildered state.

  Why did she allow him to affect her this way? Every time she found herself adrift in a mass of confusion and doubt, she could lay the blame squarely at Stephen Manning’s feet.

  Or could she?

  At least in the past they had both been consistent—she in her pursuit and he in his retreat. But now, cracks were forming in his reflective surface. He was allowing her a peek inside, if just a little. And physically—

  No. She couldn’t lie to herself. The pattern was clear. This was just a new approach to pushing her away. He’d let her in, the tiniest bit, and then he’d pick a fight, use his kisses as a punishment for getting too close.

  She flushed, and it came back to her then—the sight of Stephen nuzzling her breast, his lips and tongue stirring to life a frenzy of want and need.

  ‘It is a good thing that you did not let this Lord Banks kiss you,’ Josette said suddenly, her eyes fixed on the hem she was repairing.

  Mae fought to concentrate on her maid. ‘Why?’

  ‘The kissing,’ she said with a dire shake of her head, ‘it makes them stupid. They become domineering, think they can order you about. And then it is much work convincing them otherwise.’

  Mae considered this. Stephen had changed, become more critical, less accepting of her ideas. After telling her to listen to her own voice, he’d started issuing orders.

  She shook her head. It was just another example of him sending one message, then instantly following up with its opposite. What could she conclude except that he was as confused as she was?

  Mae started to roll her neck, but suddenly stopped. As angry and perplexed as Stephen made her, at least he hadn’t bound her shoulders into knots.

  She glanced across the room, at the mirror, and she knew that she must take his advice—his first advice. She was going to follow her own instinct, both to find that damned horse and to find herself a husband. And right now, her inner voice was telling her to talk to Ryeton’s mistress.

  Mae swivelled about in her chair. ‘Josette?’

  ‘Yes, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Fetch my riding habit, please.’

  If Chester Cray was in Newmarket, he was playing least in sight. This was not sound business practice for a leg. Perversely, this gave Stephen hope that Cray might have a reason to hide—the theft of England’s favourite racehorse, perhaps?

  Guilt had spurred him away from the party and on to an afternoon spent trawling among the pubs, inns and taverns of Newmarket. Unfortunately, he had turned up no sign of the well-known leg, and damned little word of him, either. The search had served admirably, however, as a means of avoiding any thought of what had happened between him and Mae earlier.

  Until now, damn it.

  She’d given him another chance to repay his debt to the people of Fincote. He owed her thanks, but he owed them his full effort and concentration. Mae was stealing it away. Somehow Stephen was going to have to find his balance in this topsy-turvy world, this planet on which suddenly he had more interest in Mae Halford than she had in him. Lord, it was like learning to walk again to even contemplate such a thing.

  Fortunately, the rest of the town appeared to be immune to this shocking upheaval. Talk of Pratchett’s disappearance, old hat to the diehard racing men who had been in Newmarket these last few days, was being kept alive by the influx of new arrivals. Men gossiped endlessly over who might take the Guineas, with Pratchett out of the way. They speculated nearly as much on the Earl of Ryeton’s behaviour. Some whispered that he’d locked himself away in his office. Others insisted that he was chasing over the countryside, searching out every lead to his missing thoroughbred. Either way, the lack of his presence was as noticeable as Cray’s. Both gave Stephen much to worry about. Time was growing short. The tangled muddle of conflicting emotions that was his response to Mae Halford was going to have to wait.

  Or perhaps not. By late afternoon, feeling dusty and defeated, Stephen returned to Titchley for a change of clothes. The garden party had wound to a close; only the servants were about outside, clearing up. Inside, the house echoed with silence. Lady Toswick’s guests must be recovering in their rooms or gone on to further entertainment in town. Stephen retreated to his room—only to find a request to call upon Barty Halford. At his earliest possible convenience.

  Politely worded and printed on thick vellum, the thing still felt like a summons to the gallows.

  That odd look Mae’s father had directed at him earlier haunted him. Had someone seen him with Mae? Had her father somehow quizzed out the truth of what they’d been up to?

