The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  It was a good thing she was about to go for a ride.

  Realizing she had stayed too long at the breakfast table— the head groom would be waiting with her Norfolk Trotter at the stables—Eleanor excused herself. “I’m off for my ride. And, if it’s all right with you, I’d really rather not pay a call on Lady Winstead this afternoon. If this weather holds, I would prefer to take a walk to town. See what’s come on the latest mail coach.”

  She didn’t add that she intended to be on that coach when it departed for London at noon.

  Chapter 6

  Another Day, Another Rake

  Earlier in the evening of that fateful night, well before the clock struck midnight

  “Do you ever feel guilty? Given our past behavior, I mean,” Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, asked as he reached for his brandy balloon. One of the footmen at White’s had just set it down on the table next to his chair. He waited for Charles Goodwin, Earl of Wakefield, to do the same before holding up his glass in a salute.

  The earl matched the marquess’ move and sniffed his brandy before taking a sip. “To what behavior do you refer?” he asked, allowing the footman to light his cheroot. For a moment, he wondered if the marquess had him confused with his brother, Sir Arthur. The damn gossip rags were at it again, suggesting the man had been seen in the company of other men, and not for the purpose of gambling or whoring.

  Randall gave Charles a quelling glance. “Our rakish behavior, of course. I never thought it would ... interfere with my life as much as it seems to have done this past week,” he explained.

  Charles regarded the marquess for a moment, his gaze intercepted by a swirl of smoke from his cheroot. Once the smoke had cleared, he allowed a shrug. “I’ve done nothing for which to feel guilty,” he replied. “Unlike you, I pay for my tumbles, and I haven’t had the comforts of a widow in ... well over a year,” he added, his voice lowering so only the marquess could hear him. “And then it was only because she trapped me in Lord Weatherstone’s library and insisted on it during his annual ball.”

  His eyebrow’s dancing, Randall gave a snort. “What? Did she put a gun to your head?” he teased.

  The earl frowned. “Not the head you’re thinking about,” he replied with a wince. “And I rather like both of them, so I did as I was told. I left quite sure she was satisfied, although we did have to be quick given the queue waiting outside to use the room.”

  The Marquess of Reading shook his head, wondering if he had been in the line to which the earl referred. Goodness! Lord Weatherstone’s balls were always the best attended and probably because they always promised a willing woman or two with whom a tryst could be arranged in the gardens.

  Or the library.

  Except for this last ball, Randall suddenly remembered. “I was kissed by a virgin at Weatherstone’s last ball,” he murmured, his gaze taking on a faraway look. “Something that’s never happened before and probably never will again.”

  Charles straightened in his chair, intrigued by Randall’s claim. “Because you plowed her in the garden? By the fountain?” Charles countered, his amusement suddenly disappearing when he caught sight of Randall’s somber face. The man looked positively sorrowful. Another moment, and Charles was sure the marquess’ bright eyes would shed a tear or two. “Good God, man! What did you do to her?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice low despite his alarm.

  The question seemed to bring the marquess back to the present. “Nothing. I did nothing,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Well, except speak of marriage. I proposed. I even made a promise to her that I would keep a vow of fidelity should she accept my offer.”

  Charles stared at Randall for a full ten seconds before his eyebrows drew together into a deep frown. “Where is the Rake of Reading and what have you done with him?” he asked in a menacing voice.

  The marquess frowned. “It’s not funny, I tell you,” Randall said with a shake of his head. “I am five-and-thirty. My hair is graying. A second chin appears at the worst possible moments. My ears are suddenly growing hair, and I am deathly afraid of growing one of those paunches that seem to make men look as if they’re breeding and about to give birth.” He took a breath and let it out, sounding ever so frustrated. “And a young lady—the same age as my oldest bastard son—kissed me on the corner of my mouth—right next to Weatherstone’s fountain—and told me she would consider my suit.”

