Taming the Rake

by Monica McCarty

  She’d make Coventry eat his words. Every last one of them. She might even enjoy seeing the shock on his arrogant face when she coolly rejected his proposal. And propose he would. Because now Gina’s pride was involved.

  “Ah, Lady Georgina, I see you’ve been talking to my son.” The Countess of Coventry said as Gina approached. “I hope he said nothing to offend you.”

  Gina forced a bright smile onto her face. An effort that was not made without some pain. “Not at all, Lady Coventry. We were merely discussing his love of animals.” In a manner of speaking.

  The countess scoffed. “Coventry and his dogs. Even as a boy he had an unnatural attachment to those smelly, flea-ridden creatures. Why you’ve never seen such a fuss when his father had to shoot one of the stupid things. The boy carried on for days and refused to eat for nearly a week.”

  “What happened?” her stepmother asked before Gina could.

  “The foolish beast bit my husband.”

  “Because father was beating Coal with a stick,” Lady Augusta said softly.

  The countess gave her a sharp look. “You were only a child. You can’t remember.”

  But it was clear she did.

  “So was Jamie,” Lady Augusta said under her breath, but loud enough for Gina to hear.

  Apparently, the countess had heard her too. “Coventry was ten or eleven. Old enough to obey the rules. Rules that he knowingly broke by bringing that filthy animal into his chambers.”

  Gina felt an unwelcome twinge of sympathy for Coventry. His mother was truly abhorrent. Imagine, shooting a cherished pet for defending itself. Unconsciously, Gina looked around, catching a glimpse of Coventry heading toward the billiard room. The countess followed the direction of her stare.

  Her mouth pickled with displeasure. “Now he is a man full grown and there is nothing I can do.” She sighed, sounding unbearably put upon. “If Coventry wishes to gamble away every last penny of his inheritance, I must stand by and watch.”

  The duchess tried to lighten the conversation. “Surely, it is not as bad as all that. Most men gamble.”

  The countess did not take the hint. “It’s much worse. He’s reckless and foolish—a disastrous combination. The boy will plague me with his antics until the day I die, which might not be long. My heart is weak you know. Little does my ungrateful son care. I live in fear that he will lose everything in one turn of the cards or one toss of the dice.”

  Uncomfortable to hear his mother speak aloud many of the same sentiments that Gina had thought, she was relieved when the duchess suggested that she and the countess take some air in the garden. Gina got the feeling that her stepmother was not so much a friend of the countess, as much as she sought to protect Lady Augusta who looked like she wanted to evaporate.

  “I apologize for mother. It’s just that she and Coventry, well—”

  Gina stopped her. “There’s no need. I’m sure your brother can be difficult.” Gina had proof of that.

  “So can mother. They are like water and oil. Sometimes I think they purposely do things to vex each other.”

  “Like the gambling?”

  Lady Augusta nodded. Her expression shifted to one of remorse. “I shouldn’t have left you alone with him. What did he say to upset you? Was it horrible?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle. He was only trying to shock me.”

  Augusta looked horrified, the possibilities probably running through her mind.

  “Don’t worry,” Gina assured her.

  Hands twisting at her waist, Lady Augusta looked like she wanted to cry. “But now you’ll never be interested in him.”

  Gina laughed. “I’m not that easily put off.”

  “You’re not?”

  Gina shook her head. “Absolutely not.” She paused as if she’d just thought of something, although it had been her intent all along. “Would you like to see your brother more respectable? Not like those horrible men he associates with?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I have an idea. But I will need your help.”

  “I don’t know,” she said warily. “Coventry doesn’t like interference.”

  Gina took Augusta’s arm and tucked it under hers. “Just leave everything to me. I know exactly what to do. Believe me, your brother will thank you in the end.”

  Well, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but surely Coventry would see the benefit of a wife when it was made perfectly clear to him?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Coventry slammed the door to his study and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. God, he needed a drink. Over a week of dodging his sister and Lady Georgina had him agitated. Deeply agitated.

