The Rake

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Just a moment,” Tristan said, sitting back on the arm of the couch. “Could you go back to ‘my stroll with Bit’?”

  “Oh.” Humor reappeared briefly in her eyes. “I take it you didn’t know he came to see me, then.”

  “He never talks. How am I supposed to know anything?”

  “You might have told me that he was held in a French prison and not permitted to utter a sound,” she countered. “No wonder he finds it difficult to do so now.”

  Tristan sat where he was, trying to absorb what she’d said and reconcile it with what he’d observed in his brother. “My God,” he muttered.

  She touched his arm. “You didn’t know, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t. How long was he…”

  “Seven months.”

  Seven months. “Was he even at Waterloo?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  He fought a scowl, anger at the damned politics which had sent his brother to France and had created a bureaucracy so ineffective he hadn’t even been aware that Robert might have been missing from his company for seven damned months. “Only because they pulled five musket balls out of him, and I’d like to know how they got there. Jesus.”

  “Tristan,” Georgiana murmured, “he’s alive, and he’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

  Drawing a deep breath, he nodded, wrapping his fingers around hers. “Thank you.”

  “No need.”

  Tristan shook himself. Bit would come around; Georgiana’s problem was more immediate. “Just tell me you have good news about your mission.”

  Concern became exasperation in her green eyes. “You know, when I first saw you and Amelia together I thought that the poor dear didn’t stand a chance, and that she desperately needed to be rescued,” Georgiana said, twining and untwining her fingers with his. “I had no idea she was the person least in need of rescuing in all England.”

  “She wouldn’t return your things.”

  “Oh, she’s more than happy to return them, once the two of you are married.”

  The glance she sent him spoke more strongly than words ever could. She wanted to know if he intended to marry Amelia, and she didn’t want him to do so. Tristan’s heart jolted. It would kill him if she slipped out of his fingers again.

  “Then we need an alternate plan, because I am not going to marry that witch.”

  “Hm. And what would you suggest?” She smoothed her skirt. “If it’s all the same to you, I would prefer that the…secrecy of our relationship to this point remained secret.”

  “The plan I have would make keeping that secret very difficult,” he said slowly, his heart beating so quickly he thought it would burst from his chest.

  “Then you must think of something else, Tristan. I couldn’t stand…Oh, it’s all my fault, anyway. Perhaps I deserve to be ruined.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said softly, kneeling at her feet.

  Her throat contracted as she swallowed. “Tristan, what—”

  “Marry me, Georgiana. That news will drown any gossip she might attempt to spread.”

  She stood so quickly she nearly knocked him onto his backside. “But that—”

  “But that what?” he repeated, standing. “It’s perfect.”

  ‘But…” She paced to the window and back, wringing her hands. “But when you were so nice to me after…that night, I thought you might be…trying to engage my affections again to get revenge.”

  Tristan blinked. “At the beginning, the thought might have crossed my mind, but for God’s sake, Georgiana, can’t you tell now that I’m sincere? That I’ve been sincere for quite some time?”

  Facing him again, she nodded. “But we can’t do this,” she whispered.

  The blood drained from his face. “Why not? Why in damnation can’t we marry?”

  “Because I won’t marry you to avoid gossip or blackmail, Tristan. With the way we began, I couldn’t stand wondering whether either of us had been forced into marriage for any reason.”

  A muscle in his jaw clenched. Georgiana wished she hadn’t said it, but it was true. If they married for either guilt or protection they would always resent one another, and she would never be able to trust him completely.

  “There’s always a reason for marriage,” he said, holding her gaze. “You can’t hope to avoid all of them.”

  “But I can avoid this. I won’t let you attempt to save me this way. I can save myself.”

  “Georgiana, don’t—”

  “No,” she broke in, turning for the door. She needed to leave now, before he saw her crying. “I can’t marry you, Tristan. Not under these circumstances.”

  He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around before she was even aware that he’d closed the distance between them. “But under other circumstances, you would.”

  It wasn’t a question, but a statement, and almost a plea. “I might.” She pulled away from him and fled out the door.

  For politeness’s sake she should take her leave of the aunts but, blast it all, tears began rolling unbidden down her cheeks again. She hurried downstairs, snatched her bonnet and shawl from a very startled Dawkins, and fled into Aunt Frederica’s coach. “Take me home.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She needed to talk to someone, to tell them what a muck she’d made of everything. If she told Frederica, though, her aunt would probably tell Grey, and then Grey would go after Tristan, and one of them would get hurt. The same would happen if she went to her brother or Emma, and she couldn’t go to one of Tristan’s brothers. Above everything else, she didn’t want to return home weeping yet again. If events would just stop spinning for a few moments, she might have half a chance of getting her bearings.

  “Hanley,” she said, leaning out of the window again, “please take me to see Lucinda Barrett.”

  The driver didn’t even look perturbed that they’d now set out for Hawthorne House twice and detoured halfway across Mayfair both times. “Yes, my lady.”

  She would have trusted Evelyn, as well, except that Evelyn always insisted on believing the best about everyone, which would have been little help at this point. Lucinda was nearly as skeptical as she was, and at times more devious. That was exactly the sort of friend she needed right now.