  Blinking as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, Charles shook his head. “Was she a ... a gold digger?” he asked carefully, thinking the marquess had realized the proposal was a mistake. Or perhaps the marquess wasn’t worth as much as everyone thought he was. He did spend a good deal of coin on jewelry for all the women he kept happy between the bed linens. And then there was his love of race meetings. Rumor had it that his horses cost him a small fortune.

  Perhaps he needed to marry for a dowry.

  “Hardly,” Randall replied with a shake of his head. “Her dowry was probably worth fifty, maybe even a hundred thousand—”

  “Good God, man!” Charles said again, thinking he might be compelled to promise fidelity in exchange for such a large dowry.

  Or perhaps not.

  He liked variety in his bed. It was part of the excitement of putting together a new puzzle every time he hosted a harlot at his townhouse, something he would be doing later that night. “When is the wedding?” he asked then, thinking the marquess was merely feeling sorry for himself because he had promised to keep his wedding vows. The thought had Charles allowing a sudden shiver, for the idea of fidelity was inconceivable despite the promise of a large dowry.

  Randall Roderick took a long sip from his brandy. “Yesterday. I received a note from the lady saying she had accepted another’s suit, and, in fact, has already married the young man. A commoner, no less,” he said with sadness.

  In fact, he hadn’t yet read the entire letter but planned to do so in the morning whilst on his usual walk in Hyde Park.

  The Earl of Wakefield shook his head, stunned by the news and wondering just who the marquess referred to in his story. Realizing Randall would probably drain his brandy in a single gulp, he said, “Look on the bright side, man. You don’t have to keep your promise. You can still be a rake.”

  Sighing, Randall leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. “I don’t want to be a rake anymore,” he said quietly. “I want to be married. It’s time I take a wife. Time I sire a legitimate heir,” he added in a whisper. “And deuce take it, but I have no idea where to start.”

  Reeling from the older man’s confession, Charles merely shook his head back and forth. Randall Roderick was a role model for rakes everywhere. Past middle age, the gentleman was so well known as a rake, widows and matrons eagerly sought his company. Unlike a libertine, Randall took pride in making sure his partners were all willing. And able. Nothing could be done for the women who were said to be cold fish in bed, after all.

  “I have to admit to a bit of disappointment at hearing your news, Reading,” Charles said finally. “But I suppose when I am your age, I will have come to the same conclusion.” But not before then. He couldn’t imagine the idea of marriage. Not now, and certainly not in the next ten years.

  Randall lifted his eyes to meet his younger counterpart’s. “Do not wait that long, Wakefield,” he warned. “Find a wife while you still have a single chin and all of the hair on your head. Learn to pleasure her and do it over and over again so she won’t be tempted to invite another to her bed. Bestow her with jewels she will wear only for you. And for God’s sake, get yourself home before one o’clock in the morning.”

  Stung by the man’s words, Charles winced. “Now you sound like Grandby,” he accused, trying to lighten the mood.

  Randall nodded. “That’s because he figured it out first,” he spat out. “Notice how he left at exactly seven o’clock this evening so he could be home in time for dinner at Worthington House. He has a loving wife at home who’s about give him a ch
ild. And he’s got at least ... seven, eight years on me. I am not about to wait any longer.”

  With that, the Marquess of Reading gave the earl a nod, stood up, and took his leave of White’s.

  Damnation! Charles thought as he watched the man retrieve his hat from a footman. Was the Rake of Reading truly turning over a new leaf? Randall Roderick had never spoken of marriage, of fidelity or home, and certainly not of children.

  Noting the time on his own chronometer, he realized he had some time before he needed to take his leave of the men’s club. A harlot was scheduled to arrive at midnight, and given his rule about her being out of his house by two o’clock in the morning, Charles wanted to be sure to get home by one.

  Tossing a coin in the direction of the footman, he finally took his leave of White’s at half-past midnight.