  He groaned. He was in trouble no matter what Barty Halford knew. He changed quickly, not willing to wait to find out how much.

  He found the man in the library at the back of the house. Mr Halford smiled as he rose to greet him. There was no sign of Mae.

  ‘Lord Stephen—’ Halford extended his hand ‘—thank you for coming. Won’t you have a seat?’

  There was a single chair across from the substantial desk. Two more sat comfortingly close to a cheery fire. Halford stood next to one plush chair by the fire and indicated the other.

  Mystified, but feeling somewhat hopeful, Stephen took it.

  ‘It’s good to have you and your family back in England, sir.’

  ‘My thanks to you, young man. I admit it is good to be back.’ Though the room wasn’t cold, he rubbed his hands together before the fire. ‘I’m particularly looking forward to the start of the racing tomorrow.’

  ‘As are we all.’ Stephen grinned. ‘I admit I put down a wager on your filly for tomorrow’s run. She’s a beauty.’ He leaned forwards. ‘I appreciate your willingness to race her at Fincote Park, sir. More than I can say.’

  ‘I’m happy to do it.’ The older man’s genial expression changed. Stephen met his shrewd gaze and caught a glimpse of the man who had single-handedly amassed one of England’s largest fortunes. ‘By all accounts, you’ve done a stupendous job with your enterprise. I hear you’ve a solid, challenging course and adequate stables. Support of the community, too, which will make all the difference.’

  Stephen blinked. ‘You’ve checked up on Fincote Park?’ He didn’t know whether to be insulted or impressed.

  ‘Of course. Information is power, young man. Surely you’ve learned a bit of that by now. A man in my position can’t be too careful.’

  Which position? Stephen’s mind spun a little wildly. A man with a significant horse to race? Or a man with a marriageable daughter?

  Halford sat back. ‘I have to say, I’m impressed with you, Lord Stephen.’ He raked a hard, measuring look over him. ‘I didn’t used to be. You were a young hellion when last I saw you.’ He held up a hand when Stephen might have responded. ‘Though I know that even then, you handled my Mae with tact and finesse.’ He chuckled. ‘Not an easy thing to do. I appreciated it.’

  Stephen shifted. ‘Mae was merely young, sir.’

  ‘Young, yes. But being Mae—’ He shook his head. ‘She was formidable even then.’ He turned toward the fire, perhaps to hide the trace of a fond smile on his face. Kitchen noises drifted in from the hall. The door, not fully shut, had drifted open. Halford didn’t appear to notice. ‘Ah, but just have a look at her now. She’s a young lady to be reckoned with, to be sure.’

  A footman passed in the hall outside. Stephen didn’t respond. Agree or disagree, he was sure to dig himself deeper into trouble.

  ‘You’ve spent some time together, these last couple of days.’ Halford’s gaze was measuring now, laced with perhaps
a hint of a warning.

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘You might have shunned her for the way she acted a couple of years back. Or shamed her. But my wife told me how you looked out for her when Lord Landry sniffed a little too close.’

  Heat swept over him. ‘It was what any gentleman would have done, sir.’ His face must be flaming. ‘Mae mentioned that she is … ah, gathering information. About potential husbands. I agreed to help her out, share my opinions.’

  Halford’s mouth fell open. ‘She asked for your help?’ He snorted, suddenly clearly delighted. ‘Ah, my Mae. She will stir things up wherever she goes—but she’s been making a real effort since we returned.’

  Halford suddenly slapped the arm of his chair. ‘Well. I admit, I was fearful that she’d fall back into her old habits, make a nuisance of herself, but if that’s the way of it, then … I like all that I’ve heard of you, young man. I think your father would be proud.’ Halford bit out the words in his blunt way, but somehow that made the compliment all the more meaningful. ‘I’ll be happy to race my filly at your track—especially up against Toswick’s Butterfly.’

  ‘You won’t regret it, sir. I promise a demanding race, run clean.’ He sat straighter, hoping to open the subject of Ornithopter, but Halford wasn’t finished.