  “Lady Georgiana!” Madison, the Barretts’ butler, exclaimed as he opened the door. “Is something amiss?”

  Georgiana wiped at her damp face. “No, no, Madison. I’m fine. Is Lucinda in?”

  “I’ll inquire, my lady, if you’ll wait in the morning room.”

  He showed her in, then vanished. Too agitated to sit, she paced from one window to the other, twisting her hands. This was too much. This entire day was just too much.

  “Georgie? What’s going on?” Lucinda swept into the room, dressed in her afternoon best.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, tears obscuring her vision again. She tried not to blink, but that only made it worse. “I didn’t realize you were going out. I’ll leave.”

  Lucinda intercepted her and guided her back to the couch. “Of course you won’t. Madison, have someone bring us some tea, if you please.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I don’t know why I’m crying,” Georgiana said, forcing a smile and swiping at her tears again. “I’m just very frustrated, I suppose.”

  “Tell me everything,” Lucinda said, stripping off her gloves and dropping them onto the end table. The butler reappeared, a footman bearing a tea tray following, and she motioned for them to set down the tea and leave. “And Madison, if Lord Mallory should come calling this afternoon, please inform him that I am regrettably indisposed.”

  “Yes, Miss Lucinda.”

  “Mallory?” Georgiana broke in as the door closed, leaving them in private. “I thought you’d told him you weren’t interested.”

  “I have, several times, but he lets me drive his horses.” Lucinda reached over and took Georgiana’s hand. “Now, what’s happened?”

  Now that the time had come, Georgiana
wasn’t certain how much she wanted to say. She’d spent the last six years keeping her secret; speaking about it was more difficult than she’d expected.

  Lucinda seemed to realize that. “Just tell me what you want,” she said quietly. “You know nothing will pass outside these walls.”

  Georgiana took a deep breath. “Tristan proposed to me.”

  “What? He what?”

  “He asked me to marry him.”

  Standing, Lucinda poured herself a cup of tea. “It is times like this, I wish women drank brandy. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I couldn’t marry him. Not under these circumstances.”

  “And what circumstances might those be?”

  “Oh, dear. I…gave Tristan some items,” she began, fidgeting, “and someone else took them. Now if he refuses to marry this person who took the items, this person will use them to ruin me.”

  “I see.” Lucinda took a sip of her tea and added a lump of sugar. “I’m not trying to pry, but it might be easier for me to help you if you used more nouns and fewer pronouns.”

  Taking a short breath, Georgiana nodded. “The items are a pair of stockings and a letter. The person who took them is Amelia Johns.”

  “I thought Dare intended on marrying her, anyway.”

  “He thought about it, at one time.”

  “But now he wants to marry you.”

  When Lucinda said it, the statement seemed to carry even more significance. He did want to marry her. He’d truly wanted her. “Yes. That’s what he said, anyway.”

  “And when did this happen?”

  “Twenty minutes ago.” Georgiana could sympathize with her friend’s confusion. “Do try to keep up, Luce,” she said, with a small smile.

  “I’m attempting to. But other than Amelia Johns trying to blackmail Dare with your things, which doesn’t quite make sense at this point, you would marry him?”

  “My heart wants to,” Georgiana whispered, her eyes filling again. “My mind isn’t certain yet.”

  “So marry him, and then whatever Amelia does won’t really matter.”

  “It’s not that simple. Several years ago, Tristan participated in a wager that…hurt me. Somehow we managed to keep anyone from gossiping about it, but I’m afraid to tr—”

  “To trust him,” Luce finished. “Do you think he would use your things against you?”

  “No. He would never do that. But until this is resolved, I can’t trust that any decision either of us makes would be the right one.”

  “So get your stockings back, Georgie.”

  “Amelia won’t return them. Not until she and Tristan are safely married.”

  “And I repeat—get them back.”

  Georgiana sat back, looking at her friend. The idea of sneaking into someone’s home and stealing them…Of course, they were hers in the first place. And if she had them back, and misplaced guilt truly wasn’t the reason Tristan had proposed to her, perhaps he would propose again. And then she could say yes—though that would take even more courage on her part than sneaking about strange houses. At any rate, she wanted her stockings back.

  “Do you want help?” Lucinda asked.

  “No. Any problem that arises is going to be mine alone, Luce. And so will the decision to do it—or not do it.”

  They finished their tea, chatting about other, more normal things. Lucinda was trying to calm her down, and she was grateful for the effort, but the entire time, she was mulling over what she would do about Amelia Johns.

  It was easy enough to say she would storm Johns House and take back what belonged to her. But deciding whether she could make herself do it was something else entirely. She would be saving Tristan from a marriage he didn’t want, and she would be saving herself from scandal. At the same time, she would be sending a clear message to Tristan that she wanted to marry him. If he still bore any thoughts of revenge, he could easily take that moment to destroy her heart.

  Stronger than her fear and uneasiness, though, she wanted to hear Tristan propose to her not because he felt obligated to do so, but because he wanted to.

