The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  Constance inhaled sharply. “I hardly see the difference, my lord,” she replied, her eyes darting about as she hoped they weren’t seen by anyone. She could just imagine what The Tattler might print should one of their so-called reporters provide a story of their morning in the park. They had apparently already mentioned their visit to Gunter’s Tea Shop the day before. The Countess of Norwick had mentioned it when she visited her cousin.

  Randall considered how much to say. Did he dare tell her of his hopes for a life that didn’t include men’s clubs every evening? That didn’t include a steady stream of widows in search of a bedmate for a few hours every night?

  “I seek a woman to sit with me by the fire at night,” he said as he slowed their steps to allow a curricle to pass by before they crossed Curzon Street.

  Constance dared a glance at him then, struck by his simple words. “And later?” she prompted, wondering how much he would admit to her.

  “A woman to share my bed. The same woman every night, of course,” he added, wanting to be sure she understood him completely.

  “And after that?”

  Randall blinked at the question. “To wake up next to me. To have breakfast with me. To share a walk in the park. To have dinner, to attend balls and soirées and ...” He paused a moment. “To share a kiss behind a potted palm.”

  Constance might have gasped except she found herself attempting to suppress a smile. “Not in the gardens?” she teased.

  Randall gave her a quelling glance. “Careful. I’ve a mind to kiss you right here and now in the middle of the street.”

  Sobering quickly, Constance found she should have been shocked by his comment and instead found it rather exciting.

  Climbing the steps to the Norwick townhouse, the two paused at the top as Constance pulled a key from her reticule and moved to open the door. “Thank you for the escort, my lord—”

  “Randall,” he corrected her. “You shall call me Randall. Reading, when we’re in public, if you really must,” he amended when he saw her look of surprise. “I have something else for you,” he said as he fingered the ring in his waistcoat pocket. “Please, I beg you allow me to give it to you,” he added as he watched her unlock the door, his one other thought on why a butler didn’t see to opening the door.

  Constance regarded him for a moment. “Good day, my lord.” She stepped inside, gave him a curtsy, and shut the door.

  Randall heard the snick of the lock before he turned around. Taking a deep breath, he was about to head for his own townhouse when he realized he would eventually turn around and make his way back to the Norwick townhouse. If others hadn’t paid witness to their stroll from the park, they would certainly notice him pounding on the townhouse door. Perhaps hear him yelling her name. Shouting his proposal at the top of his lungs. Making a bloody fool of himself. So instead, he made his way down to the end of the block, turned left and then made his way down the alley.

  Constance Fitzwilliam might have locked the front door, but Randall Roderick was fairly certain he could gain entrance via the servants’ entrance. And while on his way there, he considered how he might talk the woman into being his wife.

  Chapter 39

  An Unwelcome Proposal

  Two-thirty in the afternoon

  Constance hurried up to her bedchamber, fighting back the tears she knew would come no matter how hard she fought them.

  Tossing her reticule to the bed, she caught her reflection in the cheval mirror and stilled herself. She swallowed and moved closer to the mirror, studying the woman who stared back at her. The silver choker was magnificent. The horse charm was a perfect rendering of a racing horse, its shiny silver metal reflecting the afternoon light from the bedchamber’s only window.

  She stepped even closer to the mirror and lifted the charm between gloved fingers, admiring the workmanship of the tightly woven silver strands that made up the choker, sighing at the intricate details of the horse. Swallowing, she watched as the horse seemed to move, his legs in mid-gallop. Fingering the horse as it rested in the hollow of her throat, she decided the piece was exquisite.

  A more perfect necklace could not have existed for her, she realized, but she could hardly accept it.

  She checked her own reflection in the mirror again, wincing at her reddened nose. She was about to reach around and unclasp the necklace from behind her neck when she realized she wasn’t alone.

  “Is the idea of being married to me really so ... awful for you?”

  Constance whirled around, stunned to find the Marquess of Reading on the threshold of her bedchamber. “How dare you?” she whispered, one hand going to the choker at her throat to give it a tug. The clasp and chain held despite her attempt to break it. Damn the jewelers in Ludgate Hill! The choker would make the perfect weapon if only she could fling it at him!

  Randall shook his head as he quickly moved towards her. “I dare because I ...” He stopped, unwilling to say the words that came to his lips. Words he had hoped to hear her say first. Now it was apparent she would probably never say them.

  Why couldn’t the woman believe him when he claimed he was no longer a rake? Why couldn’t she see just how desperate he was to marry? To have a family? To spend his evenings in front of the fire instead of at a men’s club or in the bed of a willing widow?

  “Because why?” Constance countered, her hold on the charm suddenly lost when she noticed his pained expression. She stilled her movements.

  Randall regarded her for a moment, his breaths suddenly labored. He had climbed the backstairs two at a time in an effort to reach her before she had a chance to lock the door just in case she realized he had made his entrance through the back door. If she had slammed shut the door and locked it, he was quite sure he would have broken it open with a swift kick of his Hessians, his valet be damned. Instead, he found the door to her bedchamber wide open. Found her admiring his gift as she stared into her cheval mirror.

