When a Rake Falls

by Sally Orr

  “Yes, yes, hiding from us all. Don’t blame you myself.” Ten feet to her side, Parker stood, illuminated by the sunshine, both hands on his hips. He appeared to be breathing hard. “I need to hide too. May I join you?”

  Like most women, she suffered from being overly polite. No, she didn’t want his company, but she couldn’t be cruel enough to tell him to go away. His presence would only upset her sense of balance. She’d end up fighting her own feelings as he tried to talk her out of marriage to Charles Henry. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I saw you run in this direction.” A tentative grin crossed his masculine face. With long strides, he stepped over several shrubs until her reached her side. “I also know you have a fondness for hugging trees when you are in difficulty.”

  The unseen hand squeezing her heart released its grip a little.

  He easily pulled and arranged several large fern leaves before sitting opposite her, face to face. His long, elegant legs in gleaming black top boots stretched along her side. He bit his lower lip, perhaps hesitant to speak first.

  She welcomed the silence, since she had no desire to speak either. She needed time and solace to allow her brains to take charge. The minutes of silence stretched. She picked up a fern, kept her head down, and started pulling small bits of the fronds off, trying to formulate the words to kindly ask him to leave.

  Finally, he scooted closer and reached for her hand to stop the frond’s destruction.

  The touch of his warm hand melted the immediate worries clouding her mind. She took another long, deep breath, realizing she welcomed his touch.

  He squeezed her hand softly. “That’s better, more like my fearless aeronaut.”

  While her anxieties had lessened, she still had nothing of importance to say. Or if she did, she could not summon the words.

  He filled the silence first. “I apologize that my speech let you down. Buxton asked to hear about my adventures, so I attempted to please him, but that was a mistake. I truly planned to withhold the subjective parts when I presented it before the Royal Institute.” He paused.

  “I’m sorry my criticism was so harsh,” she said. “You presented the data rather well for a beginner. And I really shouldn’t blame you for the desire to please your audience.” She lapsed into silence.

  He took the hint and carried on the conversation by himself. “Created quite a rumpus with our fathers and Mr. Henry. I guess fleecy cotton clouds is not appropriate scientific terminology.”

  This time an audible chuckle escaped her.

  “Yes, yes, you sound much better. I enjoy your laughter; you don’t do enough of it.”

  She grinned wistfully. “I should have expected you to embellish your speech a little, but emotional descriptions would never do in front of a scientific audience. Still, you actually did remember most of the scientific details, so I guess my anger was unjustified.”

  He grinned.

  “I said most of the details. Several important facts like the hygrometer readings were omitted. I cannot say my attempt would be any better.” She smiled. “Perhaps I would mention less ink and fleecy cotton.”

  “Thank you,” he said softly, squeezing her hand again. “Seems Lydia insists on your party’s removal again. Do you want me to smooth the waters?”

  “Thank you, no. It’s just as well we are on our way back to London.”

  “I’m on my way too. Pater brought my horse, Charity, with him. I plan to head for Dover immediately. Only after your party leaves, of course. I cannot bear the thought of facing him ever again without some grand accomplishment. Besides, if I return with him, he might insist I help run the estate or do some other occupation under his eagle eye. I like the publishing business and have plans to continue editing and composing. My efforts also benefit my brother, and there is nothing like entertaining, informing, and amusing people. You know, lighten a mood with a song or two. So once I arrive at Dover, I’ll continue my journey to Paris, ready to tell my amazing story.” He smiled and nodded.

  His obvious relief, brought on by the thought of victory, spurred a question she had always wanted to ask. “Tell me, I understand at the beginning how important it was for you to win the earl’s race. Once we discovered the parhelia, the goal of winning was replaced by speaking before a learned institution. So it is clear that gaining your father’s respect is important to you, but I do not fully understand why. He obviously cares for you; otherwise, he would not be here. Most of us get horrid nicknames when young, so I don’t understand why your unfortunate moniker drives you to seek fame. Lydia told me something went wrong in a piglet race, but she didn’t know the details. Just why, then, do so many people remember Piglet Parker?”

