Last Rake Standing

by Jayne Fresina

  He coughed into his fist, returned both hands to his knees, and swung his gaze from one window to the other. Mid-trajectory, his eyes met hers. Twice. The first time might have been an accident. Might have been. The second time he actually stopped and stared, indignant. As if she had no right to be looking at him, that he hadn’t meant to look at her at all and certainly wouldn’t have, if not for her staring back.

  He was quite dark for an English gentleman, more like a….hmmm. What? A gypsy, perhaps, something foreign. Must have a branch of something wild in his family tree, something unexpected and probably not talked about. She’d heard the Duke of Penhale described as devilish. She thought how appropriate it was, not all about his character and temperament after all.

  And his eyes were blue. A dark, velvety, deep blue with a rather treacherous undercurrent.

  They rode on in silence, watching each other with equal shares of bemusement on one side, suspicion on the other.

  Finally, without tearing his eyes away from her, he said, “Here we are. Park Hill.” He curbed a smile. “For heaven’s sake.”

  “You can drop me here at the corner, your grace.”

  “I’d rather escort you inside.”

  I bet you would. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  His eyes perused her buttons again. “Why?”

  “Curtains around here have a habit of twitching when they hear horses late at night, or very early in the morning.”

  The carriage wheels rolled to a halt in the long shadow of stark-limbed trees, a discreet distance from the respectable houses that curved around the park. He climbed out first to help her down, her hand in his was barely touching, but the contact caused a jolt all the way to her shabby boots. His fingers closed around hers, holding firmly.

  She looked down at their joined hands, shocked again by the size of the man. He crushed her fingers, leaving her breathless. An unusual state for a woman who believed no man could ever surprise her. It seemed he didn’t know his own strength.

  The rain had stopped. All was very still and quiet. Even the birds in the park across the street had yet to begin their morning performance.

  “May I see you again?” he asked.

  “Are you sure that’s the right verb?”

  His lips curved in a smile.

  How lovely, she thought. Each time she looked at him, whether she looked through Holly’s kohl-lined eyes, or Emma’s unpainted lashes, Marcus Craven’s sinfully delicious proportions and utterly disarming features were more beguiling than ever.

  “I think not, your grace. Wouldn’t want you suing me later, claiming I caused you injury, or stained your seats.”

  He kept her hand, preventing escape. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Emma waited, her nerves scattered.

  “I need a wife.” He leaned to one side as he spoke, and it occurred to her that the Duke of Penhale was still under the influence of too much drink. It was more evident now that he no longer had the seat to hold him up. “I don’t particularly care for the idea, but it must be done, and quickly. Would you be available for the post, madam?” There was a little hiccup, just before the madam.

  “Marry you?” she said, struggling to remain somber.

  “I need a wife,” he repeated.

  She no longer attempted to stifle her chuckles. “Are you so very desperate?”

  “I fear so.”

  “But like you, your grace, I don’t particularly care for the idea of marriage.”

  “After what just happened, I think we’d better start caring.”

  Was he about to pretend that sort of thing never happened to him?

  Then he clarified, “You could be carrying the next heir to the Penhale estate already.”

  If she wasn’t very much mistaken, there was a slight note of victory in his voice. Almost as if he’d trapped her into it.

  The tree limbs overhead rattled and damp leaves blew around her skirt. Very soon, milkmaids would walk along the street with their churns, then bakers with hot loaves. But for now, all was still, waiting.

  “You could find no other woman to prevail upon?”

  He winced. “Not with my reputation.”

  “Yet, you think I can overlook it?”

  “I think you’re not afraid of me,” he replied. “I think you’re a woman of some sense. We could have a companionable arrangement.”

  That was true, she thought with a quick pinch of wicked excitement.

  “I’ll pay you very well for the inconvenience of being my wife.”

  Astounded, she was not even aware of the chill around her ankles anymore.