  “A question better suited for you,” he finally answered in a near-whisper. He took two steps forward but paused when he saw how she backed away from him. Another step back and she would end up pressed against a large mahogany wardrobe. “Why are you so adamantly opposed to marrying me?” he asked then.

  Constance backed up another step, apparently needing the wardrobe for support. “I am merely opposed to marriage in general,” she hedged quietly, hoping he would simply accept her hastily made up reason and take his leave of her bedchamber—and her life. “Please, do not take it personally—”

  “Of course I take it personally,” Randall countered, covering the remaining distance between them in three steps. He stood before her as she pressed harder against the wardrobe, her eyes filling with tears. “Tell me why. Please, I beg you.”

  Shaking her head, Constance suppressed a sob as a tear broke free. “I like my freedom to do as I wish,” she whispered.

  Randall angled his head to one side, the response obviously a surprise. “Freedom to ... to travel?”

  Constance blinked and nodded. “Yes,” she answered, a bit relieved at his guess.

  “To ... to pay calls and attend the theatre?”

  She nodded more quickly. “Yes.”

  “To go shopping?”

  Constance allowed a shrug. “I suppose, yes,” she allowed.

  “To bed any man you wish?” His head spinning, Randall had to close his eyes a moment to stave off the sensation of vertigo. The thought of Constance in bed with another man was simply too much to bear.

  About to agree, Constance suddenly frowned and then gasped. “No!” she said with a good deal of disgust. “I’ve a mind to ... to slap you.” And then, having given it some thought, she lifted her hand and swung it toward his face.

  Despite his light-headedness, Randall easily intercepted her hand with one of his own, grasping it gently and leading it up to his face so it rested against his cheek instead of slapping it. He held it there as he continued to regard her, a sense of relief settling over him. “I ... I apol
ogize, my lady,” he murmured, his breathing still labored as his head lowered toward hers.

  “However could you say such a thing?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, still offended by his comment and not the least bit happy he had prevented her assault so simply. Or that he still had a grip on her hand, although the way he held it was rather sweet. She noted how his eyes slowly lowered, the lids edged in a fringe of dark lashes finally closing off his deep blue eyes. Tiny lines splayed out from the corners of his lids, while the crease between his brows softened and then slowly disappeared. Then she realized how pale he appeared and wondered if he were about to faint. “Are you ..? Are you unwell?” she whispered as his forehead came to rest atop her head.

  Randall stilled himself, wishing the moment would never end. The scents of lemon and honeysuckle filled his nostrils, reminding him of summers at his estate in Reading. The sensation of the palm of her hand and her slim fingers against the slight stubble on his cheek reminded him of how his mother used to place her hand on his father’s cheek before reaching up on tip-toes to kiss him. The warmth of her body, almost but not quite pressed against the front of his own, permeated his coats and seemed to surround him in a cocoon of comfort.

  Oh, to be able to do this every day! To take just a moment and be one with Constance!

  He lowered his lips so they came to rest on one of Constance’s eyelids, eliciting a slight gasp of surprise from her. He barely kissed the delicate skin before moving his lips to her temple, to her earlobe, to the skin just below it before he finally pulled away and straightened. “I believe you have brought me back from the brink,” he whispered. Slowly opening his eyes, he found her gazing at him with what could only be described as a look of confusion.

  Constance stared at the marquess for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. He was so close, she could feel his body heat through her walking gown. She could smell his cologne— sandalwood with a hint of spice—and the starch in his cravat. His kisses had been so light, they felt as feathers might when loosed from her pillow. Despite her determination to fight his effect on her, she realized too late she could barely breathe, as if her corset had been pulled too tight and her breasts had swelled. The heat between the tops of her thighs intensified, the pulse there suddenly apparent as it seemed to throb. She might have brought him back from the brink, but she felt as if she were falling over the edge.

  “Marry me.”

  The simple words caught Constance by surprise, pulling her back to the present and away from whatever chasm she seemed about to fall into. She stared at the marquess before giving her head a shake to clear it.

  “I promise you the freedom to do as you wish,” Randall added, thinking she was about to deny him. “Except for the ... bedding other men, of course. I cannot abide the thought of you with another,” he added with a shake of his head.

  Constance blinked before pulling her hand from his and allowing it to come to rest on his lapel.

  There it was, then.

  He might wish to marry her now, but when he discovered she wasn’t a virgin, discovered she had already been with a man—willing or not—what then? His look of adoration would certainly change to one of disappointment. Perhaps of disgust. Anger, even. Better she deny his offer now. Thank him, of course, for she had given up on ever having a man look at her the way he was gazing at her at this moment. Beg his forgiveness and assure him that no one would learn of their private conversation. Or of his inappropriate kisses, innocent as they were given his reputation. “I am honored. I am. But I must ask for your forgiveness, for I cannot accept your offer,” she whispered.

  Tears suddenly streamed down her face as she watched his gaze change to one of confusion.

  “Why ever not?” he breathed, his forehead once again coming down to press against hers.

  Constance struggled to come up with a reason he would believe. “I am ... bad ton,” she said quietly. “I would make a poor marchioness.”

