The Rake's Arranged Marriage

by Ruth Regan

  The full weight of his words had landed squarely on Cara, crushing her ability to think clearly. But when she did regain the power to formulate thought, only one thing came to her mind. She spoke it aloud to the empty room.

  "He does like having the last word, doesn't he?"

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Mrs. Cooper pulled the shades open at seven on the dot. Cara squinted and moaned as the light hit her face.

  "Lord Eliot said to rouse you!" the housekeeper chirped happily. "I hear today's the day you're to get up for a real walk!"

  "Mmmm," Cara murmured, stretching beneath the warm bedclothes. Her bones felt creaky and her muscles weak from the many days she'd spent abed. Breathing in deeply, a sudden delicious thrill worked its way through her body.

  Today Quentin Eliot is giving me a tour of the Estate...

  She couldn't deny to herself that the though excited her terribly. To spend time in his company! To walk beside him...oh! But she resisted the urge to sigh happily as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. She refused to lose her self-control over the playboy Lord, just like every other ninny in town.

  As she accepted the tray Mrs. Cooper laid on her lap, Cara did her best to set her features in a neutral mask. But it was ever so hard. Adding to her excitement about seeing Eliot was the pleasant fact that the breakfast before her looked delicious. There were several thick slices of toast, two poached eggs, and small silver dishes of marmalade and soft whipped butter. A steaming pot of tea smelling strongly of bergamot capped off the perfect display.

  "I made the tea extra strong today, Lady Boyle," Mrs. Cooper said with a smile, "to put a little pep in your step!"

  "Mrs. Cooper?" Cara began, tapping the shell of the poached egg with a spoon and carefully removing the top. The housekeeper turned and faced her, hands on hips. "Is my dress clean?"

  Cara had seen no evidence of the clothing she'd arrived in since the day of her fall. Not that she'd needed it. The fine cotton nightshifts she'd been provided were remarkably soft and light, but she found herself eager to get into some real clothes again.

  A regretful look came into Mrs. Cooper's eyes.

  "I'm so sorry, Lady Boyle. Lord Eliot had me throw your dress away. It was terribly muddied and torn at the knee from your fall in the maze. I should have mentioned it to you before, but I forgot."

  "Then...what am I to wear?"

  A smile tugged at the corners of Mrs. Cooper's merry mouth.

  "I shouldn't worry about it."

  The housekeeper walked to the door and leaned her head out. She stuck the first finger and thumb of her right hand in her mouth and whistled. It was a startling sound that grated on Cara's nerves. But no sooner had it echoed through the large bedchamber, than a retinue of maids began to file in, each bearing two or three lovely gowns.

  "When Lord Eliot commissioned your wedding dress from London, he also had the designer send along some day-wear," Mrs. Cooper said, gesturing to the finery. "You've a whole new wardrobe, Lady Boyle!"

  The maids lined up around the bed as Cara sat in shocked silence, a spoonful of poached egg frozen in mid-air on its way to her mouth. She set the spoon down and swallowed, hard. The clothing was finer than anything she had ever seen. Jewel tones – jades, deep blues, and violets – as well as rich creams and vibrant crimsons, all clearly designed to highlight her complexion, surrounded her. The fabrics ranged from raw silks to delicate cottons, velvets, and even brocade. It was a wardrobe fit for a queen. And, that wasn't all. When she glanced up at the smiling maids, she realized that each one wore a necklace and matching earrings – clearly for her. Eliot must have spent a fortune on the items. And they were simply exquisite. Not the least bit gaudy or overdone, but very delicate and subtle.

  "Which one suits your fancy for the day, Lady Boyle?" Mrs. Cooper asked.

  "I...I don't know," she stammered. She felt light-headed and strange. Never in her life had she received a gift so carefully and perfectly chosen before, or so generous. Lord Boyle had showered her with flowers and trinkets and pink ribbons during their engagement, but none of his gifts had been chosen with her specific taste in mind. He hadn't taken the trouble to get to know her. And their marriage of less than twenty-four hours had offered no opportunity for an exchange of larger gifts after the fact.