  As she returned to Hawthorne House, she made up her mind. The next evening would be the Everston soiree, and Amelia was sure to attend. She, on the other hand, would be making a detour to Miss Johns’s home, to retrieve her stockings and her letter.

  The first thing to do in preparation, Georgiana decided, was to find the appropriate clothing. She rummaged through her wardrobe until she found an old muslin gown of dull brown and gray that she’d worn to the funeral of a friend’s distant relation. It still fit, though it was rather tight across the bosom. As Tristan had reminded her, she was curvier now than she’d been before.

  Georgiana smiled at the memory, then caught sight of herself in her dressing mirror. That smile was the look of someone in love. How she’d come so far in a few short weeks she had no idea, but she couldn’t deny how she felt.

  The true test, she supposed, would be when she presented Tristan with the stockings and the letter. She would either be proved a great fool, or he would propose to her again—and she would decide once and for all whether she could trust her heart to him, or not.

  Mary appeared in the doorway, and she flung the old gown back into the wardrobe. “What is it?”

  “Lord Westbrook is here to see you, my lady.”

  Oh, no. She’d been so concerned with Tristan and her stockings that she hadn’t even taken the time to think about Westbrook’s proposal. “Blast. I’ll be right down.”

  When she reached the sitting room, she paused in the open doorway. Westbrook sat at one end of the couch, a bouquet of roses in his hands and his gaze on the fire crackling in the fireplace. That could be her future: calm, serene, and peaceful. They would keep separate bedchambers, of course, and give just the right number of dinner parties each Season for just the right people. In the evenings he would do paperwork and she would embroider, and he would tell her nothing of his day which might upset her delicate sensibilities.

  Georgiana shuddered. She wanted passionate nights, and laughter, and having discussions about prices and politics and nonsense just because she found them interesting. If that came with anger and arguments, so much the better.

  She watched him for another moment, but he didn’t even fidget. Tristan couldn’t keep from pacing while he waited for her. Georgiana cleared her throat.

  “Georgiana,” he said, rising as she entered. “You look well.”

  “Thank you. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

  “No need.”

  “May I offer you some tea?”

  “Thank you, no. I…wonder, have you considered my offer?”

  “I have. John, I’m not quite sure how to say this.”

  A slight frown crossed his face, then cleared again as he lowered the bouquet. “You’re refusing me.”

  “You are a wonderful, thoughtful man, and any lady would be lucky to have you as a husband. I—”

  “Please, Georgiana. You’ve made a decision; please do me the courtesy of not explaining why one or the other of us is deficient. Just leave it as a refusal, and I’ll be on my way. Good day, my lady.”

  Still looking nothing but calm, he stepped past her, collected his hat, and left. Georgiana sat on the couch. That had been so easy that it actually left her feeling better. He’d been a perfect gentleman, bloodless and correct. He couldn’t have been remotely in love with her, much less madly so.

  And so she was back where she started: hungering for a man with an old but tarnished title, a black reputation, no money, and a delight in chaos and mischief. Only this time, perhaps he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  That evening she played whist with her aunt and composed a letter to her mother that mentioned nothing of Tristan or multiple marriage proposals or anything but the latest fashions of the Season. With three other daughters to marry off, one beginning next Season, her mother had several times mentioned that fashion was the most essential information Georgiana could pr
ovide her. Thankfully Lady Harkley seemed convinced, as most of the ton was, that her second daughter would never wed, and she’d stopped pestering Georgie about it.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Frederica asked.

  Georgiana shook herself. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve barely won a hand all evening, and we both know you’re a more calculating player than I am. Your mind seems to be elsewhere.”

  “I’m trying to lure you into a trap,” she answered, making a renewed effort to concentrate on the game.

  “Georgiana,” her aunt continued, placing a hand over hers and stopping her shuffle, “you are a daughter to me. You know that. Tell me anything you wish, and I will do what I can to help.”

  “You are a mother to me,” Georgiana replied, her voice breaking. “But I have found that there are some things I need to take care of on my own.”

  “People are talking about you and Dare, you know. They’re saying that the old enemies appear to have reconciled.”

  “He has changed in a great many ways,” she said, dealing out the cards.

  Frederica nodded. “I have noticed some changes. But don’t forget, some things don’t change. That entire family is in dire financial straits, my dear. I would hate to think that you’re being manipulated into thinking a certain way about things simply because he wants your money.”

  “As I said,” Georgiana countered, the muscles across her back stiffening despite her effort to remain relaxed, “I will take care of this on my own.” She knew money was involved; that was one thing he’d never dissembled about. And thank goodness for his honesty, or the additional doubts would have been enough to topple her resolve.

  “Just as you took care of Lord Westbrook.”

  “I told you I didn’t love him.”

  “And I told you that you might consider security and comfort over your heart.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “Try harder.”

  Aunt Frederica finally relented, and they played the rest of the game with amiable chatter. When she excused herself to go up to bed, though, tension spread its fingers across Georgiana’s shoulders again. Tomorrow night she would have to take matters into her own hands. And if she acted in as transparent a manner as she had tonight, anyone would know that something was afoot.