Randall considered his mansion in Cavendish Square, rather glad he had put it on the market to let. Although he usually lived there while he had to be in London for Parliament, he had instead taken a townhouse in Curzon Street upon relocating from Reading the month before. “Just until Christmastime,” he told the broker who wondered at his plans for his future. “By then, I should be married.” The Cavendish Square mansion would then be a more appropriate place to live. A perfect house his marchioness could oversee. A perfect home in which to raise a family.
Now, it was entirely too large for just him. Well, just him and the army of servants it required for its upkeep.
His Reading manor house, located on the southwest edge of the largest city in Berkshire, was an entirely different situation. The Portland stone edifice had been designed and built by Randall’s great-grandfather, the second Marquess of Reading, as a wedding gift for his beloved wife. The records found squirreled away in a priest hole off the study suggested the marquess had chosen his wife, Faith, when the two were but children. Faith, the daughter of a duke, was apparently intended for someone else, but his great-grandfather had whisked her off to Scotland for a quick marriage and made sure she was with child before the two returned to Reading.
Randall wondered if perhaps he should pursue a similar approach when he found a woman he wanted to marry. He quickly dismissed the idea, though, realizing it sounded rather archaic. Tempting, but entirely inappropriate. His fellow aristocrats would think him a barbarian!
He was nearly to his townhouse in Curzon Street when he once again caught sight of the barouche carrying the two women from the park. Instead of entering the street from Park Lane, as Randall had done, the driver had gone several blocks beyond and turned onto Curzon Street so that the barouche was now coming towards him, no doubt so it could drop off the ladies on the other side of the street.
Feeling the sudden need to hide, Randall was about to step behind a tree trunk when he realized the conveyance had pulled over about a block up the street. Pausing in mid-step, he watched as the driver jumped down and hurried to open the door for the two women. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see them once they existed the barouche—until they were climbing the steps to a townhouse on the opposite side of the street from his own.
They’re practically neighbors, he thought with some surprise. He was even more surprised when, not the maid, but the one who had introduced herself as Constance Fitzwilliam, hurried ahead to open the door, holding it until the maid had passed over the threshold. Then she followed and was lost to his sight as the door closed.
Well, that was rather odd, he thought as he made his way to his own front doors, one of the burgundy painted panels opening even before he had reached the top step.
“My lord,” Giles said as he stepped aside and took the marquess’ hat. “Is something amiss?” he asked, taking a look out the door before closing it.
Randall unbuttoned his topcoat and regarded the servant for a moment. “Giles, were you made aware of any new ladies ... uh, people in the neighborhood? Across the street and down about a block?” he asked as he removed his topcoat and handed it over to the butler.
Giles angled his head to one side. “There are a number of new neighbors, my lord,” he replied, rather surprised the marquess would ask him.
He knew the rumors about Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading. The Rake of Reading, some called him. Apparently rather popular with widows, lonely matrons and younger unattached misses looking for a randy man’s attentions, the marquess would seem to be the first one to know about any new female neighbors. At his master’s startled look, he shrugged. “Lord Trenton has returned to town and brought with him his new countess. A young lady from Sussex arrived about two weeks ago and has taken up residence in the townhouse the Earl of Norwick used to occupy on occasion ...”
Randall was about to stop his butler, but decided to allow him to continue, thinking he might have some tidbit of information about Constance Fitzwilliam to share.
“... Lady Fletcher has just returned from her trip to Bath ...”
Rolling his eyes, Randall nearly huffed. The baroness was nearly old enough to be his mother. She was Lord Bostwick’s aunt, for goodness sake!
“And a young couple, a Mr. and Lady Overby, have moved into the townhouse on the corner opposite. I do believe Lady Overby is Lord Trenton’s—”
“Sister, yes, yes, she is,” Randall interrupted, wincing as he remembered that the letter he had received from her was still tucked in his waistcoat pocket. “And a fine young woman, too. There’s to be no disparaging words of her made by anyone in this household. Is that understood?”
