The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  Randall grinned and pulled her around so that she ended up sitting across his lap. “I was, wasn’t I?” he replied as he leaned sideways and caught her surprised mouth with his own. He quickly lightened the pressure on her, allowing his lips to slide over hers until her slight gasp had him pausing and then dotting her lips with light, quick touches.

  When one of her hands moved up to rest against the side of his face, he captured her lips in a crushing kiss at the same time one of his hands cupped a breast and smoothed over it. Her chest rising with his touch, Randall felt as much as heard her purr of delight. When he slowly released her lips, it was as much to breathe as it was to whisper, “And I hope I might be allowed to kiss you every night at this time.”

  Constance regarded her husband for a moment before realizing she must have looked like a wanton given how she was spread across his lap and the arms of the chair, her ankles clearly on display for any servant to see should they pass by the library. “Of course,” she replied, not about to deny him what she was discovering to be a rather enjoyable pursuit. Her entire body vibrated as he held her.

  “I find I rather enjoy kissing,” Randall whispered, his lips moving along her chin and jaw line.

  “You say that as if you’ve never kissed before,” Constance whispered in reply, her own lips forming a grin. Her breaths, short and shallow, sounded as light gasps with his every touch.

  “I haven’t kissed like this,” he murmured, his lips moving down her throat, along a collarbone to the hollow of her throat.

  Constance stilled herself, her hands moving to either side of his head so that she could force him to look up at her. “You expect me to believe that, you bounder?” she accused in a teasing voice.

  Randall’s eyes widened. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he replied, giving a slight shrug. “I mean, I have kissed before, of course. Just not ... like this. Not with such intimacy, and certainly not in a room with an open door, where anyone might walk in on us.”

  Truth be told, he had arranged with Giles for the servants to go to the theatre. They wouldn’t be home until well past midnight.

  Constance blinked. And blinked again as she dared a glance toward the open door. Did the marquess forget he had arranged for the servants to attend the theatre this evening? And given strict instructions they weren’t to return until after midnight? Perhaps he was merely teasing, but it had her thinking about the amorous behavior of couples when they wanted to steal a kiss. And about Randall’s kisses as he held her on his lap.

  No wonder couples took advantage of the discreet cover of potted palms and libraries and secret alcoves whilst at balls and soirées. No wonder they took walks in the dark gardens, pausing for liaisons behind tall hedgerows. No wonder they pulled shut the curtains in their town coaches as they bounced along the streets of London.

  Kissing was a delightful pursuit!

  Constance dared a glance at where his hand was still cupping one of her breasts. “Then perhaps we should kiss in a more private place,” she suggested with an arched eyebrow. Leaning back, she used her other hand to turn down the candle lamp so its light was barely visible.

  Randall dared a glance around the room and allowed a shrug. “Next time, I’ll shut and lock the door,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose.

  Constance speared her fingers through his silken hair, pulling his head down so that she could resume the kiss, moaning when his tongue suddenly found hers. A moment later, she was well aware of his arousal pressing against her hip. The space at the top of her thighs throbbed in anticipation. Although she had thought she felt a bit sore earlier, desire for him had her wishing he would suggest they retire to his bedchamber.

  Now.

  She considered her position, considered how she might attain some relief. Perhaps if she repositioned herself so that she straddled him, much like she would do when riding a horse, she could press herself against him. Perhaps he would understand her plight and use his hand to rub the spot as he had on one occasion last night.

  She had barely finished the thought when she lowered her legs to the floor and lifted her hips from his lap. She pulled her lips away from his, struggling to catch her breath. “My lord, I beg your pardon, but I need ...” Bunching up her skirts around her thighs and then finally pulling her gown up and over her head and tossing it aside, she placed her knees on either side of his thighs and steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder.