  Chapter 7

  Now That the Damage is Done

  Back to the fateful morning of September 15

  When the mantel clock displayed the time to be ten minutes of two o’clock, Eleanor allowed a sigh. She was tired, travel weary, and rather traumatized by the events of the day. Although she was tempted to simply fall asleep—Wakefield’s Rule be damned—she realized she really should take her leave of the earl’s house while it was still dark. Perhaps she could leave by way of the back door in an effort to escape notice by the hackney driver who was no doubt watching for her out front. Although she didn’t know her way around London, she thought she might be able to hide in a mews until morning. Then she could hire a hackney to take her to her father’s townhouse. A small purse with a few coins was shoved into the pocket of her gown, a measure meant to allow her some money should she need to purchase a cup of tea when the mail coach made its frequent stops. Now it would be her way to pay a hackney driver.

  Escaping Lucy Gibbons was paramount, she decided, even if it meant abandoning her valise. The madame had taken possession of it prior to sending her to Wakefield’s house, explaining to Eleanor that she could have it back when she returned later that night.

  Eleanor thought briefly about asking her father to retrieve the traveling case, but then she would have to explain how it got there. And if someone saw the Earl of Middleton enter the brothel, word would no doubt get to The Tattler. The gossip rag would suggest her father was employing one of the Gibbons’ girls! The mere thought of her father doing what she had seen Lord Sinclair doing just a few hours ago had her cringing worse than she had when Lord Wakefield had impaled her with his rather prominent prick.

  Perhaps she would be better off claiming the valise had been stolen whilst on the mail coach. The idea of her jewelry and her favorite gowns in the possession of the brothel owner rankled, but she could not abide the thought of returning for it.

  Still trapped beneath the earl’s prone body, she wondered how she could extricate herself from the bed without waking him. She moved one leg in an attempt to slide it under his legs. When he stirred, she stopped and held her breath. A moment later, she tried again, stopping when he suddenly rolled to one side, his head coming to rest on the pillow next to her head and the front of his body pressed against the side of hers. One of his beefy arms remained wrapped around her midriff, however, while his hand ended up cupping the side of her bare breast. Attempting to slide off the bed from beneath his arm proved impossible; the earl’s arm was like a steel band! As for his hand, well, Eleanor might have thought its placement rather scandalous except there were too many other far more scandalous activities she had witnessed or participated in over the course of the day to be particularly scandalized by a mere hand on her breast.

  She sighed. “Could you please let go?” she whispered, hoping the earl would simply lift his arm and allow her to leave his bed.

  His reaction was exactly the opposite, though, his arm pulling her body hard against his.

  Eleanor let out a yelp when she realized her bottom was suddenly cushioning his manhood. At least, she was pretty sure that’s what was tucked up against her. Not having spent much time studying his male anatomy when she’d had the chance—she was thoroughly scandalized at that point in the night—she could only imagine it was his weapon seeking a sheath in which to bury itself for the night.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice such a surprise to Eleanor, she nearly let out a squeak.

  “It’s nearly two o’clock, my lord. According to your rule, I need to—”

  “You’re not going anywhere, my lady, except to sleep.”

  Eleanor dared a glance over her shoulder, rather surprised to find the earl’s eyes closed. “But, I’m supposed to take the hackney back. Mrs. Gibbons has my things,” she pleaded. She thought about telling him of her plan to hide until daylight, but she rather doubted he would allow her to leave his house given his curt words of only a moment ago. But if she were to attempt to leave once it was light, she took the risk of being seen by a neighbor.

  “I’ll have Chester see to your things in the morning. But you’re not going back there,” he murmured, his fading voice evidence that slumber was about to take him once again. “Besides, you’re my birthday gift, and I have no intention of giving you back.”

  A moment later, Eleanor could tell from his even breathing that the earl was sound asleep.

  No intention of giving you back?

  Goodness! What did he intend to do with her? Make her his private concubine?