One of his eyebrows rising in alarm, the butler nodded his head. “I’ll see to it, my lord,” he said, nodding again.
Randall immediately regretted his comment. For some reason, he found it necessary to protect the young woman, despite the fact that she had married and had a husband to see to her reputation. The servants would assume she had been one of his conquests should they be ordered not to exchange gossip about her.
Or perhaps they would think Randall and Lily were having an affaire!
“I ..,” he paused, not sure how to make his butler understand there hadn’t been, nor would there ever be, any relationship with the newlywed half-sister of Gabriel Wellingham, Earl of Trenton. “Had she been a few years older, I might have made her my marchioness,” he finally managed to get out, deciding it better that he not admit that he had proposed to Lady Lily during Lord Weatherstone’s last ball.
Understanding his master’s words, Giles lowered his eyes. “I’ll see to it, my lord,” he said again. “Would my lord wish to send a floral arrangement to the Overbys, perhaps?”
The marquess considered the idea for only a second. “No, but I should think one would be appropriate for Miss Fitzwilliam,” he countered.
The butler’s eyes glanced to the right for a moment. “Miss Fitzwilliam?” he repeated, obviously unfamiliar with anyone with that name.
“Yes. Constance Fitzwilliam. The young lady who just moved into Norwick’s old bachelor quarters,” he clarified.
Giles’s eyes widened. “Of course, my lord. I’ll see to it right away.” He gave a bow and hurried from the vestibule, leaving the marquess to heave a sigh of frustration. If it hadn’t been so early in the day, he might have made his way to his study for a drink. If it had been the afternoon, he would have made his way to White’s for a game of hazard and a glance at the betting books. But it was neither.
The problem with being in town well before Parliament was due to convene meant a month or two of boredom. This was the time he usually spent at someone’s house party in Kent or at a friend’s hunting lodge or in a villa on the coast. For some reason, none of his friends had arranged such pursuits this year, although given how cold the weather had been this time the year before, he couldn’t blame them for thinking the snows would come early again.
Randall made his way upstairs and to the end of the hallway where a large window overlooked the street to the east. He glanced in the direction of the Norwick townhouse, angling his head as he gave some more thought as to what had occurred in the park earlier that morning. And then just a few moments ago when the two women had made their way into the house that had his attention.
He had just about decided to pay a call on the Earl of Norwick and ask about Constance Fitzwilliam when he noticed the front door of the Norwick townhouse open. A woman dressed in yellow emerged, a yellow parasol held aloft as she made her way down the stairs and then off toward the east. No one joined her on her walk, a situation he found rather odd given there was at least one maid in the household.
Not quite sure what compelled him, Randall was suddenly back down the stairs, calling for Giles. “My coat, please,” he said as he reached for the topcoat the butler hadn’t yet delivered to his bedchamber. “I’m going out.”
Before the butler could reply, Randall made his way through the vestibule and to the front
door, buttoning his coat as he did so. “Let Cook know I won’t be home for luncheon.”
The butler nodded. “Very good, my lord,” Giles replied, the words said in the direction of the suddenly empty vestibule.
Lord Reading had already taken his leave of the townhouse.
Chapter 17
Ruination is a Reality
Eleven-thirty in the morning
“What did you tell him?” Eleanor asked from where she stood at the edge of the vestibule.
Charles frowned but allowed a shrug. “That I ruined you,” he answered simply. “That you would be his sister-in-law.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened at the same time a combination of anger and remorse seemed to wash over her face. “How dare you?” she whispered, keeping her voice down in case any servants were nearby. “We could have ...” She stopped, taking a deep breath when she realized her vision was graying at the edges. “No one needed to know, my lord,” she whispered, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. “No one but us.”