  Randall blinked. And he blinked again when he realized what she intended. His fingers fumbled for the fastenings that secured the placket of his breeches. Once he had them loosened, his breaths so short he was nearly panting, he struggled to push down the offending flap along with his smalls. His manhood, engorged and already wet at the tip, sprang free, seeking the warm, wet sheath poised above it. He scooted down in the chair, positioning himself so that he could impale her as his hands took possession of her hips beneath her chemise and pulled her onto him.

  Their mutual moans sounded at the same time as two became one. “You needn’t ever beg my pardon should you need ...” He paused. “Anything,” he managed to say, reveling in the sight of her upturned face above him. Moving his hand beneath her chemise, his fingers seeking her bare flesh where her body met his, Randall felt a great deal of satisfaction when his thumb found its mark. Her entire body seemed to arc as he rubbed her womanhood, his other hand holding her hip so she couldn’t lift herself off of him.

  When he felt her clench on his manhood, when he saw how her breasts mounded over the top of her corset, when he heard her mewling turn to a cry, and when he felt her body quake, he let go his hold on her, and moved his hands to either side of her waist so he could lift and lower her onto his turgid manhood. He entered her over and over again until ecstasy gripped him, held him, took control and finally eased away. His loud groan probably filled the library; he hoped it drowned out Constance’s cry of his name and didn’t bring a neighbor rushing to discover what travesty might have occurred therein.

  Breathing heavily, Randall straightened in the chair as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her hard against the front of his body, his face pressed against the space above her breasts. “I didn’t used to like being surprised,” he murmured when he could finally breathe somewhat normally. “But, I do believe I have changed my mind.”

  Constance lowered her head to his, one cheek resting in his dark hair as her arms leaned on his shoulders. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am at hearing you say that,” she replied in a whisper. Her entire body shivered again as his manhood moved inside her.

  Randall gripped her tighter. “I do hope you’re not uncomfortable my love,” he said as he relaxed a bit. He still clung to her, as if he needed her for support. Or perhaps for warmth. The fire had subsided so that only a few embers remained lit in the fireplace.

  Sighing, Constance allowed a grin and kissed his hair. “I am rather content, actually,” she murmured, rather liking how he had finished his query. My love. Of course it was too soon to expect the marquess to have feelings beyond simple affection for her.

  Or lust.

  She knew very well of his lust. He had told her in no uncertain terms that he wanted her in his bed. “Every night,” he had said. The memory had a frisson passing through her entire body, the resulting pleasure forcing another sigh of contentment from her lips.

  Smiling, Randall lifted his head from where it rested and glanced up. “I shall endeavor to see you pleasured as often as you’ll allow me,” he said, his voice quiet in the darkening room.

  “And I shall endeavor to allow you to,” Constance replied with a teasing grin.

  Randall allowed another sigh. “Does that mean I am allowed to speak of my love for you, too?” he wondered, once again pulling away so that he might gaze up at her. He felt the jerk of surprise in her body, watched as her eyes regarded him in wonder.

  “I would never prevent you from putting voice to your thoughts, my lord,” Constance whispered.

 
Kissing the hollow of her throat, Randall wondered if Constance would ever feel for him what he had come to realize he felt for her. Perhaps it had begun as lust—lust coupled with the desire to have a woman share his evenings as well as his bed. Share their breakfasts in the morning and walks in the park in the afternoon. Dinners by candlelight.

  But now he knew he wanted more. Needed more.

  “Then let me ask you something,” he replied finally. “And I beg you to tell me the truth.”

  Her eyes widening with the question, Constance nodded. “I will,” she agreed, wondering at how serious he had suddenly become.

  “Do you suppose you could ever wake up and discover you might ... feel more than affection for me?” he asked, his voice sounding almost loud in the quiet room.

  Constance relaxed in his hold, the corners of her mouth turning up until she was smiling. “I already did. This morning, in fact,” she said with a nod. After a pause, she arched an eyebrow. “Or perhaps it was before I went to sleep last night.” When she sensed he was about to ask which time, her grin broadened. “One or two or all of the times,” she added with a nod.

  Randall sighed before allowing a chuckle. “I love you,” he said, his nose pressing into the hollow of her throat.