  “Madam, I’ll be honest with you.” He smiled. “I need a wife by noon today, or I lose a sizeable wager.”

  A wager. A damned wager.

  She laughed, too amused by his predicament, his desperation. “How could I refuse such an offer? Of course I’ll marry you. Why not? As soon as possible.” Her fingers slipped away from his and she folded her arms against the chill. “Now, go home and have someone prepare a saline wash for the headache you’ll have later.”

  Once he sobered, she mused, he’d forget everything about this encounter.

  He stepped closer. His hands clasped her waist and she thought she would jump out of her skin. “We ought to seal the deal, don’t you think?”

  Before she knew what was coming, he lowered his lips to hers. He tasted of brandy, but his kiss was masterful, not in the least unsteady. Emma stroked his wide shoulders, feeling the heat and strength beneath his evening coat. She must stop this. A man like Marcus Craven was accustomed to getting whatever he wanted, and it was time he learned a lesson.

  Hmmm.

  But not yet. In a minute.

  He held her tight, almost lifting her off her toes and she, afraid of losing her balance, leaned into him as the kiss lingered, his tongue seeking hers. She felt the shift of his posture as he steadied himself, settling in for a longer feast, and then she came to her senses. The strength and warmth of his body surrounded her, made her feel safer than she’d ever been in her life. It was a mistake, of course, to rely on any man, to let herself believe….

  Dropping her hands to his thick wrists, she pried his grip from her waist and stepped back. Beating out of control like the hooves of a startled horse, her heart lost all semblance of its usual rhythm.

  He had a habit of doing that to her.

  “I’ll see you at noon, then,” he said.

  She made no commitment. “Good evening, your grace. Thank you for the ride.”

  When she turned to step off the pavement, he said, quite coolly, “Thought you’d get away with it, did you?”

  She tripped to a halt. Oops. He’d finally recognized her as Holly. Now what?

  “You’re the girl who shot me. Did you think I wouldn’t remember?”

  There was no sound but for the echo of his voice and the low snort of the carriage horses.

  For a moment she couldn’t get her thoughts in order. She’d been so sure he recognized her as Holly O’Neil; the fact that he remembered her from twelve years ago came as a complete, bone-shattering shock.

  Emma gathered her courage. “That is not entirely accurate. I shot at you.”

  He glowered at her, trying to frighten her, no doubt.

  “There is a difference,” she clarified. “I missed, didn’t I?”

  With that she crossed the street, disappearing through the gates of the park.

  * * * *

  Was it wise to marry a woman who had already raised a gun at him? At least he knew what she was capable of. One might say he’d been pre-warned in her case.

  As the carriage rolled into motion, he caught his reflection in the window and saw the frown on his face transform into a slow, contented smile. She was splendidly brave, unflinching. He’d gone to a lot of trouble for her, not that she’d know it.

  He tried to assess how many years it had been since he first saw her face staring up at him through the mist of a crisp autumn morning. Encount
ers with angry women were common in his life, but they were not usually dressed as a man, wielding a pistol, masquerading as their brother in order to face him in a foolish duel.

  It had started over a woman, as most problems do. He’d been seeing a fair young thing for a week or less when he’d discovered she was already the property of another. Her lover, discovering the infidelity, had insisted on a duel with Marcus, who, despite his reputation, had no desire to shoot anybody and no inclination to steal a woman belonging to another man. But, there had to be a villain, he supposed. Thus, he had gone to the appointed place, on the scheduled morning, for pistols at dawn, and had found his accuser in a state of unconsciousness, brought about by the overindulgence of liquor and self-pity. In the young fool’s place had been his sister, trying to disguise herself in his clothes, full of indignation on her inebriated brother’s behalf. Naturally, Marcus had refused further participation in the comical mishap, but the girl had taken offence when he walked away from her.