  He was wrong about Lady Georgina not being aggressive. Everywhere he turned she was there, with that sly knowing smile fixed on her incredible mouth. He’d had far too many prurient thoughts about that mouth. He couldn’t take his usual ride in Hyde Park or walk along Bond Street without seeing that mouth.

  It haunted him.

  He had the pressing need to do something about it. A need that was beginning to overshadow everything else. He’d just about decided to seduce her and be done with it, to hell with the consequences. Yet something held him back, and it wasn’t because he’d suddenly developed a conscience. With Lady Georgina there would be consequences. The Duke of St. Albans was not as easily dismissed as the Viscount Danby.

  And even the painful throb of a permanent erection was better than the agony of marriage.

  Bloody hell, his head hurt.

  Right now, all he wanted was to pour a tall glass of brandy, close the heavy drapes, and collapse in a drunken stupor on the perfectly broken-in divan.

  Maybe he didn’t even need a glass.

  He reached the mahogany cabinet, knelt down, and tore open the doors.

  The bellow that ripped from his lungs shook the stone foundations of his Jermyn Street lodgings. “Jennings!”

  A moment later his manservant—part butler, part valet, part secretary—appeared.

  Completely unruffled as usual, he said calmly, “Yes, my lord.”

  “Where is it?” Coventry asked, demonstrating patience that he did not feel.

  “Where is what, my lord?”

  Coventry counted to ten, trying to control his temper. “Where is the liquor that was in this cabinet yesterday?”

  Jennings’s expression didn’t change. “Why, the ladies took it with them this morning, my lord.”

  Coventry’s head felt so hot he thought it was going to explode. “The ladies?” he asked, but he already knew.

  “Lady Augusta and Lady Georgina Beauclerk.” Jennings, a man without expression, actually smiled. “A delightful woman if I may say so, my lord. We heartily approve.”

  Coventry bit back the denial that sprang to his lips. His hands clenched into tight fists, the urge to pound his hand through a wall was nearly irresistible. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Mrs. Jennings and I would like to add our thanks, my lord.”

  “Thanks?” He didn’t want to ask. “For what?”

  “Why, for hiring the extra servants. When Lady Georgina heard of Mrs. Jennings’s back problems, she immediately ordered her to find two more housemaids to help with the cleaning. And with the new valet and Lady Georgina helping out with the house accounts, I will have more time to devote to my other duties.”

  Back problems? What back problems? New valet? Lady Georgina helping with the household accounts? He raked his fingers through his hair. Were his servants overworked? Apparently so.

  Reality hit him hard.

  The conniving little minx. Coventry had been deftly outmaneuvered. She’d insinuated herself into his household by endearing herself to his servants, and by undoubtedly alluding to an impending engagement. In a matter of hours she’d discovered things that he hadn’t noticed in days, or, he grimaced, in months. Things that he should have known. She’d seen holes and moved to fill them, knowing he wouldn’t countermand her. Knowing he couldn’t. Because
she was right.

  There was nothing he hated more than a bossy woman, except a bossy woman who was right.

  His hands itched to wring that pretty little interfering neck, but he’d deal with her later. Right now all he could think about was that drink. “And the brandy? The port?” He drew a long breath. “The whisky?”

  “Part of the redecoration, my lord. Taken for storage to Coventry House.” Jennings was beginning to look uneasy. “I thought you knew. They cleared out the cellar as well. Lady Augusta assured me…”

  Redecoration? He looked around in a stupor, noticing the things that he’d been too preoccupied to see on the way in. The room was painfully bright. The familiar garnet-colored velvet drapes to block out the head-splitting sun, gone. He’d never cared for the stodgy old things, but damn it they were his. Clearly, his desk had been tidied, the papers organized into perfectly squared neat piles. Just as his wife had done in the early months of their marriage. His blood boiled, noticing the fresh flowers arranged in a silver vase. Pink roses no less. He opened a filigreed box that sat on the corner of his desk. Cheroots, gone. He put his hands to his temples, trying to soothe the pressure. He started to drop onto the divan, but at the last minute something stopped him. He caught himself right before he landed on the ground.

