The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

  Adam gave what passed for a smile these days, a grimace of pain as he tried to get comfortable on the chaise longue with his back trussed up like a turkey. For the thousandth time he cursed the riding accident that had left him less than a whole man.

  "All right." He nodded. "Pull in all the favours we're owed. Borrow clothes, money, jewellery, and a carriage. We're going to cut a dash and take the Town by storm."

  "What if they ask questions about what we've been up to since we got sent down from Oxford?" Oliver wondered aloud.

  "Tell the truth. We've tried a few things with a view to improving the estate. Which, as the eldest, is mine, of course," Adam said with a smirk. "Just like this tart."

  "You don't mind do you, honey? Two for the price of one will be double the pleasure for you."

  The girl began to protest she was a working woman, but naked as she was, and pinned on the couch, she wasn't in much of a position to argue. Or indeed do much of anything else except submit…

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Elthams' at home was a simple affair, but the townhouse was so grand that Arabella had all to do not to stare at everything. She felt like a little country mouse as she looked at the elegant décor.

  She noted that Blake's home was not so ostentatious, though he could afford better, she knew. As could she now that she had done so well with her investments.

  She had made a couple of small errors in her calculations, but in the past fortnight she had come to look forward to reading the financial papers, and her portfolio was exceedingly healthy.

  Even better though was how proud Blake seemed to be of her. She had thought it would be hopelessly awkward to live under the same roof with the man who had almost become her lover.

  But he was so unceasingly polite and correct, and had so many fascinating sides to his personality, that every day was a new source of interest and excitement to her. Tonight, for example, in front of his friends, she heard him sing for the first time, and he was by no means as bad as he had let on. Quite excellent, in fact.

  He was most assiduous in his small kindnesses to her, assisting with her shawl, cloak, reticule, travelling rugs. He made her feel like a princess, like the most important woman in the world.

  Yet never once did he try to repeat any of the amorous attentions he had bestowed upon her in the carriage or their room at the inn.

  She had smiled as she had seen him come downstairs wearing a lavender cravat with his dark evening suit. It had matched her gown perfectly. Had that been his intention when he had told her which gown to wear?

  He had partnered her at whist that evening, sang several duets with her, and held her wool as she took some work out of her reticule whilst they listened to the Stones perform.

  Then she realised they were all paired off, married couples, and she and Blake.

  She looked at each couple again. How were they any different from herself and Blake? They shared the same regard and tastes; the same attentions were paid to the ladies as to her.

  The only difference she could see was the warm demonstrativeness of the couples, for they all held hands, kissed, embraced.

  Blake followed her gaze to the Duke and his wife as they sat in one corner with her on his lap whispering over some little private matter.

  She stared even further when their infant son, now nearly two months old, was brought in, and Charlotte fed him herself as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Arabella shot Blake a look to see if he was looking at the Duchess' bare breast, but all he did was smile at the child and compliment them on their adorable baby.

  He instructed Charlotte on the best way to bring up the wind by taking the baby from her and stroking his back gently until he let out a belch which would have done a stevedore proud. With an indulgent smile Blake mopped up his little face with his handkerchief.

  He cuddled and dandled the infant in his large hands with natural grace and ease that left her breathless.

  Arabella had never felt so moved. She had never been drawn strongly to anyone before as she was to this strange man who had come into her life like a meteor, left it again, and then had returned completely transformed.

  Well, not completely. He was the same in all respects, but their relationship could never be. They had originally been thrown together by trials and tribulations. That kind of romance under fire could never last. But a solid and lasting commitment, such as the couples in the room seemed to have built up, that was binding and real.

  But then so was a child, she realised with a tremor as she watched Blake rock the child to sleep and hand him back to the Duke to be put down in his cot.

  Arabella was very young. She had little experience of children. She would not be marrying any time soon, that was for certain. Not unless it was to someone she could admire wholeheartedly.

  She was pensive for the rest of the evening. She had thought herself so worldly wise, but the consequences of having allowed Blake to press his advances to their natural conclusion could have brought a shocking set of problems all of their very own.

  He had done the right thing by refusing her. Had done her a huge favour. Why then did she feel as though she had been badly let down. Betrayed, even?

  He could not fail to notice her change of mood. "Did you have a good evening?" Blake asked on the trip back home.

  "Indeed. They are all most pleasant. The house is magnificent."

  "Yet Thomas is only the second Duke. They were always a most gifted family."

  "And yours?"

  He shrugged. "Nothing to speak of. A talent for making money."

  "Not healing people?"