Charles furrowed his brows as he approached her. He reached an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug. He felt her stiffen and attempt to resist the move that brought the front of her body against his. Why didn’t she succumb to his hold as she had earlier that morning? Was she merely playing coy?
Or did she intend to offend him?
“I promised you I would make this right, and I will, my lady,” he said as he planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Now, I must take my leave of you as there is much to do today.”
Eleanor pulled away from his hold. “Like what?” she asked in alarm. “Other than to take me to Mrs. Gibbons’ to retrieve my valise and then to my father’s townhouse,” she added in a hoarse whisper.
Charles wondered why she whispered. “Oh, I’ve already paid a visit to Mrs. Gibbons’ brothel. Your valise is upstairs. In our bedchamber,” he added, rather satisfied with how the words sounded.
Our bedchamber.
She could have her own, of course. There was a mistress suite on the other side of the bathing chamber, but the thought of her sleeping in it wasn’t something he could abide just then.
Unless he was sleeping in there with her.
That thought had a slight smile replacing his look of consternation at her apparent anger. “You need to stay here, my love, as I have the nosiest neighbor in all of the ton directly across the street and the second nosiest neighbor to the east. Should either one of them see you leave this house, by the front or by the back door, you will indeed be ruined beyond redemption,” he claimed, rather glad Lady Pettigrew and Lady Fletcher lived so close—the first time since occupying the Curzon Street townhouse that he felt that way.
Eleanor’s eyes widened, the tears threatening to spill over the edges of her lids. “Are you holding me prisoner then?” she asked, rather annoyed at the frisson that shot through her body just then. Traitor, she thought.
And just what did the earl mean by his mention of ‘our bedchamber’? Didn’t he realize there was a mistress suite on the other side of the bathing chamber?
Probably not.
He seemed a bit addle-brained. But none-the-less, she had no intention of stepping into his bedchamber ever again!
“Of course not!” Charles replied with a shake of his head. “I am merely seeing to your ... reputation.” He realized just then that having admitted to telling his brother of their encounter was counter to his claim. But how else would he have explained her presence when she showed up at his study door? “Arthur will tell no one, I assure you.”
The sense of sorrow settled over Eleanor again. She realized Sir Arthur would never consider her to be his wife now. Certainly not now that he knew his brother had ruined her. “I don’t suppose it matters any longer,” she whispered, no longer fighting back the tears. Before the first teardrop fell, though, Charles had his handkerchief out and was offering it to her.
“I know I said I was sorry,” he murmured as he reached down to kiss her on the forehead. “And I am. For you. But now I am finding I cannot regret last night.” Before Eleanor could process his words, he let go of her, gave her a bow, and took his leave of the house by way of the front door.
Charles didn’t make it down the front steps before he realized he needed to say more to Eleanor. From her behavior and curt words, it was quite apparent that she didn’t realize he intended to marry her.
Turning around, he climbed the stairs and took a deep breath before reopening the front door. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but ...” He would have continued his comment but for the need to duck as the vase from the vestibule’s table suddenly sailed overhead and crashed into the transom above the front door. Shards of Egyptian glass rained down behind him, littering the marble floor and making tinkling sounds as they came to rest around his feet.
“If you think for one minute that I will stay here and be your prisoner,” Eleanor said with a vehemence Charles found rather frightening, “Then you have much to learn about women!
“I hate you!”
Charles stared at Eleanor, noting her sudden look of stunned surprise, as if she hadn’t expected the vase to miss him and break into a thousand pieces. His own look of surprise must have appeared more like anger to her, for she suddenly straightened and gasped, her body tensing. Then she turned and ran for the stairs, her skirts bunched up into her hands so she could keep from tripping on them as she made her way up the stairs.