  Many corners of the memory were bundled in fluffy swaddling, but he certainly remembered the stinging shock of that bullet whizzing by his left shoulder, striking a tree several feet away. He’d spun around to see her face, pale and startled, her eyes huge, before she had dropped the pistol and ran off. He later heard that she and her brother had fled to France, avoiding any recriminations.

  Now, what was her name back then? Damn it all, he couldn’t remember. Perhaps he’d never known it. Didn’t particularly matter, did it?

  He’d read his future in her eyes.

  As long as she didn’t shoot at him again, they’d get along fine.

  Out of nowhere, another pink feather floated to his knee. Grinning, he brushed it away. As for the delightfully elusive Miss Holly O’Neil, she needn’t think she was getting away from him either.

  * * * *

  Quietly closing the front door, Emma stood a moment in the cool shadows, gathering her thoughts. This was the best time of day for her. When no one else was around, before even the cook rose to light the range, she could enjoy a rare peace of body and spirit. In the first, unblemished hours of a new day, she didn’t have to worry about who she was supposed to be. She was just herself, answerable to no one but her own conscience.

  She slipped off her coat and, catching her silvery reflection in the hall mirror, realized how bedraggled she’d become during her walk. No wonder he looked at her so strangely the entire time and hadn’t recognized her as Holly.

  Cursing under her breath, she wondered if, as Mrs. Kent said, it had been a mistake to come back. For twelve years, she’d remained in France, performing as Le Petit Oiseau to keep her brother, Edward, solvent. Edward was a gambler, unpredictable, and reckless. He sailed through life with a carefree buoyancy she wished she could emulate. Unfortunately, he’d never thought very far ahead, or looked back to learn from his mistakes. Instead, he merrily trundled onward in ignorant bliss, leaving her to pick up the bill.

  Six weeks ago, he had died in a drunken brawl. Soon after, Holly O’Neil received a very good offer to perform in London, Emma returned home, thinking it safe. She hadn’t considered Penhale would still be around.

  Mind still restless, she climbed the stairs to bed.

  Hmmm. Penhale. Of all the men to be plagued by, it had to be him. Just her luck.

  Everyone knew he cavorted from one sinful pleasure to another, without a thought for whom he trampled. In fact, she was surprised he bothered to stop his carriage and offer her a ride. Perhaps that was his one charitable deed for the year.

  He might be extremely handsome, but he was a pompous, selfish, insolent man.

  At least, that was the way he usually presented himself. Tonight, his eyes were warmer, even vulnerable. A boyish neediness lurked under his eyelashes, in that shy smile and the clumsy strength he used when holding her hand. Marcus Craven, she concluded with considerable softening of her own borders, feared trying too hard and failing. She wondered if that was his way of protecting himself, whether he settled for not caring because it was easier on the heart, caused less wear and tear. She understood perfectly, the need for self-defense.

  “After what just happened, I think we’d better start caring.”

  In her room, she lay on the bed, fully clothed, and tried easing her mind into a doze. But a pair of deep, blue eyes stole their way in to torment her, and she heard him shout, as he did twelve years ago, “You little fool, I’ll see you hanged for that.”

  It had been the only time, on the morning of that ill-advised duel, when she had seen any life in Marcus Craven’s eyes. Until then, she’d thought him half-asleep. He had barely looked at her. And when he had turned away to laugh with his similarly entitled friends, she had lost her cockney temper. He had meant to dismiss her, like another damp, fallen leaf under his foot. When she raised her weapon in both trembling hands and shouted his name, she hadn’t actually meant to fire the pistol, just get his attention. But then a spark had stung her hand, she had smelled the acrid smoke, and had seen his furious countenance coming back through the mist toward her. Lord Marcus Craven already had the sort of reputation young girls weren’t supposed to know about, and with that immensely powerful, filthy rich family behind him, he could have gotten away with anything. As he frequently did, so it was said.

  When he had loomed over her on that crisp, crackling autumn morning, she had seen the fire in his eyes as they woke from their jaded stupor. It had been completely overwhelming to a mostly innocent, sixteen-year-old girl.