  Cara reached out and stroked the soft nap of a simple camel-colored frock. It was smocked prettily over the bust. Its little band of eyelet at the cuffs and just above the waist was threaded with a thin, dark brown satin cord. It was just the sort of garment she would like to wear on a daily basis.

  "This one, perhaps," she murmured.

  "Wonderful!" Mrs. Cooper cried, clapping her hands in delight.

  The maid who was holding the dress smiled pleasantly at Cara. Then she turned and set the frock down on a nearby chair and filed out with the rest of the girls. When they'd gone, Mrs. Cooper shut the door after them.

  "Now," said the housekeeper, "you must finish your breakfast, Lady Boyle. And then, we'll get you bathed!"

  ***

  Cara hadn't been fully submerged in a steaming tub of water in over a week. Lowering herself carefully into the bath that Mrs. Cooper had drawn for her was absolutely delicious – and a bit painful to her knee. But the hot water soon began to work its wonders. As Mrs. Cooper scrubbed her back, she assured Cara that once she was entirely well, she could choose her own maid to help her with such tasks. But for the moment, she was more than glad to do the job. It was clear to Cara that the housekeeper had developed a special fondness for her in the week they'd spent together and she felt surprisingly at ease with the jovial middle-aged woman.

  After helping her from the tub, Mrs. Cooper left Cara alone to complete the final portion of her toilette. Cara enjoyed the feel of running a brush through her hair and removing all the tangles. As she braided her long brown locks and wound them up at the back of her neck in her customary style, she felt like she was returning to reality after a long dream.

  Mrs. Cooper had told her to ring for her when she wanted to get into the dress, but Cara was feeling strong enough to manage the task on her own. She shimmied into the simple-yet-fine undergarments that had been laid out for her. As she did so, she realized that Lord Eliot must have given specific instructions for their inclusion in the new wardrobe. The thought made her blush.

  She found her fingers slow and unpracticed working at the buttons of the gown, and she couldn't seem to manage the last few. However, her legs were holding her up well enough; she felt that her knee had benefitted greatly from the icing the night before, followed by the hot bath she'd just enjoyed. When she straightened and looked at herself in the mirror, she was surprised by the reflection that greeted her. She looked thinner and paler than she remembered. But she supposed that was to be expected after spending so many days in bed. Her cheeks were still flushed from the bath, though, and her eyes shone. She allowed that she didn't look a complete fright. In fact, she thought, there is actually something comely in me, aided greatly by the fine garments. Just as she reached around to her back again to give the last few buttons another valiant try, there was a knock on the door.

  "Come in, Mrs. Cooper!" she called over her shoulder. "I'd be grateful for your help!"

  But when the door swung open, it wasn't the housekeeper. Lord Eliot stepped in. Cara saw his handsome visage in the mirror and immediately wheeled around, embarrassed to be caught with her back exposed.

  "Mrs. Cooper's downstairs," he said. "Perhaps...I might be of assistance?"

  "I..." she began. But the words of protest wouldn't quite form on her lips. Eliot's blue eyes were holding her, and she couldn't deny that deep down, she wanted to feel his warm hands doing up the buttons of her dress. It was an intimate gesture that no one but maidservants had ever performed for her.

  "If you truly think it improper, I can summon one of the maids," he sighed after a moment. "I do appreciate your sense of propriety, Lady Boyle."

  "No!" she blurted. "I mean.
No, thank you. I'm sure your maids are attending to other business. You may...help me."

  A ghost of a smile played over Eliot's lips for a brief moment, and then it disappeared. He cleared his throat and strode all the way into the chamber. Cara felt rooted to the spot where she stood, unable to move as he approached her. His body was so strong and capable. He moved with the self-assurance of a true Lord, she saw. Soon he stood directly before her, looking down on her from mere inches away.

  "You do have to turn about, Lady Boyle, if you wish for my help with the buttons," he murmured.

  Cara made a quick about-face to the mirror once more. As Lord Eliot bent to work on fastening her dress, she felt her pulse quicken. His fingertips brushed the naked skin of her back and she bit her lip.