“Lady Eleanor!” he called out, finally able to move from where he stood in the vestibule. This isn’t going well, he thought as he realized he needed to go after her. He dared a glance back at the broken vase, secretly glad to see it was beyond repair. He had never much cared for the thing, even if his mother had managed to bring it with her all the way from Greece.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the top step just as he heard the door to his bedchamber—our bedchamber, he remembered thinking—slam shut. “My lady, please,” he called out. He made it to the door, rather surprised to find the knob wasn’t locked. Stepping in and prepared to duck in the event he needed to avoid any flying objets d’art, he was stunned to find the room unoccupied. The connecting door to the bathing chamber was open, however, but the door to the mistress suite beyond was not. Making his way to the door, he tested the knob and found it locked. Heaving a sigh, he raised a fist and knocked three times.
“Who is it?”
Charles frowned. Was she joking? But he heard the sound of a sob beyond. “The Earl of Wakefield,” he responded in his firmest voice. “I wish to pay a call on Lady Eleanor,” he added, wondering if someone else was in the room with her. “The future Countess of ...”
The snick of the lock being undone silenced him. However, the door didn’t open. Waiting a moment, Charles finally tested the knob to find that it turned. He opened the door a few inches. Thinking she might slam the door shut on his fingers should he attempt to use his hand to open the door, he instead placed the toe of one of his Hessians into the opening at the bottom and gave it a slight kick.
When he didn’t immediately find her beyond the door’s opening, and nothing airborne came flying in his direction, Charles dared a glance around the edge, shocked to see she was making her way out of an open window! “My lady!” he cried out, stunned she would attempt to leave by way of the second-story window. “What ..?” He reached around her shoulders and clasped his hands around whatever he could grab onto, pulling her back through the opening while she kicked and struggled.
“Let go of me!” she insisted, her voice filled with as much sorrow as anger.
“I’ll do no such thing,” Charles countered, his frustration finally apparent. “You’ll break your neck,” he added as he managed to get her free of the window frame, one arm wrapped below her breasts while another was behind her thighs, which left her in danger of falling face down onto the floor should he loose his grip on her. “Or mine, if you don’t stop struggling!” he claimed. “Dammit, woman!”
The tone of his
voice, or perhaps his curse, must have been enough warning for Eleanor, for she finally went limp in his arms. Slowly, Charles lowered her legs to the floor but kept both his arms around her shoulders in the event she decided to flee the house by way of the door. His anger abating somewhat, he used a hand to lift her head so that she would have to look at him. Despite the tears that limned her lids, her eyes blazed with anger. “Please, don’t do that again,” he whispered, his lips pressing against her forehead.
“Or what?” she whispered hoarsely, her voice full of venom.
“My lady, you must—”
“Must?” she interrupted, her eyes turning to slits.
The response brought him up short. He stared at her, wondering of what she thought he might be capable. Did she think he would hurt her? Force her to do something she didn’t wish to do?
“Marry me,” Charles said in a voice so quiet his words were barely heard. “Become my wife. My countess.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened at his words and then blinked at the way he had said them. As if he truly wanted her as his wife. The thought was momentary, though. “You’re a rake, Lord Wakefield,” she accused with a shake of her head.
“I am,” he agreed with a nod. “Was,” he added suddenly. At her arched eyebrows, he shook his head. “I promise, I will ... I will honor my marriage vows. I will ... forsake all others,” he claimed, hoping the wince he felt wasn’t visible.
He tried to remember the words said in the last wedding he had witnessed. Witnessed while feeling ever so sorry for the man who had said those very words. Although, to that man’s credit, he had believed everything he said when he repeated the vows. And apparently the man was enjoying a rather happy marriage to a woman who felt affection for him.
Truth be told, Charles wasn’t sure if he could trust himself to keep the marriage vows. He had never thought about marriage beyond knowing he would at some point have to be married in order to sire a legitimate heir. Duty, and all that, he thought with some derision. “I have already told Mrs. Gibbons not to send anymore harlots to the house. Just give me a chance,” he whispered, lifting one of Eleanor’s hands to his lips, bestowing a gentle kiss on her bare knuckles.
The Love of a Rake Page 11