He thought about spending week after week trolling for a wife in ballrooms. He thought about fetching fans, handkerchiefs, and parasols. He thought about his need for an heir. His chances of finding his perfect duchess seemed remote at best.
Tristan glanced at Miss Mansfield again and reconsidered. She needed money. He needed a bride. For the right price, Miss Mansfield would keep her involvement a secret from all but the chosen girl and her grateful family.
He frowned, realizing he was basing his decision on one example—Broughton. Hiring Miss Mansfield meant taking a risk, but if her efforts proved unsatisfactory, he could dismiss her. Truthfully, a larger risk loomed. Marriage was for life, and as matters now stood, he was in serious danger of tying himself forever to an unsuitable wife. Or no wife at all, at this rate.
Tristan sized up the situation and realized he had two choices: continue his haphazard search or hire Miss Mansfield. After weeks of pure hell shopping at the marriage mart, the matchmaker won hands-down.
Of course, he had no intention of enlightening his friend. “I’m off to pay my respects to Broughton and his wife.”
Hawk snorted. “This marriage business has addled your brain.”
“I fail to understand what you find so amusing.”
“Miss Mansfield is a happily-ever-after spinster.” Hawk clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, old boy. You’ve just chosen the only woman in the kingdom who won’t wed you.”
Tessa Mansfield wanted to kick herself.
Heaven above, she’d practically flirted with that rake, the Duke of Shelbourne. She’d never seen him before tonight, but she’d heard about his reputation. The gentleman rake, they called him. Everyone said he didn’t gamble to excess. They said he never seduced innocents. Every other female, however, was apparently fair game.
She prided herself on her ability to spot a rake at twenty paces. This particular rake had fooled her with his agreeable manner. But she knew rakes used their charm to disarm their intended victims. She recalled the duke’s slow smile and could not deny she’d let his handsome face turn her head.
Tessa cringed as she recalled the way she’d chattered like a monkey. He must have thought she’d dropped her fan on purpose like all those silly girls she’d read about in the scandal sheets. Oh, how lowering.
She took a deep breath, reminding herself she was unlikely to encounter him again. Thank goodness.
“I am glad to see you, Tessa. I’ve missed you so.”
Tessa returned her attention to Anne, her former companion and dearest friend in the world. “I missed you as well.”
Anne’s eyes misted. “I never imagined I would make such a happy marriage. You made all my dreams come true.”
For nearly a year, Tessa had promoted the match between Anne Mortland and Lord Broughton. More than once, Tessa had feared all would come to naught, but true love and a dusting of luck had culminated in this fairy-tale marriage.
Tessa glanced at Lord Broughton. “You both look well, my lord.”
Broughton gazed at his bride with adoration. “I am the happiest of men.”
Tessa’s heart contracted with a yearning for something she could never have.
Anne clasped her arm. “Tessa, look quickly. You do not want to miss seeing Jane dance.”
Tessa lifted up on her toes to see past the crowd. She caught a glimpse of her new companion, Jane Powell, but the fast approach of two fashionable and handsome gentlemen diverted her attention. As they neared, her heart thudded. She recognized the taller man with tousled black hair. It was the Duke of Shelbourne.
She turned round, hoping he’d not seen her. To her mortification, Shelbourne and the other gentleman approached Lord Broughton.
“Shelbourne, Hawk, this is an unexpected pleasure,” Broughton said, rubbing his hands.
Tessa gazed up at the chandelier, wishing she could melt like the wax oozing from the candles. When she’d run away, he’d probably thought she wanted him to chase her. Belatedly, she realized her behavior only made her look guilty and a little foolish. She planted a serene smile on her face as Lord Broughton introduced her to the duke and Lord Hawkfield. Then she curtsied and rose to find Shelbourne gazing at her. In the light of the chandelier, she could see his eyes were marine blue and fringed by thick black lashes.
“Miss Mansfield and my wife are friends,” Lord Broughton said. “She is the one responsible for our happy union.”