  “And I have probably loved you since the moment you said your vows yesterday,” Constance replied happily.

  His lips were on hers once again, soft and ever so light until he drifted off to sleep on a long sigh.

  Epilogue

  Destiny

  June 1821

  Constance Roderick, Marchioness of Reading, watched as Destiny made the first turn, her excitement at seeing Amasia’s last colt ahead of all but one other horse rather evident as she bounced a bit on her toes. Her husband stood by her side, one gloved hand clasped over the one she had looped around his elbow. Despite his glove, she could feel his barely contained nervousness in how his fingers seemed to tap at each stride.

  “Damn, he’s fast,” Randall breathed, and then quickly apologized. “I beg forgiveness for the curse, my lady.”

  Grinning, Constance gave him a wave with her other hand. “You can curse all you want, my love, as long as I can join you,” she answered, her voice a bit louder so that she could be heard over the cheers and cries of the crowd surrounding the finish line.

  Having never attended any of the race meetings run by Mr. Tuttlebaum, Constance found the frenetic atmosphere of Epsom Downs infectious. Everyone seemed excited, happy even, to be watching the Thoroughbreds as they made their way up the slight incline that started the race, around the turns that made up the U-shaped track and down the hill to the finish.

  Even when Destiny had run the course the day before, a practice run meant to allow him to shake off the weary walking that brought him from Reading to Epsom Downs the week before, he had done so much faster than expected. Probably much faster than he should have run.

  His jockey, Mr. Granger, claimed he couldn’t slow down the Thoroughbred if he tried. “He’s a runner,” the man had said when he dismounted the day before. “And now that he’s been to a few of these race meetings, he knows what to do.”

  The race season had been as invigorating as it was exhausting. At Lord Bostwick’s insistence—the man claimed a need to remain close to his wife as she was due to go into confinement at any moment—Randall had seen to it Destiny made as many of the meetings as he could arrange given the travel involved between each town. At three, Destiny was the perfect age to beat all his opponents, winning money for his owners as well as those who placed their bets on him.

  The only scare had been at Newmarket, when a vagrant had been stopped by Randall’s security detail from attempting to lame the horse with a cut to his leg. The man claimed he had been paid to do it, and when he identified the miscreant who had hired him at the Jockey Club, the perpetrator denied any wrongdoing. Those present in the clubhouse, though, saw to it the man was barred from the building and from the racetrack. The incident was a reminder to all those participating that race meetings were rife with cheating and scandal.

  “Will he win, do you suppose?” Constance asked suddenly, realizing she had been holding her breath.

  “If he keeps up this pace and doesn’t stumble, he just might,” Randall replied, one eye on his Breguet as the first three Thoroughbreds made it out of the last turn and headed down the hill toward where most of the crowd stood waiting. Clods of dirt sailed into the air behind each horse, the roar increased ten-fold, and Constance gave up her hold on her husband to jump up and down and clap.

  Randall turned his attention from the race to watch his exuberant wife, remembering how radiant she had looked wearing the red satin ball gown he insisted she wear for the ball the night before. “I knew it would be gorgeous on you,” he had told her when she appeared at the top of the stairs. “From the first day I met you.”

  Constance had given him a look that suggested he wasn’t in his right mind, but she had hurried down the stairs and kissed him quite thoroughly. “You were such a rake.”

  Smiling broadly, Randall realized he would miss the finish unless he redirected his gaze to where the top three finishers flew over the line, Destiny leading the way.

  Constance whooped and hollered as loudly as any of those who had bet their money on the black horse, and now that he had won, Randall joined her with his own celebratory whoops. Taking her into his arms, he danced her in a circle before they rushed off to join Destiny and his rider.

  Even before they made it to the winner’s circle, some of the crowd dispersed while others continued to display their happiness at the outcome.

  “Congratulations, Reading,” several called out. Randall tipped his hat to them, acknowledging their words with a grin and a ‘thank you’.