  “Nonsense,” Randall whispered. “You would have my protection. No one would dare ...”

  “I am five-and-twenty,” she stated, thinking her age might deter him.

  “And I am five-and-thirty,” he countered with a shake of his head. He swallowed. “I probably shouldn’t have admitted that,” he added, his brows furrowing. “You think me too old for you, don’t you?”

  “Not at all,” Constance argued with a shake of her head. “It’s just ... there are so many eligible debutantes. Daughters of earls and—”

  “I don’t want one of them,” he countered. “I want you.”

  Before Constance could put voice to another word, his lips came down onto hers, effectively silencing any argument she might manage to invent.

  In only a moment, her entire body was back to the way it had been when he had been holding her hand and kissing her temple. Although part of her argued she should push him away—push him away and run from the room—the other bade her stay and enjoy the sensation of a perfect kiss, for she had never been kissed like this. Never been kissed by a man so determined to make her his wife. So determined to change her mind. So determined to make her change her mind.

  For a moment, Constance allowed the kiss as she reveled in just how pleasant a kiss could be. How simply wonderful it felt to be pressed against the front of a man, for although she was pressed quite firmly against the wardrobe, Randall’s body had moved to pin her in place. Even if she had wanted to escape, she would have been unable to extricate herself.

  But thoughts of escape were far from her mind, especially when one of Randall’s hands had moved to hold her waist. Her one hand still gripped his lapel, but now her other moved up to his neck, the fingertips spearing the dark hair at the nape of his neck. She heard a moan and wondered if she had made the sound or if he had.

  When his lips finally pulled away—she knew it was he whom did so for Constance didn’t have the strength nor the desire to end the kiss—Randall allowed a heavy sigh. “I’ve a mind to make you mine right here and now, propriety be damned,” he murmured hoarsely.

  Her eyes widening in alarm, Constance gasped.

  Frowning, Randall regarded her for a moment. “I wouldn’t really, you must know,” he said. “But I ... I cannot help but think I must ruin you just so you’ll agree to be my wife.” He paused and his frown deepened. “Christ, I sound like the worst possible libertine,” he whispered with a slight shake of his head. His eyes captured hers again, suddenly aware of the effect his words had on her. She was suddenly pale, and her body seemed to shiver where his hands still rested against her. His brows furrowing, Randall watching as tears once again fell down her cheeks.

  “You cannot ruin what ... already ... is,” she whispered, a sob interrupting her final word. Her knees seemed to give out from beneath her. She would have fallen to the floor but for Randall’s sudden grip on her waist keeping her up.

  He replayed her words in his head, wondering if she said them with the intent of wounding him. Wounding him so he would take his leave of her and never return. But the third time he heard them in his mind, the words had him realizing why she was so determined to see him leave.

  He thought the worst, then, of course. She had taken a lover out of wedlock, perhaps thinking she would end up married to him. But the thought was soon replaced with other scenarios. Perhaps she was a widow—she was old enough, but why not simply tell him so? There was no shame in being a widow, unless perhaps her husband had committed suicide.

  Randall shook his head.

  What man would deign to commit suicide if he were married to such a gem as Constance Fitzwilliam? So that just left ...

  “Were you ... willing?” he struggled to ask, his hold on her suddenly so powerful, her head ended up in the space below his chin.

  “No,” he heard as he felt her attempt to shake her head.

  Christ! “I’ll kill him,” he vowed, pulling her body away from his so that he could see her eyes.

  Constance continued to shake her head, tears still leaving streaks d
own her cheeks. “That deed has already been done,” she whispered. One of her hands searched for a pocket in her gown. She needed a handkerchief. She must look a sight, she thought, cringing when she realized she had not only crumpled Randall’s cravat, but left evidence of her tears on his waistcoat.

  A linen was suddenly pressed against her cheek, Randall’s hand holding it there as he gazed at her. “Did you ...?” he wondered in a quiet voice, trying to imagine how she might have killed a man.

  “No,” she replied quickly, wiping her face and then moving to use the linen to dry his waistcoat. “I was quite ... unable, ... I assure you,” she stuttered, wishing the marquess hadn’t extracted the truth from her. Time had dulled the pain. The nightmares no longer kept her awake at night. Now she would be reliving that night in the stables again and again.

  Was reliving that night.

  Randall kept his face as impassive as possible, not wanting to give away the sudden feeling of anger that bubbled up. “Under whose protection were you at the time?” he asked, his anger barely in check.

  Constance resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She resisted the urge to simply smack the marquess in the nose. A typical response for a man, she thought. Blame the one whose protection she was under rather than the man who had committed the crime.

  She worked hard to get her emotions under control and finally took a deep breath. “My cousin’s, I suppose,” she finally affirmed. “Which is why ...” She paused, wondering how much to admit. “Which is why he saw to it,” she finally said, one eyebrow arching up as if she were daring the marquess to question how the situation was resolved.

  Randall frowned, wondering what David—or perhaps it was Daniel Fitzwilliam—had done to the offending man. But giving it some more thought, Randall wondered if that very situation had been what forced Constance to choose the life of a spinster.