Bargaining With a Rake (A Whisper of Scandal Novel)

by Johnstone, Julie

  Bargaining with a Rake

  Copyright © 2012 by Julie Johnstone

  Cover Design by Tammy Falkner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  For more information: juliejohnstoneauthor@gmail.com

  www.juliejohnstoneauthor.com

  For my husband for putting up with the long hours.

  For my children for putting up with my distraction.

  And for the original historical critique group ~ Amy, Gayle, Heather, Jerrica, Jodie, Michelle and Tammy. Without your guidance, encouragement and help I would have been lost.

  ~ Julie

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER JULIE JOHNSTONE TITLES

  London, England

  The Year of Our Lord 1817

  Lady Gillian Rutherford was either going to faint or scream.

  The chatter of the crowd roared in her ears. She blew out a frustrated breath and snapped her fan open. Whoever had been in charge of the guest list at this ball had been deep in their cups when they sent out the invitations. The guest list was too large by half.

  A booted foot crushed her toes, proving her point. “Beg pardon, my lady.”

  Gillian smiled at the footman as she plucked a glass of lemonade from his tray. “Think nothing of it.” Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. Poor fellow. At least she could take refuge on the terrace in the cool breeze. Except, of course, not just yet.

  As notes of music picked up in volume and somewhat drowned the hum of gossip, she glanced longingly at the open double doors. Four gazes met hers at once. She cursed herself for forgetting to avoid the stares of the pinch-faced matrons who’d been less than adept at hiding the fact that they were talking about her. Instantly, gloved hands covered whispering mouths.

  She hid her snort behind her fan. If these were Society’s finest, then she would rather consort with the poor any day of the week.

  This would not do. Not at all. If she stuck to this tactic of finding her prey, the ball would be over before she knew it. Why was this so difficult? She craned her neck to see around a large man in need of a good lecture on the wisdom of not over indulging in sweet meats and pies. How hard could it be to locate an American who was supposed to be a good head taller than the average Englishman?

  She turned to search through the crowd once again; her effort was rewarded with a new set of stuffy matrons giving her quizzical looks. Hmm. At least she seemed to be improving in Society’s esteem since open disdain no longer lingered on their faces. She pasted on a fake smile as she scanned the lords and ladies.

  Where was the blasted American? Maybe Mr. Sutherland was on the terrace. He was supposed to be brilliant, after all. Surely, a man smart enough to build a shipping empire would seek refuge from the oppressive heat in this over-stuffed room.

  She didn’t need any further excuse to get fresh air. Almost giddy with the thought of escape, she swiveled toward the terrace and cringed. Blast. Her father stood directly in her path to freedom. How utterly typical.

  Yet, for once, his disapproving stare was not focused on her. She followed his line of vision past her Aunt Millicent to the champagne-laden tray passing just out of his reach. Blessed be the ton and their need to display their wealth and frivolousness. Oh! And blessed be Father for being predictable, even if the predictability did include drunkenness and coldness.

  She was smart enough to know when retreat was in order. She whirled on her heel and headed in the direction of the card room. If the gossip sheets were correct, Mr. Sutherland could very well be in the gaming room. Three steps into her flight she stopped in her charge and ground her teeth on the terrible words she wanted to say.

  Of all the ill luck. Harrison Mallorian lounged against the very statue she would have to pass to get to the card room. He brushed a lock of his white-blond hair out of his eyes and lifted his hawk-like nose as he spoke to the glazed-eyed gentleman who stood beside him. Luckily, he did not see her yet.

  Mr. Mallorian, with his lecherous gaze and roaming hands, was the last person she wanted to encounter. She’d barely escaped being accosted by him the last time she encountered him in the village, and she’d overheard gossip by the maids that a tavern wench had not been so lucky.

  Gillian’s stomach rolled at the thought. She’d seen the wench just last week, heavy with child and no husband. But Mr. Mallorian roamed around without repercussions. The maids said there was no proof, but it was more than a lack of witnesses. The wench was lower than a commoner, so her word would never stand against Mr. Mallorian’s.

  Between her father and Mr. Mallorian she was trapped in this room with no escape. Except… She studied the dark corner where long red velvet curtains covered a window and formed a crimson puddle on the floor. It was the perfect place to hide until they moved to another room.

  She shouldn’t. It was scandalous. The very idea that she was worried about her name being associated with scandal made her giggle. Thank goodness, a young fop was now entertaining the staring matrons, so they had forgotten her for this moment. She’d hate to add suspicions of lunacy to the taint associated with murder on her first day back in Society.