  ‘I’d also like to sponsor you for membership into the Jockey Club Coffee Rooms.’ He tilted his head. ‘It’s not a full membership, but it’s a start.’

  Pleasure wrestled guilt into submission. This was compliment and opportunity both. ‘Thank you,’ Stephen said with real gratitude. He stood and extended his hand. ‘Your sponsorship would be an honour and a privilege.’

  Halford clasped his hand, then crossed before the open door to a small table on the same wall. ‘There will be a vote, but it will be a formality, really. Can’t think that anyone would object to you—not now that Ryeton’s busy, eh?’ The older man laughed as he raised the lid on an elegant humidor. ‘Shall we smoke to celebrate?’ He raised a thick cigar.

  Stephen nodded. ‘Thank you. But I did wonder if you might also consider racing Ornithopter at Fincote Park?’

  Halford clipped his cigar. He didn’t look up. ‘Ornithopter, eh?’

  He didn’t expect an answer. This was fortunate, as Stephen suddenly found himself unable to provide one. Someone else was passing in the hallway. A curvy someone in a navy riding habit who just happened to be creeping along with her boots in her hand. She froze when she glimpsed him through the doorway.

  Stephen glared.

  His back to the door, her father approached. ‘And who would you have in mind as a match for Ornithopter, lad?’

  Stephen took the offered cigar. Halford bent slightly to light it and Stephen shot his daughter an evil look over his shoulder.

  Mae gave a silent laugh. Deviltry lit up her whole face. With a wave of her hand, she disappeared down the hall, towards the back of the house.

  ‘I’m working on that, sir,’ Stephen said, his tone grim.

  Mae’s heart pounded as she flew through the kitchen, startling the help and flipping the cook an apologetic wave. Her mother was napping and she hadn’t expected her father to be in the house at all, let alone to have Stephen Manning with him.

  The kitchen step radiated cold even through the thick layers of her habit as she sat down to pull on her boots. She couldn’t suppress an amused snort. Oh—the look on Stephen’s face! He’d known exactly what she was up to—she could tell by the order implicit in his gaze. Even without words, she’d made sure that he could tell that she felt no compunction to follow his orders, implicit or otherwise.

  Her fingers flew as she buttoned up the last boot, and then she was up and nearly running to the stables. It had looked as though her father had Stephen well and truly trapped, but she would take no chances. Stephen would never give her away—but he would come after her. She wanted to be well away before he escaped her father’s clutches.

  The groom had her mount saddled and waiting. She thanked him with a big smile and a larger coin, but he was wise to her ways. ‘Just give me a moment to saddle up, miss. Ye know yer father does not want ye riding out alone.’

  ‘Not to worry, Henry,’ she assured him. ‘Lady Corbet is already waiting for me at the end of the drive. She’s in dire need of new ribbons for her bonnet, before the start of the racing tomorrow.’ She grinned and cocked her head at the groom. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be in dire need of any ribbon, would you?’

  ‘Cor! No, miss, not me.’ He eyed her doubtfully. ‘If yer sure the lady is waiting?’

  ‘I’m sure!’ she called, wheeling her mount about. ‘In fact, I’m running late.’ Hiding a grin, she was off, hooves clattering over the cobbles, hopefully before Stephen had puffed his cigar to a full burn.

  Newmarket was not far, and Mae kept to a slow pace as she made her way along High Street. Her heart beat a good deal faster, though, as she hoped she would encounter the person she sought before Stephen caught up to her. She had been ambling along for nearly ten minutes when her target breezed past.

  Miss Charlotte Hague. It could be no other. She drove the pretty little cabriolet, painted a bright red, that the girls at the tea had described. She looked beautiful in her scarlet driving suit, her matching ribbons trailing merrily from her bonnet. She was heading east, out of town, just as she’d been reputed to do every day since she’d turned Ryeton out.

  Mae fell in behind her, keeping her in sight, but making sure that plenty of traffic separated them. This grew more difficult as they left Newmarket proper and began the climb south and east out of the town. Mae kept her distance, but in a matter of minutes they were the only two on the road.