  Not the divan. Not his perfectly broken-in leather divan.

  She wouldn’t dare.

  But apparently, there wasn’t much that Lady Georgina wouldn’t dare.

  Coventry didn’t know what she thought she was doing, but he’d warned her. When he got his hands on that beautiful little neck… Well, he wouldn’t be held responsible for what happened next.

  Coventry paused at the entrance as his name was announced. It was an unseasonably warm mid-April night and the pungent scent of sweat mixed with the cloying aroma of perfume nearly made him turn around. It was not a pleasant combination.

  He hadn’t stepped through these doors in five years. He could have waited another fifty. His gaze traveled around the large room, taking in the highly polished floors, the light blue plastered walls and the gilded chandeliers ablaze with hundreds of candles. The room filled to bursting with London’s most elegant and fashionable.

  Not much had changed.

  Almack’s. The “Seventh Heaven of the Fashionable World,” or, in his opinion, Hell on earth. But not even the dreaded “marriage mart” would prevent him from tracking down Lady Georgina Beauclerk tonight. And as it was Wednesday, Almack’s assembly rooms it must be.

  A collective gasp accompanied his entry, followed by hundreds of curious faces turning in his direction. He ignored all of them, focused as he was on one face in particular. One exceptionally lovely face that masked the clever mind of a despot.

  Focused on his search, he didn’t notice that he was no longer alone.

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” came the familiar sarcastic drawl. “I guess the rumors are correct.”

  Coventry turned to find the smirking face of the Earl of Blakemore. Once a close friend, Coventry hadn’t seen much of Blakemore over the past few months. A year ago Blakemore had been every bit the reprobate as Coventry, but he’d forsaken his life of debauchery for a wife. Poor sod.

  “And what rumors are those?”

  “That you are besotted, chasing after the St. Albans chit.”

  Coventry swore. “The rumors are false.”

  Blakemore smiled knowingly. “And yet, here you are.”

  Coventry tried to control his temper. “If you must know, it’s the other way around.”

  “The lady is chasing you?” Blakemore scoffed. “I don’t believe it.”

  Coventry shrugged. He didn’t care what Blakemore thought. Coventry’s only concern right now was finding that little termagant and instilling in her a healthy dose of fear.

  Blakemore’s eyes narrowed, as if he suddenly suspected that Coventry might be telling the truth. “If it is true, you’ve made quite a catch. Consider yourself fortunate. One of the biggest marriage prizes on the market. Not as beautiful as her friend,” he gestured to Lady Cecelia, “but ravishing just the same.”

  Coventry didn’t agree, but bit back his disavowal. The cold hauteur of Lady Cecelia Leveson-Gower did not appeal to him in the least. She was too beautiful, almost like admiring a piece of art. No, Coventry much preferred the more animate delights of golden brown hair and sparkling green eyes. Not that he’d ever admit as much to Blakemore. Lord knows what he would do if he smelled blood. The chap was clearly chomping at the bit to have someone join him in the ranks of matrimonial hell, and it sure as Hades wasn’t going to be him.

  “I don’t understand.” Blakemore studied him. “She’s rejected five suitable offers, why you?”

  Coventry stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “No offense, old boy. But you are hardly the sort to appeal to someone like Lady Georgina Beauclerk.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well for one, you’re foxed half the time. You’ve had more mistresses than I can count. You’re hardly a paragon of society. And from what I’ve seen, the chit seems to be a good judge of character.” He grinned. “Which, my friend, would leave you out.”

  Blakemore was correct, of course. Coventry had earned his reputation. But for some reason, this time the character disparagement annoyed him. He fought to control his expression, knowing that a show of bad temper was only likely to encourage Blakemore.