  She moved toward the shadowy alcove with a glance to see if anyone had observed her. For the moment, no one gawked. Taking a deep breath, she scurried into the dusty darkness.

  Her heavy breathing filled the cramped space. How was it possible that it wa
s hotter in here? What if she swooned and fell into the crowd? Father really wouldn’t like that. The ton would be ablaze with talk about the Duke of Death’s odd daughter who hid behind curtains at balls. She could picture the next ball. Gone would be the attempts at hushed whispers and sideways glances.

  She and her sister would be laughed right out of the ballroom. Gillian cared little for herself, except it would make meeting Mr. Sutherland extremely hard. But to imagine Whitney being ostracized made Gillian ache. She gulped down her lemonade and groaned. Men had to have had a hand in the latest fashion. No woman would have designed so many layers. The silk suffocated her. Her chemise already clung to her damp skin. She rubbed her temples. Some escape plan this was. She glared at the corner that confined her.

  Breathing seemed to be harder behind the curtains. She reached to part the heavy material, but the velvet suddenly opened, and light from the ballroom split the darkness. A man plunged into the alcove and yanked the curtain closed behind him. She drew in a sharp breath as a warm hand clamped over her mouth.

  “No need to scream,” a baritone that promised nothing but trouble ordered. “I assure you I mean you no harm.”

  She pushed his hand away. “I feel completely better now. I bet all murderers assure their victims the same thing before slitting their throats.”

  “Well, if I was going to kill you, which I’m not, I certainly wouldn’t do it in the middle of a ball, and I would kill you with pleasure.”

  She frowned at the odd statement. “Fine. I won’t scream, and you may go.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said in a voice that indicated he was anything but. “I didn’t realize you owned this curtain.”

  “You’re funny. Run along and display your wit for a debutante that cares.”

  “Interesting twist,” he said with a laugh.

  “I beg your pardon?” She tried to instill a frosty note of warning into her tone.

  “Don’t worry, kitten. I want to play. You’re the innocent and I’m the pursuer, right?” He grasped her gloved hand. “I bet you get a hundred marriage proposals this season with that sweet disposition.”

  She jerked her hand away. “I don’t need a hundred.” Insufferable man. He’d irritated her into saying too much.

  When his fingers gently glided over her waist, she jerked away and pressed as far against the window ledge as she could manage.

  “I like your commitment to the ruse.” Husky tones vibrated his voice. “Got one special fellow in mind, do you?”

  Thank God, it was too dark in here for this man to see her face. Her cheeks burned from the blood gathering under her skin. “You’re not very astute, sir.”

  “Is he meeting you in here?” His deep chuckle filled the space at the same moment he brushed her hair back from her face.

  “Stop that!” She slapped at his fingers, but he didn’t release his hold on her hair. The grind of the strands between his fingers grated in her ears.

  “Good God,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  “And my hair alerted you to your mistake?” Gillian allowed disbelief to color her words.

  “She has short hair,” he ground out. “It was an honest mistake. I must have the wrong curtain.”

  Likely story. Still, what was the point of arguing? Men of the ton were lecherous creatures, and this man had just proven what she had learned years ago. “I’m glad we’ve cleared things up. If you would be so kind as to quickly leave the way you came.”

  “I’ll be gone as soon as I can. I can’t just barge back out there.”

  “Worried about your reputation?”

  Hands came on either side of her waist; his warm breath caressed her cheek. “No. I’m worried about the marriage noose.”

  With the shock of being so close to this man, it took a moment for her brain to register what he said. When she did, she tried to shove him away, but her hand met corded steel. He was certainly no dandy. And clearly trouble. Trouble, she already had plenty of. “You have no worries from me. I don’t want to marry you any more than you want to marry me.”

  He chuckled, low and deep. “I’m relieved.”

  “Lovely. Now off you go.”

  His hands came to cup her face, shocking her with their warmth. Smooth fingertips touched her eyelids, her cheeks, and stopped on her lips. Her heart hammered in her ears. His fingers brushed over her mouth once before her senses crashed back into reality, and she smacked his hands away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure I don’t know you. Are you sure you aren’t following me?”

  “How could I be following you? I was here first, you pompous―”

  A finger pressed against her lips. “Ladies don’t curse.”

  She brushed his fingers aside. “And gentleman take their leave when asked.”

  “Good point,” he replied and split the curtain once again. Light washed over his back and head, revealing thick black hair and outlining broad shoulders. The curtain dropped back into place and covered him in darkness once again.

