The Rake

by Suzanne Enoch

  “But I want you to like me, Tristan.”

  “I do like you, Amelia. Kissing isn’t necessary. Just enjoy your pheasant.”

  “But I would if you wanted me to. You’re very handsome, you know, and a viscount.”

  Good God, Georgiana had never been this naive, even at eighteen. If he wanted to secure a marriage with Amelia, he could probably topple her over and lift her skirts right there in the middle of Regent’s Park, and she wouldn’t even complain. Georgiana would gut him with the carving knife and pitch his remains into the duck pond.

  He chuckled, then cleared his throat when Amelia looked at him. “Apologies. And thank you. You’re exceptionally lovely, my dear.”

  “I always try to look my best.”

  “And why is that?”

  “To attract a husband, of course. That’s what women are for. The ones who take the most care to look their best are the ones who make a match.”

  That was interesting, in a horrifying sort of way. “So the women who aren’t married are…”

  “Not trying hard enough, or are of inferior quality.”

  “What if a female chooses not to marry?” Despite the insult to his happily spinstered aunties, he was actually thinking of Georgiana. She certainly wasn’t of inferior quality, and the idea that she would attempt to attract a husband because that’s what women were for—well, that was laughable.

  “Chooses not to marry? That’s absurd.”

  “My aunts are unmarried, you know.”

  “Well, they are very old,” she said, biting into her peach.

  “I suppose they are,” he agreed, mostly because the idea of attempting an argument with her was absurd. He would have more luck disagreeing with a turnip.

  He hadn’t used to find her this dull and simpering. And the reason for the change was obvious. Georgiana. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his thoughts in days, and now he was comparing every bit of inane conversation he had with poor Amelia to the stimulating tête-à-têtes he engaged in with Georgie.

  The problem, though, remained the same. He needed to marry an heiress, before fall harvest. If he didn’t, he would have to begin selling off unentailed bits of his land, and he refused to finance his present with his descendants’ futures. Georgiana was an heiress, and definitely more interesting than any of the other wealthy chits he’d cultivated. She, however, hated him.

  The idea remained intriguing, nonetheless. He didn’t hate her; in fact, the heated desire that ran through him every time he set eyes on her was becoming difficult to hide. She had softened a little toward him, but he couldn’t afford to wait more than another three or four months.

  “Tristan?”

  He shook himself. “Yes?”

  “I didn’t mean to say that your aunts are inferior. I’m sure they’re very nice.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Sometimes, I think that maybe I should be cross with you, you know.”

  “Cross with me?” That seemed an odd thing to say, since he’d gone to the trouble of taking her out on a picnic.

  “Yes, because you always pay so little attention to me. But you seem nicer today. I think you’re learning your lesson.”

  Tristan looked at her, his mind pulling free of the dullness she inspired in him. She was certainly saying interesting things, all of a sudden. Lessons for him? She seemed to have used the word deliberately. And Amelia thought he was learning not a lesson, but his lesson. Did she have reason to think that someone was teaching him some sort of lesson? Not her; she was in his company to get married, and nothing besides.

  He could guess who it might be, but had no idea why Amelia would be aware of Georgiana’s machinations when he hadn’t been able to discover anything himself. Perhaps she did mean a lesson in general and had worded it poorly, and he was merely being suspicious.

  On the other hand, being suspicious had saved him from serious trouble on more than one occasion. “I’m trying very hard,” he offered slowly, trying to draw her out further, “to learn my lesson.”

  She nodded. “I can tell. I think you’re listening to me today, when you almost never do.”

  “Is there anything else you’ve noticed my doing better today?”

  “Well, it’s too soon to tell, but I have high hopes for you. If we are to marry, I would like you to be at least a little pleasant.”

  He suppressed a shudder. Now was the perfect time to inform her that he meant to speak to her father about that prospect. It was what he needed to do, for his family. In the back of his mind, though, one thought kept repeating itself: he still had three months. Three months, and a woman sleeping under his roof who didn’t annoy him nearly as much as Amelia did, though she aroused and aggravated him considerably more.