Lord Hawkfield raised his brows in an exaggerated fashion. “I say, a matchmaker? If only I had known of your skills when my sisters were single, Miss Mansfield. You might have saved me the trouble of finding them husbands.”
His mocking tone vexed her. She’d encountered plenty of his kind before, always quick to ridicule her avocation. “I had no idea I had a competitor. Or do you only make matches for relatives?”
Before Lord Hawkfield could reply, the duke cut in. “His self-proclaimed talent is highly overrated.”
She arched her brows. “Should I be relieved?”
“He never stood a chance against you.”
His distinctive baritone voice sent an exquisite shiver along her arms. She mentally shook herself. He’s a rake, he’s a rake, he’s a rake.
The music ended. Lord Hawkfield excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. The duke glanced at her, and then he closed the distance between them.
She looked at him warily. Could he not see she wished him to leave her in peace?
“I apologize for detaining you so long earlier,” he said. “Without a proper introduction, I fear you might have taken offense.”
He’d apologized in a gentlemanly manner, even though she was equally at fault, perhaps more so, since she’d done most of the talking. “No apology is necessary. The circumstances were unusual.”
He inclined his head. Though he did not smile, there was a natural curve to his full lips. His was not the pretty face of a dandy, however. Oh, no, not at all. His thick brows, angular cheekbones, and square jaw were all male. Little wonder women reportedly swooned at his perfection. No, not quite perfect, she thought, detecting a faint shadow along his jaw and above his full upper lip. His valet probably had to shave him twice a day. Her skin prickled at this evidence of the duke’s masculinity.
“There is something I wish to ask you.” His voice rumbled, a sound as rich and irresistible as a cup of chocolate.
Her heart thumped at the low, seductive notes in his voice. She’d thought herself unsusceptible to such tricks, but evidently her traitorous body was not.
“May I call upon you tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.
“Your grace, if this concerns my fan, I beg you to forget the matter.” There, that should settle his concern once and for all.
“It is not about the fan,” he said. “I have appointments early in the afternoon. May I call at four o’clock?”
She regarded him with suspicion. “Why not tell me now?”
“I prefer to discuss it in private, if you are amenable.”
In private? Did he mean to make her a dishonorable proposal? Then her common sense prevailed. A handsome rake like him would have no interest in a plump spinster.
His mouth curved in the merest of smiles. “You hesitate. I can hardly blame you after I discomposed you earlier.”
She lifted her chin. “I was not discomposed.” What a bouncer. She’d fled as if the engraving on his card read His Grace, the Duke of Devilbourne.
“I will of course abide by your decision.” Then he gazed into her eyes with such intensity, she stilled like a rabbit in the woods. He drew her in, mesmerizing her with his arresting blue eyes. She felt the pull of his will like a swift current. And everything inside her said yes. “Very well,” she said breathlessly.
“Thank you. Until tomorrow.” He sketched a formal bow and walked away.
She let out her pent-up breath. Good God, he’d seduced her into agreeing.
Anne approached, using her fan to shield her voice. “What were you and the duke discus
sing?”
Tessa thought it best not to reveal his intended visit until she knew his purpose. “Nothing of consequence.” But he wanted something from her. She suppressed a shiver.
“He spoke to you at length,” Anne said. “You must tell me what he said.”
“You make too much of the matter.” Why had she let him turn her head?
“He looked at you like a starving wolf. Stay away from him,” Anne said. “He is well respected for his politics, but even Geoffrey admitted the duke has a notorious reputation with women. He probably has one hundred notches in his bedpost.”
Tessa scoffed. “I’m sure he has no interest in carving one for an aging spinster like me.”
“You are only six and twenty,” Anne said. “Why must you always demean your charms?”
She ignored her friend’s question. “Do not worry. I am in no danger of falling for a rake’s wiles.” Even if he’d persuaded her to let him call tomorrow, and she’d accepted against her better judgment.
Anne drew closer. “He has a reputation as a legendary lover. Women throw themselves in his path. I heard he can persuade a woman to do his bidding with his eyes.”
Tessa gulped, knowing it was true.