  “My lady,” he murmured, stepping toward her until his breath washed over her face once again. He smelled of whiskey and cigars. That figured. Strange it didn’t repel her as it did when her father or one of his drunken friends forced her to endure conversation with them.

  Before she could say anything, the stranger grasped her gloved hand and whisked the shield of material away. His mouth touched her skin, hot and searing. As his lips left a feathery kiss, her world tilted and her breath exhaled in a slow hiss. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I’d wish you luck in the marriage hunt, but—”

  “You don’t believe in luck,” Gillian interrupted.

  “Wrong. I don’t believe you need it.”

  He was gone before she could reply. She pressed a hand to her pounding heart. Typical English scoundrel. She took a breath and focused on what she needed to do. A quick peek between the curtains let her know all was safe. She scurried out of the darkness with her lemonade glass still clutched in her hand.

  As a butler passed, she stopped him and set the glass on the tray. She ran a self-conscious hand through her hair. She needed to regain her confidence and find Mr. Sutherland. She glanced around, searching for him. But her search stopped at the sight of a man who stood to the side of the terrace doors.

  He had jet-black hair and broad shoulders. Something fluttered in her stomach. Was that the stranger from the curtains? His wink and smug smile left little doubt. Dressed head to toe in black save his shirt and untied snowy white cravat that hung negligently from his neck, he appeared every bit as dangerous as he had sounded behind the curtain.

  He possessed a rugged beauty with his bronze skin, untamed curls, and coat cut expertly to mold across the broad expanse of his shoulders. Her pulse hummed in remembrance of the muscles hidden beneath the coat.

  He faced her, his eyes crinkling with amusement. Raising his champagne in the air, he saluted her and then downed the drink. He bowed in her direction, his gaze never wavering from her face. When he smiled, her lips pulled into a reluctant grin at his show.

  No doubt, he’d practiced that smile on at least a hundred debutantes. He cocked his head to the side, as if he knew her thoughts, before starting across the room.

  Was he going to find the woman he had been intending to meet behind a curtain? She glanced around the ballroom. There were at least a dozen windows with similar treatments. Good luck to him and the poor woman whose heart he would undoubtedly break.

  Gillian turned to make her way around the edge of the ballroom to the terrace, but her gaze traveled back to him. He had stopped in the center of the room and stood speaking with a flame-haired woman who gripped his arm. Was she the woman he’d been searching for? She did have short hair. She was pretty in a cold sort of way, like a lovely bauble that was good for nothing but admiring for its beauty. Gillian gave herself a mental shake. It wouldn’t do to be petty and judgmental.

  The man’s beautifu
l face became dark and fierce. He reached for the woman’s hand, his irritation evident in the way he pried her fingers away. A reticent smile touched his lips as he executed a perfect bow to the red-haired woman, winked at Gillian and turned on his heel, making his way quickly through the crowd and disappearing through the terrace doors.

  Well, she certainly could not search the terrace now. The stranger seemed just pompous enough to think she really was following him. She had wasted enough time standing here watching him like a fool. Time she had no right to waste.

  She wove among guests, smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. No one stopped her to introduce themselves, but then she hadn’t been under any false assumption she, her sister, or her father would be warmly welcomed back into the bosom of the ton.

  They may have lived as recluses for eleven years, but it had taken less than a minute to realize the ton had not forgotten the scandal or the speculation that Gillian’s father had killed her mother. The four looks of disdain had been her first clue. And the two direct cuts and two silly debutantes who had stared in wide-eyed fear at her and her family had confirmed her suspicion. Whoever had sent the note threatening to expose her sister’s role in their mother’s death was not the only one who clearly remembered the past. Hopefully, the villain would be the only one trying to use it to keep them out of Society.

  That was what he or she―after all the villain could be a villainess―wanted. The note had said so. Don’t return to Society or I will expose your sister. The villain had to be someone who knew them―or Father, to be more precise, since he had surprised everyone by announcing two weeks ago he planned for them to return to Society. Or the villain could be one of the staff.

  She ground her teeth. She’d been through all this already. Whoever the villain was, and whatever the reason the fiend wanted her family to stay recluses in the country, the person was a complete dolt. She had no control over her father. She had begged, pleaded, even conjured up tears, but Father had been resolute in his decision to drag them all back into the ton. Not even the threatening letter had swayed him. For a moment, she thought she’d convinced him, but then he’d gone and shocked her.