  He remained silent for a minute or two, looking in the direction of the golden sunlit field. He sighed deeply. “It was meant to be a lark—a piglet race to amuse my sisters-in-law, nephews, and nieces.” His smile returned. “With seven older brothers, I’m a wealthy man in the nieces and nephews business. Anyhow, everyone enjoyed a pleasant day in the park. The piglets squealed as they raced around a small circle lined with bales of hay. The ladies clapped and the children seemed to squeal as loudly as the piglets.” He started to pluck a frond to pieces. “Then one piglet escaped the hay wall. His tiny hoof slashed the leg of an eight-year-old boy who happened to be watching with his mother.” He looked directly at her and shook his head. “You would not believe the amount of blood.”

  She nodded, biting the corner of her upper lip. “Yes, I can. Hooves are quite sharp.”

  “Thank heavens, my brother Richard was there. He’s a war hero, fought the Americans in New Orleans, then in a blink, found himself at Waterloo, imagine that. Richard knew precisely what to do. Stopped the bleeding in no time.”

  She exhaled. “What happened to the boy?”

  He gave her a radiant, broad smile. “Small scar on his leg, but I think his mother is permanently scarred the most. She lost her husband in the war and Alfred is all she has. I’ve called upon him every year since the accident. We go boxing or fishing or whatever masculine pursuit he chooses. Of course, I keep him away from all hooves. Sometimes Richard comes along too. Alfred has heartily forgiven me by now, but his mother always sends a footman along. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me. Yes, yes, I suppose I don’t blame her.”

  “So that’s the reason you’re called Piglet Parker and the trouble started with your father.”

  His smile evaporated. “You’re right, that’s how I got the nickname and when my troubles began.” He appeared crestfallen.

  She reached out to cover his hand with hers. They both moved at the same time to sit closer, side by side, still holding hands. She dropped her head on his broad shoulder; no feeling could ever soothe her more.

  “Before the race, he wrote off my peccadilloes to youthful high spirits, but the piglet race changed his mind. I instantly became the new black sheep of the family, the one to watch, the one most likely to bring shame to the family name.” He lowered his head to rest on hers. “Then three years ago, I talked two of my friends into writing a lighthearted, satirical book for my brother’s publishing firm—on a lark, you understand. The book’s called The Rake’s Handbook: Including Field Guide. It became an immediate bestseller, and my brother was quite pleased with the profits. But when my father came down on his yearly visit into town and walked into our club, one of his friends read aloud a colorful passage from the handbook. My father’s face turned as red as a radish and…” He sighed, caught her gaze, and paused. “Right then and there, in our club, in front of all of London, my father—my father—gave me the cut direct.” He stopped speaking. Wrapping his arms tight around her, he dropped his chin on the top of her head. “He failed to acknowledge me, turned his back to me, and walked away. My father.” He choked on a word. “Walked away.”

  Both his pain and his warm breath against her forehead were palpable. “So you
r dream is to make him proud of you once again.”

  She felt him nod, and they lapsed into silence.

  “We have a lot in common then, because I too have a similar dream,” she said softly. “My father does not believe women have the rigor of mind for science. He believes that women who hope to contribute to knowledge are wasting their time and effort. And the only proper employment for a female of intelligence is to run a household well. He accepts my efforts only because my brother died and he could find no one else to assist him without pay. But even my accomplishments these past years have failed to change his mind. To him, I’m just an extra pair of hands he orders about.”

  He nodded.

  “Just now, when I saw you up on the podium, I realized that I too desired nothing more than the chance to prove myself, prove my worth before an audience, prove that women can contribute to society in many ways. Maybe even change my father’s mind with respect to female capabilities and force him to realize both men and women can contribute to the betterment of mankind. It sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

  “No, perfectly reasonable.” He lifted his head and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “I’ve never heard of a proper lady speaking about science before an audience.” He chuckled. “Bet that would make all of London’s tongues wag.”