  Mr. Granger regarded the Rodericks from his perch atop Destiny. “He was even faster today, my lord,” he claimed. “I do hope you’ll have me run him at the Ascot.”

  Constance and Randall exchanged knowing glances. “When he’s older, perhaps,” Randall said with a nod. “We have another horse in mind for this year’s Ascot,” he added when he saw the jockey’s look of disappointment.

  “Another horse?” Granger repeated, his brow furrowing. “Which one, if I may be so bold, my lord?”

  Constance leaned her head against Randall’s shoulder. “I suppose word will get out before too long,” she whispered. “We may as well tell him.”

  Randall turned and kissed the top of Constance’s hat. “Granger,” he said with a good deal of authority. “You’ll be riding Mr. Wiggins at Ascot.”

  The jockey stared at Randall, the horse’s name not familiar to him. “All right,” he finally responded. “And how old is this Mr. Wiggins?” he asked, briefly wondering if his master knew that the horses had to a bit older to run the Ascot.

  Constance nearly bounced on her toes, as excited about the possibility of Mr. Wiggins racing as Destiny’s win just moments ago. “He’s eight years old!” she said happily. “Isn’t that just wonderful?”

  Granger’s face fell upon hearing the marchioness’ words. He looked to Randall for verification. “My lord?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  The marquess allowed a mischievous grin. “Fear not, Mr. Granger. Mr. Wiggins is fast,” he claimed proudly.

  “Why have I not heard of him?” the jockey asked as he dismounted. “With such an unusual name, I should think I would have heard of him ... years ago.”

  Randall watched as a young stablehand hurried up with a bucket of water and an apple, one of the security men in tow. Seeing the man nod in Randall’s direction, Constance breathed a bit easier. It wouldn’t do to have their winner poisoned by his post-race water.

  “Mr. Wiggins’ sire has been in question until recently,” Randall explained as the jockey came alongside. The two led Destiny past a crowd of winners and well-wishers. “Now that Viscount Bostwick has admitted to owning the sire, Mr. Wiggins has finally been properly registered with the Jockey Club,” he explained.


  Granger seemed surprised. “And the sire?” he asked, wanting to hear which horse was responsible for producing a fast eight-year-old he had never heard of.

  “Bostwick’s Bounder,” Constance said with a grin. “George Bennett-Jones’ Arabian was Mr. Tuttlebaum’s sire as well, and surely you’ve heard of him,” she said with pride.

  George had won Bounder in a fencing match long before he inherited the viscountcy, she remembered. Recalling the day she had first laid eyes on the chestnut-colored warmblood as it stood in an adjacent pasture to the one in which the Fair Downs’ horses grazed, Constance smiled.

  She barely knew George back then, but she certainly recognized a fast horse when she saw one. Thinking Bounder would make a good stud for Amasia, Constance had merely borrowed the stallion from his pasture when George was in London. She personally returned Bounder the following day, rather proud she had been able to calm the excited horse enough to toss a lead rope around the Arabian’s neck. Murmuring to Bounder the entire time she lead him to the Bostwick Estate stables had kept the high-spirited horse minding her every command.

  Murmuring and a few apples she had stuffed into her pockets.

  When she handed over the lead rope to the stablehand, she simply explained she had found the beast in the Fair Downs pasture.

  When her father realized Amasia’s colt was a potential racer, Constance told him about Bounder, not realizing at the time that the lineage information was important. Mr. Tuttlebaum wouldn’t have been allowed to race if his sire were listed as ‘unknown’ in the Jockey Club.

  A slow smile appeared on the jockey’s face. “Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Tuttlebaum share the same sire?” he repeated, his eye lighting up in delight.

  “Oh, it’s even better than that, Mr. Granger,” Constance replied.

  Randall allowed a moment to pass before he chimed in. “They share the same dam, my boy.”

  The jockey didn’t bother to hide his astonishment, nor his appreciation. “True brothers. You must enjoy riding him then, my lady,” he said in awe.