Anne surveyed the crowd and grabbed Tessa’s arm. “Look, there he is now by the hearth. Do you see that woman with him? That is Lady Endicott, a formerly respectable widow—until she met Shelbourne.”
Tessa glanced in that direction. A tall, raven-haired beauty with jade feathers in her bandeau slid her finger along Shelbourne’s lapel. Then the widow leaned against him and whispered in his ear. He turned his head and flicked her earbob.
Tessa gasped. Stars above. She’d invited that shameless rake to her drawing room.
His teeth flashed in a roguish grin. Then he winked at the lady and strode off.
“How could he engage in such brazen flirtation when his sister is present?” Anne said, her voice outraged.
Tessa swerved her gaze to Anne. “His sister?”
“Lady Julianne,” Anne said. “She is dancing with Lord Holbrook.”
The dark-haired young woman laughed as she skipped past her partner. Her complexion glowed with the radiance of youth, and her gold-netted gown set off her slender figure to perfection. A sliver of envy lodged in Tessa’s throat. Long ago, she’d missed her own opportunity to have a season. Most of the time, she refused to dwell on the past, but once in a while, regret shadowed her heart.
Anne regarded Tessa. “Lady Julianne is purported to have declined more than a dozen marriage proposals since her come-out three years ago.”
“She sounds very particular.”
“Perhaps it is her brother who is particular,” Anne said. “Some say the duke believes no man is good enough for his sister.”
Tessa stilled. Did he mean to ask her to make a match for his sister tomorrow? No, surely he would rely on his mother’s advice. Why then had he insisted on calling?
Lady Julianne Gatwick has
written a single girl’s guide to
enticing unrepentant rakes.
The only problem: No one can
know she wrote it.
Please turn this page for
an excerpt from
How to Seduce a Scoundrel.
Chapter One
A Scoundrel’s Code of Conduct: Virgins are strictly forbidden, especially if said virgin happens to be your friend’s sister.
Richmond, England, 1817
He’d arrived late as usual.
Marc Darcett, Earl of Hawkfield, twirled his top hat as he sauntered along the pavement toward his mother’s home. A chilly breeze ruffled his hair and stung his face. In the dwindling evening light, Ashdown House with its crenellated top and turrets stood stalwart near the banks of the Thames.
Ordinarily, Hawk dreaded the obligatory weekly visits. His mother and three married sisters had grown increasingly demanding about his lack of a bride since his oldest friend had wed last summer. They made no secret of their disappointment in him, but he was accustomed to being the family scapegrace.
Today, however, he looked forward to seeing that oldest friend, Tristan Gatewick, the Duke of Shelbourne.
After the butler, Jones, admitted him, Hawk stripped off his gloves and greatcoat. “Are Shelbourne and his sister here yet?”
“The duke and Lady Julianne arrived two hours ago,” Jones said.
“Excellent.” Hawk couldn’t wait to relate his latest bawdy escapade to his friend. Last evening, he’d met Nancy and Nell, two naughty dancers who had made him an indecent proposition. Not wishing to appear too anxious, he’d promised to think over the matter, but he intended to accept their two-for-the-price-of-one offer.
The fastidious Jones eyed Hawk’s head critically. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but you might wish to attend to your hair.”
“You don’t say?” Hawk pretended to be oblivious and peered at his windblown locks in the mirror above the foyer table. “Perfect,” he said. “Mussed hair is all the rage.”
“If you say so, my lord.”
Hawk spun around. “I take it everyone is waiting in the gold drawing room?”
“Yes, my lord. Your mother has inquired after you several times.”
Hawk glanced out at the great hall and grinned at the giant statue next to the stairwell. “Ah, my mother has taken an interest in naked statuary, has she?”
The ordinarily stoic Jones made a suspicious, muffled sound. Then he cleared his throat. “Apollo was delivered yesterday.”
“Complete with his lyre and snake, I see. Well, I shall welcome him to the family.” Hawk’s boots clipped on the checkered marble floor as he strolled toward the cantilevered stairwell, an architectural feat that made the underside of the stone steps appear suspended in midair. At the base of the stairs, he paused to inspect the reproduction and grimaced at Apollo’s minuscule genitalia. “Poor bastard.”