  “Normally in front of an audience, females are only allowed to sing or play the pianoforte, and many do it well. Perhaps a few other accomplishments, but our dreams are limited to that.”

  “If you spoke in front of the Royal Society, I’ll wager it would create a huge scandal, what?”

  “Yes, but if our paper is accepted, you will have to give the speech, I suppose.

  He paused, raised his head, and widened his eyes. “Your name is Eve.”

  She turned her head to look directly at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “Eve! Your name is Eve. You know, Adam and Eve.”

  Smiling, she glanced around them. “And we are in a garden too, but I have no apple to tempt you with and get us evicted from Eden.”

  He focused on her mouth. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Pardon?”

  He enclosed her in a full embrace. “No more lessons, no more kittens, no more innocence. Do you fully understand the consequences of marriage to Mr. Henry? You will be transferred from being your father’s servant to your husband’s. Any hope that you would be recognized for your efforts to contribute to humanity would be lost. Or even worse, claimed by Mr. Henry in the same manner he claimed his discovery of the Results book.” He lowered his head. “You lack understanding of the role you will have to play every day.” He kissed her. No glancing peck this time but a full kiss.

  Like every time they had kissed before, she started to analyze the touch of his warm, moist lips and the heat created by their movement. But this time, she successfully stopped herself from the restrictions of logical analysis and gave her heart free rein to feel. She let go. She let her heart feel the languid joy of his kiss, feel the unusual but not unwelcome messages sent throughout her body—feel the supreme sense of well-being, silent comfort, and her sense of a growing, pleasant urgency.

  They gradually leaned back onto the greenery, the leaves cooling her warm cheeks. The delicious kiss lingered and teased and quickened and slowed.

  Her kisses expressed what he meant to her, that she loved him. Did he understand this message?

  He touched her breast over the fullest part, and she sighed upon the joyous sensation this created. Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled her on top of him and buried his kisses on her neck and under her ears. Sitting up, he scooted to lean against a tree. “Come here,” he said, his voice taking on a deep rumble. He pulled her up onto his lap. Then he reached under her bodice and kneaded her breast, all the while raining hot kisses on her neck. The earthen pathway in front of her blurred into a golden halo of light.

  She relaxed fully, sinking lower onto his torso, pushing her breasts against his palms. Her attention seemed fixed upon her physical responses from the caresses and kisses delivered under the heated spotlight of the sun, just above. Soon, however, she felt his reaction, a stiffening member directly under her backside. Logic returned, since she was unsure of his control over the situation. She hesitated, waiting for him to move first.

  He must have sensed her reluctance. “You cannot marry that fellow. Please reconsider what your betrothal would mean.”

  Logic prevailed; they were not speaking the same language. His tenderness did not bespeak a marriage proposal, while her responses put voice to an unspoken acknowledgment of her love. His behavior was meant as a lesson in contrast, the differing sexual proficiencies between two men. His kisses were merely a gesture to wake her up, persuade her not to wed Charles Henry. Each kiss said, “Here is what I can do for you, versus the ineptitude of the other man.” She concluded his heart was likely hidden, inaccessible, or jaded due to a lifetime of easily available women.

  “You are the one who does not understand me,” she said, a tear forming. She turned around again and lay with her back on his chest, so he couldn’t see her tears. Before her stretched nothing but the darkness of the impenetrable trees.

  “So you will wed this jackanapes, Mr. Henry. How could you?”

  “I’ve always done my duty to my family.”

  “Duty?” He leaned to the side to stare at her directly, and she glanced away.

  Eve’s mother had wanted her to be happy. She needed to persuade her father to allow her to remain unwed, and the three of them continue their research as before. Happiness with the man she loved was not her fate. “Come, let’s return to the priory and say our farewells. We are needed elsewhere.” In the future, whenever she felt alone or frightened, maybe even witnessing others share an embrace, she would hold dear this one blissful memory of passion, under a canopy of trees, hidden away.