  Miss Hague must have known she was being followed, but still she continued on, through the grassland and occasional tree belts until she reached a pretty little farm, nestled like a jewel in a valley of green chalk land.

  Watching, Mae pulled her mount to a stop. The woman turned on to the track leading towards a small farmhouse and beyond. She continued directly past, heading for a clapboard barn at the edge of the valley. Pausing at the mouth of the rutted drive, Mae watched Miss Hague pull her carriage to a stop. She tied her single horse to a post and entered the barn without a backward glance.

  Mae hesitated. Stephen’s warnings rang in her head. What could the chances be—that Pratchett might be hidden in that barn? Slim at best. The opportunities for danger suddenly felt more likely. She bit her lip. In the past she’d done a great many foolish things in pursuit of Stephen Manning. This one had the potential to put all the rest to shame.

  She thought of all the voices, urging her to act or to not act, or to act in a certain way: Josette, her father, Lord Banks and even the lovely Mr Grange. She thought of Stephen, simultaneously inviting her in and shutting her out. Three days ago her life had been simpler, her goals clear.

  She heard it then. Echoing from across the valley, emanating from the barn, the high call of a horse. A greeting.

  Her hands gripped tight on the reins. Perhaps things would look simpler again, once Pratchett was found and all the distractions removed.

  Urging her mount forwards, she headed for the barn.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stephen left Barty Halford as soon as he was decently able—which turned out to be about fifteen minutes too late. Fifteen minutes. The damned chit could be anywhere.

  Nevertheless, he stormed along High Street in high dudgeon—because he knew where she’d gone to, didn’t he? Right where he’d forbidden her to go.

  Naturally.

  He held his anger and fear for her in check while he made enquiries. Tamped it firmly down while he searched out Charlotte Hague’s house and used a combination of bullying and bribery to intimidate her discreet servants.

  But now he had a destination. And a mount under him. And plenty of time to indulge in visions of punishment as he made his way out of Newmarket and into the surrounding countryside.

  And indulge, he did. He could not stop himself. The g
irl needed tying up. Or a padded cell. Mae had gone too far this time. He knew that once she made a commitment, it was heart and soul. He knew that she was likely to get caught up in the excitement and beauty of seeing her plans unfold. But it was one thing to blithely spout nonsense about ruination being preferable to an unwanted marriage. It was another thing altogether to court such a disaster with unruly, childish behaviour.

  Mae didn’t understand what a misery a life shut out from all good society could be. Stephen did.

  He knew all about the horrible loneliness. How, when the world forgot you, you began to lose yourself. He’d seen his mother fade away in isolation and exile, through no fault of her own. He’d be damned if he’d see the same thing happen to Mae.

  Swallowing a curse, he urged his mount to a faster gait.

  What had Mae expected to find as she followed Charlotte Hague? A clandestine meeting? A lover’s tryst, perhaps. Standing in the doorway, she blinked her eyes, fighting both disappointment and the gloom of the interior. This was no love nest disguised as a barn. Miss Hague stood within, alone at a stall’s opened half-door, stroking the neck of a dappled grey.

  Miss Hague chuckled as the horse imperiously butted her shoulder. But when she spoke, her words weren’t directed at the grey. ‘Well—come in, then. I give you full marks for audacity. Now that you’ve come all this way, you might as well have your say.’

  Mae took a tentative step inside. ‘Miss Hague?’

  The woman turned and Mae paused. Charlotte Hague was an utterly incongruous sight in such a homey, everyday scene. The woman was lovely, beautiful in a striking, dramatic way. Her dark beauty belonged in another time and place, in a Venetian gondola perhaps, or reclining on a Roman couch. Her lips were red, her skin an exotic olive—but her eyes—Mae’s breath caught when their gazes met. Charlotte Hague’s eyes were dark and heavy, full of too much knowledge and more than enough experience and, roaming over Mae, her expression took on an inordinately weary cast.