  “I shall continue to work on being pleasant, then,” he hedged. Best not to let the issue fall on one side or the other; talking about marriage could be as binding as promising it, and in three months, if she was still his best prospect, he would have to do so.

  “I still think your kissing me would be pleasant.”

  Good God. Tristan wondered if she had any idea what sort of reputation he’d had in his younger days, or what it would mean if someone caught them kissing. Of course, that might have been what she had in mind.

  “I have too much respect for our friendship to risk ruining it, Amelia.” He dug into the basket again. “Apple tart?”

  “Yes, please.” She took it in dainty fingers and nibbled at one corner. “Do you attend the Devonshire ball tomorrow night?”

  “I do.”

  “I know it’s forward of me to ask, but will you dance with me there? The first waltz, perhaps?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  He’d scheduled two hours for their outing, and it seemed like their time must nearly be up. He pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. Thirty-five minutes had passed since he’d collected her at her father’s door. Tristan stifled a sigh. He wasn’t certain he could stand another hour and a half. He hoped his family would appreciate it. And he hoped that Georgiana was having an equally dull time somewhere, and that she was wondering what he might be up to.

  Chapter 9

  The world’s a huge thing; it is a great price

  For a small vice

  —Othello, Act IV, Scene iii

  “I have a question, then.” Lucinda curled up on Georgiana’s bed, her chin propped on her hand. She looked supremely at ease.

  Georgiana envied her poise, though she’d never seen Lucinda the least bit out of sorts about anything. It probably came from having a brilliant, highly disciplined general for a father, who after his wife’s death had decided to give his daughter the full benefit of his own education and wealth.

  As for herself, every nerve ending felt like it was on fire. Every sound made her jump, and even the softest silk against her skin felt rough and scratchy. Of course, changing into her fifth gown in twenty minutes might have had something to do with that.

  “What’s your question?” she asked, turning to see her back in the dressing mirror. The blue was nice, but she’d worn it before. He’d seen her in it before.

  “How far are you going to take this, Georgie?”

  Another flutter of nervousness ran through her, and she motioned at Mary to unbutton the back of her gown. “Let’s try the new one.”

  “The green one, my lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I thought you said that one was too…”

  “Immodest. I know. But the rest of them just aren’t…right.”

  “Georgie?”

  “I heard you, Luce.” She glanced in the mirror at her maid, occupied with unfastening the back of her dress. She trusted Mary, but her reputation was her entire future. “Mary, would you mind seeing if Mrs. Goodwin has any peppermint tea?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  As the maid closed the door behind her, Lucinda rose and finished helping Georgiana strip off the gown. “This is serious, isn’t it?”


  “If the lesson isn’t learned, all of this will be for nothing. He hurt me, Luce. I won’t let him do that to anyone else.”

  “That’s the most you’ve ever said about it,” her friend said, studying her expression. “But teaching him a lesson doesn’t mean you have to risk being hurt again.”

  Georgiana forced a laugh. “What makes you think I’m going to be hurt? I’ve learned my lesson where Tristan Carroway is concerned.”

  “You just don’t look like someone brimming with anger and determination.”

  “What do I look like, then?”

  “You look…excited.”

  “Excited? Don’t be ridiculous. This is the sixth year I’ve been to the Devonshire ball. The festivities are always splendid fun, and you know I like dancing.”

  “Are you riding with the Carroways, or is your aunt sending a coach for you?”

  “Aunt Frederica. Milly and Edwina aren’t attending, and I can’t very well make an appearance in the company of Tristan and Bradshaw.”

  “A few weeks ago, you only referred to him as Dare. He has a Christian name again.”

  “I’m pretending to woo him, remember? Or to let him woo me. I have to be nice.”

  “What’s Tristan’s favorite color?”