  With his concentration fixed on the buttons, she was free to study his reflection in the mirror. For the first time, she noticed a twinge of sadness about his eyes. When the buttons were all done up, he seemed to spend a long moment gazing at the column of her neck. She watched as his fingertips rose in the air just above her skin – it looked as though he was about to caress her tenderly, just below the ear. Cara's pulse was fairly racing now, and she couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were running through that strange head of Lord Eliot's. Was he thinking of his first wife? Was he thinking of the wedding night to come? She couldn't say.

  Finally, his hand dropped out of view. He hadn't touched her after all.

  "There," he said, his voice suddenly formal and strange. "All done."

  "Thank you."

  He only nodded stiffly, and cleared his throat once more.

  When Cara turned back to face him, he gave her a long look of appraisal. Again, he seemed to lose himself in a strange reverie until she finally broke the silence.

  "Last night, when you brought me that wedding dress, I thought perhaps you'd guessed my tastes by accident. Today, when the rest of the wardrobe arrived, I could plainly see that you have them pegged. Thank you for the attire, Lord Eliot. It is...most agreeable. And, quite unexpected."

  He nodded once more, then stepped back almost to the doorway.

  "Come," he said, suddenly assuming the guise of merry playboy that she'd first encountered a week ago. He put his hands on his hips and a mock expression of impatience came over his handsome features. The transformation was alarming. "Let me see you ambulate on that withered leg of yours!"

  This was the Lord Eliot Cara had sparred with in the hedge maze – the Lord Eliot whom she knew to be a reckless playboy. The Lord Eliot I can handle.

  "Withered!" she sputtered. "It's quite the opposite – still puffy!"

  "Oh, stop complaining!" he snapped, beckoning her to walk forward. She took a step, but a sudden twinge in her knee made her grit her teeth and hesitate. Eliot saw the pain on her face plainly, so he continued talking.

  "If my friends had told me a month ago that I'd be taking a deformed woman to wife, I would have laughed them out of the tavern!"

  "Oh?" she asked, the twinge the pain in her knee diminishing as her anger flared. She took another step forward. "Do you frequent the tavern often, Lord Eliot? I thought you did the majority of your drinking in the comfort of your own home."

  "A common misconception," he said lightly. "I take a tipple in town two to three times a week."

  "How charming!" she mocked. Another step. Another. All of her attention was focused on that maddening smirk painted on Lord Eliot's handsome face.

  "Oh, it is charming!" he agreed sincerely. "There's a particularly friendly serving girl I like to see down there – the tavern owner's daughter, in fact. She and I get on famously."

  "Of course, you do. You're paying her with good English coin for her services, I assume?" she asked bitterly. Her knee was really beginning to limber up now.

  "Oh yes! I consider myself a fair man."

  "Fair?!" she blurted. "You snuck up on me in the hedge maze! And then you came after me like some wolf. You, sir, are the reason I tripped and fell and ended up injured and unable to walk!"

  She was now standing directly before Eliot, her chest heaving as she looked up into his face.

  "You don't seem unable to walk to me," he said blithely.

  Cara blinked several times. She'd crossed the whole room on her own, all because the bickering had made her forget the pain. She felt confounded. And to make matters worse, Eliot began to laugh.

  And then she knew – it had all been a trick. He'd said those things to help her. To make her forget the pain. Quentin Eliot had known that if he riled her up enough, she'd begin to walk with ease.

  He's got me figured out!

  It was simply maddening...and absolutely singular. Cara could feel her frown begin to crack.

  "Come, Lady Boyle," Eliot chuckled. "Let me show you our home."

  ***

  Hedgeton Manor was even more luxurious and expansive than Cara had guessed. It had been in the Eliot family since the previous century, and while updated to reflect the current style, it still bore all the opulence of the old era. Nearly every room sported a full-sized fireplace with a beautifully wrought mantle of marble or oak. There were frescoes in the ballroom, hand-painted by a famous artist who had been brought in all the way from Italy. The drapes were alternately as sheer as gossamer and as thickly brocaded as a king's robes. The wealth of the Eliot family was evident in every single touch of the grand home. Cara felt so overwhelmed at times that she had to sit down. Luckily, Lord Eliot was a man of his word. He'd made sure that there was a comfortable chair placed in every single room. When she felt that she had to sit, she was always able to.