  “So hell has frozen over?” The perfectly modulated voice teemed with condescension.

  Coventry turned, acknowledging the arrival of Mr. Carrington with a curt nod. “Carrington.”

  Carrington snickered. “The notorious Earl of Coventry gracing the halls of Almack’s? I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Yes, well, here I am,” Coventry said brusquely. Carrington was not a friend, nor did he want to encourage a friendship between them. Coventry didn’t like the man. He was a peacock of the worst pompous sort.

  “I’ve heard you’ve agreed to escort your sister during her season.”

  Coventry’s gaze hardened, suddenly alert. He quirked a brow. “News travels fast.”

  Carrington shrugged, but Coventry didn’t like his secretive expression. “You know how gossip spreads amongst the ton.”

  “Yes,” Coventry said. “I do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see my sister.”

  And, more important, Lady Georgina. Any uneasiness caused by Carrington was pushed aside as Coventry’s prey came into view: the pile of silky hair artfully arranged to resemble that of a Grecian goddess, the slim curve of her smooth neck. He homed in like a hunter, all of his senses fastened on one woman.

  A cold smile curved his lips. It was time Lady Georgina learned that he meant what he said. He was not a man to play games.

  On a typical evening Gina found Almack’s a bit tedious, but tonight she was having a grand time, basking in the glow of a successful morning. Today had gone exceptionally well, and she was feeling inordinately pleased with herself.

  Coventry’s servants had been only too easy to win over. Her nose wrinkled disapprovingly. It wasn’t surprising. With all the alcohol in that house, Lord Coventry had probably been too drunk to notice how overworked they were.

  A devilish smile played about her mouth. She wished she could have seen his expression when he arrived home.

  “Oh no,” Lady Augusta moaned. “It’s worse than I thought. I never should have let you talk me into redecorating his lodgings.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gina asked.

  “It’s my brother.”

  Gina patted her hand affectionately. “Don’t worry, Augusta.” As they’d been spending so much time together, they’d agreed to call each other by their Christian names. “We’re quite safe from your brother until his temper has a chance to cool. That’s why I chose Wednesday. He’d never show his face at Almack’s.”

  Augusta had gone incredibly pale. “Never say never.”

  Gina’s brows shot together. “What are you tal
king about?”

  Augusta pointed behind her. Gina turned and froze. Coventry was descending on them like some dark, avenging angel. And from the black expression on his face, Gina could tell that he hadn’t quite recognized the wisdom of her plan just yet.

  A prickle of fear ran down her neck. He looked like a hawk diving in for a kill. So like a smart mouse, she decided to scatter.

  Gina turned to Augusta. “Perhaps we should take some air?” Gina suggested lightly, but the telltale squeak of apprehension sounded in her voice.

  Lady Augusta nodded in quick agreement, and they practically ran toward the garden.

  Gina had just stepped onto the gravel when a hand as unrelenting as a steel vice clasped around her arm.

  “Not so fast.”

  Her heart stopped. The low menace of his voice cut through the crisp night air like a sharp blade. She shivered as his warm breath found the bare skin of her neck. Her entire body tensed, waiting. Gina was uncomfortably aware of the press of the hard, unyielding body behind her. Did he have to be so frightfully large?

  She looked around for help. Augusta, the dashed coward, had disappeared.

  He whipped her around to face him and pulled her in close against the broad muscular wall of his chest. So close that even in the semidarkness, she could see the fine silk threads of his white cravat and the soft linen of his shirt. So close that she could smell the clean warm spice of his skin and the faint intoxicating hint of brandy on his breath. He’d just bathed, under his chapeau-bras the dark locks were still damp and curled more than normal.

  “Going somewhere, Lady Georgina?” The dark timber of his voice reached deep inside her, setting off internal warning bells.

  She collected herself as best she could under the circumstances. “Lord Coventry, what a surprise.” Her voice chirped, sounding unnaturally high and breathless even to her own ears.