Footsteps sounded above. Hawk looked up to find Tristan striding down the carpeted steps.
“Sizing up the competition?” Tristan said.
Hawk grinned. “The devil. It’s the old married man.”
“I saw your curricle from the window.” Tristan stepped onto the marble floor and clapped Hawk on the shoulder. “You look as if you just tumbled out of bed.”
Hawk wagged his brows and let his friend imagine what he would. “How is your duchess?”
A brief, careworn expression flitted through his friend’s eyes. “The doctor says all is progressing well. She has two more months of confinement.” He released a gusty sigh. “I wanted a son, but now I’m praying for a safe delivery.”
Hawk nodded but said nothing.
“One day it will be your turn, and I’ll be the one consoling you.”
That day would never come. “And give up my bachelorhood? Never,” he said.
Tristan grinned. “I’ll remind you of that when I attend your wedding.”
Hawk changed the subject. “I take it your sister is well?” His mother planned to sponsor Lady Julianne this season while the dowager duchess stayed in the country with her increasing daughter-in-law.
“Julianne is looking forward to the Season, but there is a problem,” Tristan said. “A letter arrived from Bath half an hour ago. Your grandmother is suffering from heart palpitations again.”
Hawk groaned. Grandmamma was famous for her heart palpitations. She succumbed to them at the most inconvenient times and described them in minute, loving detail to anyone unfortunate enough to be in the general vicinity. Owing to Grandmamma’s diminished hearing, this meant anyone within shouting range.
“Your mother and sisters are discussing who should travel to Bath as we speak,” Tristan said.
“Don’t worry, old boy. We’ll sort it out.” No doubt his sisters meant to flee to Bath, as they always did when his grandmother invoked her favorite ailment. Usually his mother went as well, but she’d made a commitment to sponsor Julianne.
A peevish voice sounded from the landing. “Marc, y
ou have dawdled long enough. Mama is waiting.”
Hawk glanced up to find his eldest sister, Patience, beckoning him with her fingers as if he were one of her unruly brats. Poor Patience had never proven equal to her name, something he’d exploited since childhood. He never could resist provoking her then, and he certainly couldn’t now. “My dear sister, I’d no idea you were so anxious for my company. It warms the cockles of my heart.”
Her nostrils flared. “Our grandmother is ill, and Mama is fretting. You will not add to her vexation by tarrying.”
“Pour Mama a sherry for her nerves. I’ll be along momentarily,” he said.
Patience pinched her lips, whirled around, and all but stomped away.
Hawk’s shoulders shook with laughter as he returned his attention to his friend. “After dinner, we’ll put in a brief appearance in the drawing room and make our escape to the club.”
“I’d better not. I’m planning to leave at dawn tomorrow,” Tristan said.
Hawk shrugged to hide his disappointment. He ought to have known the old boy meant to return to his wife immediately. Nothing would ever be quite the same now that his friend had married. “Well, then, shall we join the others?”
As they walked up the stairs, Tristan glanced at him with an enigmatic expression. “It’s been too long since we last met.”
“Yes, it has.”
The last time was Tristan’s wedding nine months ago. He’d meant to visit the newlyweds after a decent interval. Then Tristan’s letter had arrived with the jubilant news of his impending fatherhood.
Hawk’s feet had felt as if they were immersed in a bog.
After they entered the drawing room, Hawk halted. He was only peripherally aware of his sisters’ husbands scowling at him from the sideboard. All his attention centered on a slender lady seated on the sofa between his mother and his youngest sister, Hope. The candlelight gleamed over the lady’s jet curls as she gazed down at a sketchbook on her lap. Good Lord, could this delectable creature possibly be Julianne?
As if sensing his stare, she glanced at him. He took in her transformation, stunned by the subtle changes. In the past nine months, the slight fullness of her cheeks had disappeared, emphasizing her sculpted cheekbones. Even her expression had changed. Instead of her usual impish grin, she regarded him with a poised smile.
How to Ravish a Rake Page 30