  Seventeen

  What was wrong with everyone? Funny thing how a single day can lead to a fantastical change in your life. Yesterday, Boyce’s future stretched before him composed of nothing but promise. Today? Today, after a sleepless night and a hurried breakfast before anyone else at the priory had risen, he entered the quiet stables to saddle Charity.

  With his small collection of belongings and a few necessities loaned by Buxton, he planned to rejoin the earl’s race. His ribs, right leg, and back, injured from his fall out of the balloon, pained him more today than yesterday, but this gave him strange comfort, because it complemented his feeling of being ill-used and allowed him the luxury of suffering in silence.

  Damnation. Before him, outside the stable doors, the day proved to be another blasted sunny one. A perfect summer’s day had never irritated him before, but it did now—birds yelling, bees buzzing, stable hands being cheerful.

  Charity became difficult to saddle, perhaps dragging her from a warm, cozy stall made her grumpy this morning. For the fourth time, he tried to tighten the strap under her belly, but she scooted out of the way.

  “Boyce dear.”

  He let his head fall to rest on Charity’s flank and closed his eyes.

  Lady Buxton sighed. “I apologize for disturbing you, son. For the sake of your dear mother, please let me have a word with you before you leave.”

  What should he do? Have a conversation with a lady who deserved no disrespect from him, or hang himself with Charity’s bridle?

  “I know why you are leaving us so soon.”

  “I gave my farewells yesterday. It’s all settled.”

  “I wonder if a groom is awake to fetch me a stool?” She stepped back to peer down the row of stables.

  He turned to face her. “Why do you need a stool?” He wondered if Lady B. planned to climb upon Charity.

  “To stand on, of course. Under the circumstances, I believe your dear mother would approve of me boxing your ears.”

  He turned back to resume securing Charity
’s saddle. “Please leave me. Please.” Perhaps if he ignored her, she’d return to the house. He could then apologize for his ill spirits on another visit.

  Even though the stable floor was covered in straw, her cane hit the ground with such force, it made a loud tap. “You’re a sulky puss, now attend me.”

  Resisting the urge to lift her physically into his arms and return her to the house, he spun to face her and straightened. “You have five minutes,” he snapped. “I apologize; it’s early.”

  The fight in her seemed to leave as her shoulders sagged. All of a sudden, her countenance expressed every one of her sixty-plus years. She carefully and slowly approached him until she stood at a distance suitable to box his ears. Then she sighed and waited.

  He had no intention of speaking first.

  After a longer sigh, she said, “Tell me about this Lady Sarah. Are you in love with her?”

  He shook his head. “Pardon? What gave you the idea I was in love with the woman? I only met her once, and that interview lasted a full minute.”

  “What about Miss Mountfloy? What are your feelings for her?”

  A good question. Yesterday, he had not lingered after his aeronaut confirmed her betrothal. His mind had instantly become hopelessly muddled. Now his blood boiled whenever he thought of her engagement, so he vowed never to consider it again—ever. He needed to flee this place, rejoin the race, and put his failures and her mistaken choice of a husband behind him. If not, his heart might pain him forever. He doubted they would ever meet in the future.

  He then remembered his father’s expression after she accused him of not being able to take his presentation seriously, the pater’s tight lips, head held lower than normal, and the all-too-familiar expression of disappointment. Was his father disappointed with her too? The marquess had only known her for a few days at most, so he couldn’t have been upset from the news she planned to marry Charles Henry. Was his father blaming her for his less than perfect performance of the sun dog speech? He remembered his father using the word adequate, and despite Eve’s misgivings, her offer to help make his next speech more credible. But perhaps his father had only said it because he did not want to appear overly critical of his son in front of Lady Buxton. Boyce knew for certain that, had he remained in the room, his father would have belittled him even more for his failure. He might even be waiting for him this morning with some colossal scold. Boyce must flee.