  The most remarkable thing about the tour, though, was Lord Eliot himself. Walking from room to room, describing the furnishings, he sounded almost bored. She sensed that none of the grand home's features impressed or pleased him at all.

  Finally, as they made their way through a gallery adorned with life-sized portraits of Lord Eliot's forebears, she could hold her tongue no longer. During a pause in his droning narration, she broke in.

  "You sound as though you couldn't possibly care any less about all of this, Lord Eliot."

  He turned and looked at her, surprised.

  "Oh?"

  She nodded. "You sound quite bored, in fact."

  "My apologies. Perhaps I'm spoiled."

  "Perhaps you are," she snapped.

  "Or perhaps none of the riches that I'm surrounded with can compensate for the poverty of heart that I have felt while roaming these halls."

  They looked at each other for a long moment.

  "Have you always been so given to the dramatic?" she asked. She knew it was a cruel question – and an unfair one, especially considering the honesty of the statement that had preceded it. But there was an inexplicable drive in her to test Lord Quentin Eliot. To see where his sore spots were. And, she had just found one.

  "No," he retorted hotly. "There was a time when I was quite guileless. Defenseless. Made soft and simple by love. When my heart was broken because death stole that love from me, I was destroyed. Now I know how to arm myself!"

  Cara could see the temper flaring behind Eliot's eyes. It was a fire fueled by pain. A fire she recognized perfectly because she herself had often felt the hot kiss of those flames.

  The air between them was fairly crackling. But the moment was broken when a man Cara did not recognize strolled into the gallery with a pretty woman of about 30 on his arm. Lord Eliot's attention immediately shifted to the pair and his entire attitude changed to one of pleasantness.

  "Duke! Lady Margaret!" he called, raising his arm in greeting. The man, Duke Frances Crowley, Cara immediately guessed, saluted Eliot from afar. But the pair did not approach them.

  "Damn," Eliot muttered under his breath. "I'd forgotten I invited them for the weekend. They're miffed that I didn't greet them when they arrived, no doubt."

  Cara's attention was still transfixed by the pair. She knew Duke Crowley very well by reputation. He was a respected figure in London, although his a
ffair with the lady Margaret Chisholme had been much talked of. And here they were – the most famous illicit lovebirds of the time, strolling through Quentin Eliot's house. As she continued to watch, Duke Crowley bent his head to listen to something that Lady Margaret whispered. Then, both of them broke out laughing.

  "They're laughing at us," Eliot remarked. The comment surprised Cara.

  "Why?" she asked, turning to look at him.

  "Because it's rumored that I'm about to enter a loveless marriage with a hard-headed, firebrand widow."

  Cara felt like she'd been slapped in the face. She'd had no idea that talk of her union with Lord Eliot had already spread to the city. But of course, it had. Her gaze drifted out to Duke Crowley and Lady Margaret once more. She regarded them with a look of disdain, trying to comprehend how two people she had never met could already have formed so cruel an opinion of her.

  "Look at you," Eliot growled suddenly by her side. Her head snapped back to him. His sudden change of tone was shocking. "You're only adding fuel to the fire, you know. Giving them dirty looks and standing apart from me."

  Cara could formulate no words. Her eyes only grew wide with surprise and anger.

  "You can at least pretend to like me," he continued. "That would silence their wagging tongues. And, give them a real story to take back to the city!"

  His eyes were fairly burning now, and there was a dare in them that. A challenge. She could feel her blood rise to her cheeks.

  "What would you have me do?" she hissed.

  "For a start, I'd have you stand closer to me."

  With that, he reached out and grabbed her by the waist. He pulled her to him easily, and her hands went up reflexively to brace herself against his chest. It was rock hard. She felt her breath catch in her throat at the sudden proximity. But he did not remove his hands from her waist. He dug his fingers into her flesh urgently. The sensation was delicious. Something low in Cara's belly jumped and strained. Her eyes were locked on the two blue pools of Eliot's irises, and she could see a mad desire in them that inflamed every one of her senses.