  “Green. Why does that…” Georgiana looked down at her new gown as Lucinda buttoned the back. The silk shimmered in emerald washed with lighter shades of green, the skirt and sleeves covered with a fine green gauze. The neckline was lower cut than she’d worn in some time, but as she twirled before the mirror, she felt beautiful. And her new yellow and white fan would be perfect with it. “I like green.”

  “Mm hm.”

  Georgiana stopped twirling. “I know what I’m doing, Luce. You may have thought our lists were just a silly way to pass an afternoon, but every time I think of poor Amelia Johns and how much Dare could hurt her with his stupid insensitivity, believe me, I am very serious.”

  Lucinda stepped back, taking in Georgiana and the gown. “I believe you. But this is to teach him, Georgie, not to ruin you.”

  “I won’t let that happen. Once burned, twice shy.” She smiled, twirling again. “I think this is the one.”

  “You’ll catch his attention, that’s for certain.”

  Positive as Lucinda was, Georgiana paced and fretted in her bedchamber for half an hour after her friend left. Alone, it was more difficult to tell herself that she remained unaffected by Tristan. When she’d been eighteen, his attention, charm, and good looks had overwhelmed her. Thanks a great deal to him, she wasn’t that same girl any longer.

  Even so, the less logical part of her still felt drawn to him. Six years later, he seemed more…thoughtful, more conscious of those around him, and more mature than before. And she’d never expected the open warmth and affection he showed for his family. In perhaps the most telling change of all, he’d apologized to her. Twice now, and almost as though he understood how much damage he’d done and genuinely regretted it—or, at least, as if he wanted her to think that.

  At half past eight a footman scratched at her door. “My lady, your coach is here.”

  “Thank you.” With a deep breath, she exited her room and made her way downstairs.

  Bradshaw, dressed in his naval finest of deep, rich blue and white, stood in the foyer shrugging into his greatcoat. He looked up as she entered, and froze. “Sweet…Georgie, please don’t let Admiral Penrose see you before I speak with him. He’ll never pay me any notice once he catches sight of you.”

  Feeling slightly reassured, she smiled. “I’ll do my best. You look very fine yourself, though.”

  He grinned back at her, sketching a salute. “It’s not quite the same thing, but thank you.”

  The air stirred behind her. Resisting the urge to smooth her skirt, Georgiana turned around. Dare had donned a charcoal gray jacket, his trousers black as midnight and his cravat frothing white at the neck over a buff waistcoat. He wore no ornamentation at all, but he didn’t need any. Dark hair curled at his collar, and his light blue eyes glittered like sapphires as he took her in from head to toe and back again.

  Warmth crept up the backs of her legs to her scalp. She hadn’t expected to react to him physically. Yes, she still enjoyed his kisses, but she’d thought herself immune to his compelling masculinity. To cover her discomfiture, she curtsied. “Good evening.”

  Tristan wanted to wet his lips. Instead, he nodded, unable to keep from running his gaze down her slender figure once more. She shimmered, the gauze picking up the dim lamplight and turning it to emeralds. In the well-lighted ballroom, he could only imagine the effect. The low-cut neckline heaved with her deep breath, the round, creamy curve of her breasts beckoning and tantalizing him.

  A blush swept up her cheeks, and he shook himself. Idiot. He needed to say something. “You look stunning.”

  Georgiana inclined her head. “Thank you.”

  Dawkins cleared his throat, offering Georgiana an ivory lace shawl. Tristan swept in, snatching the garment from the butler’s surprised fingers. “Allow me.” Her eyes followed him as he moved closer, and Tristan took a slow breath. “Turn around,” he murmured.

  With a start, as though waking from a dream, Georgiana did so. The gown left her shoulders and most of her shoulder blades bare. Tristan wanted to run his hands along her skin, to know if she was as warm and smooth as he remembered. Instead, he draped the shawl across her shoulders, stepping back hastily as she took the ends from him to clasp over her breast. A curl of soft golden hair brushed his cheek as she faced him again.

  “My coach is here,” she said unnecessarily.

  “I’ll see you out.”