  She should have stood her ground, challenged him. Emma now knew that was what he had needed. Instead, she had dropped the pistol and ran.

  Yet, she never forgot the feeling he had given her with one, deeply searching look. No other man could compare. And all these years later, when Marcus Craven appeared in Holly’s dressing room, demanding her attention, she gave it to him. Wantonly. Brazenly.

  Now, he proposed marriage to Emma Hale. She ought to embarrass the blackguard by holding him to it. Wouldn’t that cause a stir in his blissfully, irresponsible life?

  “I’ll pay you very well for the inconvenience.”

  Exactly how well would he pay? She should have asked. If she could have stopped laughing long enough, she probably would have. Emma could appreciate the practical, financial advantages of such an arrangement, and she was level-headed enough not to let any romantic inclinations obscure the reality. Duchess of Penhale would be quite a role. It was an intriguing idea, perhaps, but too dangerous a deception, considering he also pursued Holly O’Neil for his mistress.

  Besides, by morning he would forget about it.

  “Plain and unremarkable. Nondescript in a crowd and just innocent enough to fool justice.”

  Conceited bugger! If only she’d never laid eyes on him.

  Finally, his muddied handkerchief still clasped in her fist, she slept.

  Chapter Five

  The banging rattled through his head, accompanied by a calm, somber voice inquiring, “Are you ready for your kippers, your grace?”

  Face partially scrunched into the pillow, he couldn’t seem to find his bearings, even with one eye cracked open. With a painful gravity, one by one, his nerve endings pulsed to life. Marcus realized the banging was his own heartbeat echoing around his tight skull, and now it was accompanied by the timid tap of gloved knuckles against his bedchamber door.

  Since when had he ever been ready for kippers? He never ate anything but dry toast and very strong coffee for breakfast.

  And then he remembered.

  It was code.

  Kippers meant his mother had arrived unexpectedly. Not that his mother arrived under any other circumstances. He lifted his head very slowly against the pressure of an imaginary anvil and wrenched his dry lips apart. “I’ll be out presently, Gudgeon.”

  Damn it all! He’d been enjoying the most wonderful dream of a woman wearing nothing but pink feathers, which he was about to begin plucking from her body, when that dratted banging started.

  Throug
h cautious, bleary eyes he looked down at his naked body, assessing the damage. Everything seemed to be in its rightful place. Not too bad for a man of thirty-eight. In fact, he drew a deeper breath of satisfaction, scraping his long fingers back through his ruffled hair, he was very well maintained. Probably in better shape than many men half his age. He took a great deal of pride in his body. It had seen him through some rough times and continued to work with remarkable efficiency, despite Gudgeon’s grim warnings. The valet had remarked upon his master’s resiliency only recently. Saying he couldn’t understand how all the Duke’s parts remained intact after almost forty years of misadventure, and an apparent lack of depth perception.

  Marcus swung his feet to the floorboards, grimacing as another bolt of pain shot through his head from left to right. Forearms resting on his taut thighs, he waited until the swaying stopped. Perhaps opening that second bottle of brandy last night hadn’t been such a good decision. Pity, it always seemed such an excellent idea at the time, like many things he embarked upon and later regretted.

  Eyes finally opened all the way, he surveyed the wreckage of clothing strewn about the room. Reaching one shaky hand toward the fleece-trimmed bed robe that laid over the nearby chair, he decided his mother would have to put up with him unshaven and in a state of undress this morning. It was her own fault for calling so damned early.

  * * * *

  “Early, Marcus? It’s almost eleven. Why on earth are you still in bed at this hour?”

  He blinked, swallowing a long yawn. “What?”

  The Dowager Duchess drew herself up to her full height of five feet and faced the broad chest of her six foot, four inch son. “Is she still in your bed?”

  “Who? What?”

  “That little French trollop. The music hall slut you’re drooling over these days.”