  "I work hard. I'm not sure of the rest," he said modestly.

  "Well, I shall come see for myself tomorrow."

  "I'm looking forward to it."

  "So am I."

  "Your oldest frock will do." He reached out to tuck her in more carefully against the cold.

  Arabella longed to nestle against him as she had done in the carriage in the past, but that would never do. Blake was her guardian, however much she was certain she had fallen in love with him the moment she met him. Here in London she had just kept on falling, but that way lay disaster.

  Blake longed to pull her to him to share her warmth as he had done so many weeks ago in the dire snowstorm. She looked so delicately beautiful as she sat there that his heart turned over and he could barely breathe. If she so much as looked at him he would…

  But the vehicle pulled up in front of the townhouse, and he helped her down carefully.

  "Thank you for this evening. What time would you like me to be ready in the morning?"

  "You're always up with the larks. We'll break our fast and go thereafter."

  "Good night, Dr. Sanderson."

  Blake resisted the urge to call her back, to spend even five more minutes with her. It was as though she took all the light out of the room when she left.

  He dragged himself into his study and pressed his back against the door. This was a test of his character he could not afford to fail. Arabella was so young, and so very lovely. He knew that she had had a legion of male callers ever since the night of the ball, but had been at home to none of them. Surely his luck would run out sooner or later, and he would lose her. The light would go out of his life forever.

  Unless….

  But no, that was impossible. Peter trusted him. They both did.

  Or unless he somehow managed to keep her single until she was twenty-one, and no longer her guardian.

  Three years? Three minutes without her in his arms was almost unbearable.

  He went over to his decanters and poured himself a brandy. He did not normally partake, but he felt the need to dull his pain somewhat. His needs.

  Was it all male lust? He didn't think so. He had thought himself in love with Rosalie, but with the benefit of hindsight had realized he had just ached to possess something so beautiful.

  Where Rosalie had been a pretty little English rose, Arabella was a
hot house flower, warm, sultry, alluring…

  Her every look, word, the sound of her voice, were all magic to him. Not to mention her decency and courage. The best that could have been said about Rosalie was she was pretty.

  Blake shook his head again. He had been such a fool, pining for Rosalie all these years, wasting his time with Leonore and the handful of other women who had cared nothing about him, only pleasure and the thrill of the chase, the thrill of illicit liaisons.

  Now he had the most wonderful woman in the world in his home, and she was destined for another. He had thought the loss of Rosalie nearly killed him. If he had won her it would have. The loss of Arabella would be just too dreadful to bear.

  He put down the glass and sighed. He raised both hands and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Getting drunk was not going to change the past. It might just make the future even more bleak.

  He extinguished the candles and marched up to his lonely bed.

  The men were all lined up, starkly naked. Rosalie laughed with lascivious glee. There was just something so incredibly pathetic about the male anatomy, but it did have its uses. Pity none of the men she had had thus far had had the stamina to satisfy her.

  "Is this all of you?" she pouted, stretching her arms over her head and her legs wide.

  Her once voluptuous breasts had grown pendulous. She was now well-padded all over from years of good living, but she flattered herself she could still have any man she wanted.

  "The others will be along in a moment. Big card game on, huge stakes," one of them said, daring to approach the bed. "But you don't need them. You can have all of me. I'll make you happy."

  Her cat-green eyes sparkled. "I give you leave to try."

  Six exhausted men later, she was still wide awake and hungry. Damn, it had been so easy when she had been younger. She'd been happier then.

  True, much of the time she had faked her interest, her pleasure, to get what she wanted. Now she didn't bother, for she had everything except pleasure. Had she really thrown away the best years of her life on that idiot Stanton? A nice enough chap, a vigorous lover, but far too much of a gentleman for her tastes, in bed and out. He had been passionate in their early days together, but had never succumbed to her more outragous suggestions no mater how hard she had coaxed and wheedled.

  He was intelligent, handsome, rich, and titled in the end. He had spoiled her materially and looked the other way, but she had determined his amorousness, however manly, was simply not enough. She wanted his money, and even more than his thrilling love-making, the freedom to pursue her lustful course of action until at last she felt truly satisfied. She could almost feel sorry for the poor bastard. He had tried so hard to pleasure her, and he had never seen it coming...

  But it would be worth it, she told herself. Anything to ease this constant ache in her loins. It had been there for years.