  He offered his arm as Dawkins pulled open the front door. Georgiana wrapped her fingers around his sleeve, and even through the heavy superfine of his jacket, he could feel her trembling as he led her down the shallow steps to the waiting coach.

  “Georgiana, Lord Dare,” a female voice said from the depths of the vehicle. “I was beginning to think you’d murdered one another.”

  He bowed. “Your Grace, my apologies. I hadn’t realized you were waiting out here.”

  “I hadn’t either, Aunt Frederica,” Georgiana chimed in, flushing as she freed her hand and stepped up into the coach. “I would never have kept you waiting.”

  “I know, my dear. I shall blame Dare.”

  “Please do.” He managed to catch Georgiana’s eye as she sat opposite the dowager duchess. “I’ll see you shortly.”

  He watched the coach down the drive and then went back inside to collect his coat and gloves. Bradshaw handed him his hat and settled his own navy tricorn on his dark hair.

  “What was that all about?” his brother said in a quiet voice.

  “What was what about?”

  “You two. The hairs on my arms were prickling.”

  Tristan shrugged. “Maybe it was the weather.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be caught in that storm, then.”

  His own coach pulled up, and he and Bradshaw climbed in. He’d tried to talk Edwina, at least, into joining them, but his aunt had refused. Georgie’s friend, Lucinda Barrett, had brought by the new kitten that afternoon, effectively forestalling his plan to enable Georgiana to share his coach.

  It annoyed him, but neither could he argue with the happy light in Aunt Edwina’s eyes as she took possession of Dragon, which for some reason she’d become set on as the name of her new black cat. Tristan thought the little thing looked more like a rat, but he wasn’t about to say that aloud. Not when Georgiana had cuddled the ball of fur beneath her chin and cooed at it.

  “The Runt said you went on a picnic yesterday.”

  Tristan blinked. “Yes.”

  “With Amelia Johns.”

  “Yes.”

  Bradshaw scowled at him. “You sound like Bit. How was your luncheon? In more than two words, please.”

  “Very pleasant, thank you.”

  “Bastard.”

  “If I am, then you get to be the v
iscount and marry Miss Johns. That would be interesting.”

  “Horrifying, more like.” Bradshaw crossed his ankles. “So you’ve settled on Miss Johns, then? Definitely?”

  Tristan sighed. “She’s the most likely candidate. Wealthy, pretty, and obsessed with gaining a title.”

  “A pity you and Georgiana don’t get on well. Or do you, now? All the inclement weather confuses me.”

  “And why is that such a pity?” Tristan asked, mostly to hear what his brother would say. “She’s too tall, headstrong, and has a tongue like a rapier.” Of course, those were three of the things he liked most about her.

  “Well, you’re looking for wealthy and pretty, and she certainly is that. Of course, her father’s a marquis, so she’s probably not hunting a title—though I can’t imagine her pursuing something like that, regardless.” He fiddled with his watch fob. “If Westbrook wasn’t after her, along with the money-starved horde, I might consider pursuing her myself. With her funding and influence, I’d make admiral by the time I was thirty-five.”

  Westbrook, again. And no doubt he was already waiting for her at the ball, damn him. “You think it’s that easy, then? You decide, she says yes because, well, that’s what women are for, and you live happily ever after?”

  Bradshaw looked at him. “Amelia turned you down?”

  “I haven’t asked her, yet. I keep hoping…I don’t know. For a miracle, I suppose.”

  “Don’t look for one where money’s concerned. Father was very thorough about spending every penny he could beg, borrow, or steal.”

  Tristan sighed. “One must keep up appearances, you know.” That was the trickiest part—spending money he didn’t have to spare, so the family would look as though they did have some money.

  “Don’t tell me you sympathize with him. Not after what his mess has put you through over the last four years. Is still putting you through.”

  “I didn’t exactly help things while he was alive. I might have taken more of an interest in the properties.”

  “You made your own way. And I had no idea we were that close to ruin until it was too late. I don’t know how you could have seen it coming,” Shaw said.