  The thought should have had her feeling scandalized, she supposed, but a flutter just beneath her skin had her thinking it might not be so bad.

  Offer her carte-blanche?

  Eleanor thought of her earlier conversation with her mother and uncle—had that just been earlier that morning?— and wondered what it might be like to become a mistress. To have a townhouse, servants, beautiful clothes, jewelry ... but for how long?

  She might have pondered his comment a bit longer, might have allowed the tears that once again threatened to have her sobbing, but instead, she simply sighed and allowed exhaustion to take her away.

  When he was sure Eleanor was sleeping, Wakefield gave a sigh of frustration.

  What have I done?

  Acted like the worst rake on the planet. Taken a virgin to his bed. Kept her there against her will, although he rather doubted she really wanted to leave his bed to return to the brothel. I am the lesser of two evils, he thought with a sigh.

  Remembering his earlier conversation with the Marquess of Reading, he was about to make a vow never to bed a woman again but thought he would never be able to keep it. He rather enjoyed a good tumble. Twice a week. More if he was so inclined and could arrange a willing partner.

  At least he hadn’t simply tumbled Eleanor. At least he’d had enough sense to employ a bit of foreplay before he had unceremoniously plunged himself into her. He was about to relive the memory of the exquisite pleasure he had felt when he chided himself.

  There were no two ways about it. He would have to own up to his mistake. He would have to admit it to the affected parties. He would have to do the honorable thing.

  He would have to marry Eleanor Merriweather.

  The thought must not have surprised him as much as it should have, for he was sound asleep within moments.

  Chapter 8

  A Reformed Rake Ponders How to Pursue a Wife

  Eight o’clock in the morning of September 15

  Ignoring the early morning fog, Randall Roderick donned a coat and hat and left his Curzon Street townhouse on foot. Although he could have taken a shortcut through the Marquess of Devonville’s yard and been in Hyde Park in a matter of moments, he instead opted to stay on the tarmac as he made his way.

  He patted the side of his coat where he had stuffed the letter he had received from Lady Lily the day before. Not particularly surprised the young lady would forgo his offer of marriage—he was quite sure he hadn’t completely convinced her of his intention to give up his life as a rake—he was surprised she had written of far more than her refusal of his suit.

  Having b
een about to leave for White’s when the letter was delivered the night before, Randall read the first paragraph and quickly tossed it aside. A bit hurt, he thought only to drown his sorrows at the men’s club and pay a call on a widow he had comforted the week before. However, after his time lecturing poor Charles Goodwin, Earl of Wakefield, on the virtues of finding and honoring a wife, he could hardly spend the night tumbling a widow, no matter how willing she was.

  Once he was home from White’s and had finished his observation of the delivery of the harlot to the terrace across the street, he had gone to bed—alone—and slept rather hard. Awake too early but unable to settle his mind to return to slumbering, Randall surprised his valet by getting up before seven and announcing he was going to the park. He had a letter he wished to finish reading and some planning to do.

  Along the way, he was surprised when he came upon the Earl of Norwick and his countess pushing a perambulator in which two small babes were wrapped in flannel blankets. “Good morning, Lady Norwick,” he said with a tip of his hat and a quick bow. “Norwick,” he added with a nod to Daniel Fitzwilliam. “And who do we have here?” he asked as he dared a glance into the wide baby carriage.

  “These are the Ladies Diana and Dahlia,” Clarinda said proudly. “Three weeks old and rather early risers.”

  Since both babies seemed sound asleep, the marquess figured they must have been awake at some point earlier that morning. “Goodness! Look at all of that hair,” he muttered, resisting the temptation to reach down and smooth the shocks of dark fuzz into place.

  Clarinda grinned. “They were born with it,” she said proudly.

  “I do hope they didn’t wake you, Lord Reading,” Daniel said from where he stood, watching the marquess closely. He wondered if perhaps the man had just left a widow’s home and was making his way back to his terrace.