  She sighed as she recalled a particularly passionate afternoon, the hands upon her breasts, between her thighs…

  It had been Blake Sanderson, begging her to let him, since they were supposed to be marrying in a few days' time anyway. She had quivered and panted, and almost-

  Since then, it was as if she had been buried in a block of ice. Every man had tried, and failed, to give her that toe-curling joy she had only ever known once. She had sold herself to Stanton. He had been young, vigorous, but any illusions he had had about her had made him recoil from her and their marriage bed in horror.

  But now she was free. Free to seek the happiness that had long been denied her. Well, to be fair, she had been unfaithful the whole time she had been married, but she wanted the miracle of love, the 'forever after' the novels spoke about. The ultimate bliss.

  She had treated Blake most shamefully, true. But would it not demonstrate the height of her power to get him back for herself? He was as rich as Croesus, handsome…

  She knew that drab little old bitch Leonore Ross had been servicing him like a common convenient the past few years when he was in Town. He was no more likely to marry an ancient dried-up widow like her than the man in the moon. No, he would want a family, sons…

  There was the rub. But of course he didn't ever need to know about the potions she had taken which she was sure had left her barren. It would be the best excuse imaginable for keeping him in her bed, laboring away night and day to make her happy.

  There would be some trouble over his nonsense about being a doctor, and that clinic for whores. Well, the less said about those sorts of women the better.

  But she was willing to bet that he had learned a lot of interesting things from them…

  Yes, Blake could well be the solution to all her problems, she thought, as she motioned three of the exhausted men forward.

  "You there, you there, and you here," she said, turning on her side and pointing. "Let's all try this again, shall we?"

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Breakfast was a relatively silent affair for Blake and Arabella, both wrapped up in their thoughts of the other which had preoccupied them all night.

  A note was brought in just as Blake was finishing. "It's from Lady Pemberton. She's invited us to a supper and says there are some people, cousins, you need to meet."

  Her face fell. "Oh, but we just went out last evening, and-"

  "It would be odd to refuse the invitation, though, seeing as they are family."

  "Then Mrs. Evans-"

  "I shall take you at seven, never fear. Wear your bronze gown with the pearls."

  She blinked in surprise. "Can I not wear what I like?" she asked quietly.

  He shook his head as if clearing it, and tapped himself lightly on the head with the heel of his hand. "Yes, of course, my dear. I'm sorry. I have no idea what got into me. I admit to it being one of my favorite gowns, barring the white with black and silver you wore for the New Year, and I want you to look well without being ostentatious. Who are your cousins? Peter never mentioned--"

  "They are not related through his part of the family, but mine. Two brothers, Adam and Oliver Neville. A few years older than myself. Great sporting types. I'm surprised to hear they're both in town. Adam had a bad riding accident some time ago, and Oliver is supposed to be at Oxford."

  "Well, all will be revealed tonight," he said, trying to contain his annoyance at what appeared to be potential matchmaking on the part of his old friend.

  Well, so long as it was not her own nephew Matthew, he might consider…

  No, he would never consider anyone good enough for Arabella. Especially himself.

  "In the meantime, if you are finished, shall we?"

  One look at the clinic told Arabella that there were far too many patients and far too few staff and volunteers. There were not just fallen women there, but anyone who lived in the area and needed to be treated for the myriad of illnesses that plagued the poor.

  There were also simple childhood diseases, injuries in the factories, and sometimes, as she discovered, elderly people who just wanted to come in to talk.

  Or even have a bath, for as long as Blake had them there and they were willing, he would get one of the nurses to delouse and de-flea them.

  Now she knew why Blake was so scrupulous about scrubbing himself in the well-apponited bathroom when he got home from the clinic every night. Why he insisted on the laundry being done constantly. Why the clothes therefore needed to be mended so often after the battering they received in the tubs and then being run through the mangle.

  She had come to enjoy the smell of good clean soap rather than the heavily perfumed ones most people used to disguise their lack of cleanliness. He had mentioned his fear of disease…

  She understood about the clap and the pox, but there were also many terrible things that one could catch just by proximity so far as Blake could guess.

  She knew he would not wish her to get close to the patients immediately. There was, however, much to do between the laundry, cooking and cleaning. The former factory was a cavernous space, dark and dingy, but that
did not mean it could not be improved.

  Or the people either, as she saw a child trying to make sense of a newspaper, one finger pointing to each of the letters in wonder.

  Though the three-storey building was full to the rafters with patients who were brought up to the higher floors by means of a platform and a rope and pulley system, more room could be found below for a classroom, could it not? The boiler room was not used for anything other than that and for storing coal. It would be hot, but then the poor souls needed some warmth. There was a small alcove next to the main entrance that could be partitioned off as well.