Last Rake Standing

by Jayne Fresina

  “Yet!” He was utterly unmoved by his valet’s concerns. When Marcus Craven made his mind up on any matter, nothing stood in his way that couldn’t be tripped over or knocked asunder by his hard head. “Besides, she shot at me on her brother’s behalf, which I find quite endearing, upon deeper reflection. My mind is made up, Gudgeon. She’s the one.” He paused. “Don’t happen to remember her name. Do you?”

  “I’m afraid not, your grace. I erased all thoughts of her from my mind, as you instructed me to, many times and with great virulence.”

  “Pity. Nevermind. I’ll just call her mouse for now. It suits her.”

  Gudgeon moved away from the door and was soon shaking his head as he rescued each piece of clothing from the bedchamber floor. He walked stiffly back out into the adjoining room, holding a scarlet silk scarf at arm’s length.

  Marcus stood quickly and strode across the room to snatch the scarf away. “This, Gudgeon my man, belongs to my future bride.”

  “The one who shot you, your grace?”

  “Shot at me.”

  “The one whose name you do not recall, your grace?”

  “That’s right,” Marcus grumbled. “And you needn’t look at me like that. She’ll marry me, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I see, your grace. This is to be the young lady’s punishment. I misunderstood.”

  “Punishment? How could it be punishment to marry me? The mouse ought to be damned grateful for the opportunity.”

  Gudgeon unpursed his lips enough to ask, “And can one assume the young lady is cognizant of this great honor, your grace?”

  “Why wouldn’t she be?” Marcus drew himself up to full height, knuckles resting on his hips, scarf dangling from his left hand.

  “Then it was merely an oversight that she forgot to give you her name? It could not have been deliberate.”

  Marcus was looking in the mirror, one prideful hand traversing the planes of his flat stomach. The mouse had better not be difficult about this. Unfortunately, she had a certain argumentative quality. He cleared his throat. “We must find the woman. I remember a park, some houses built around it. Lambeth, I believe. Ask Jasper.”

  “And the lady’s appearance, your grace?”

  He threw back his head, wincing as his skull throbbed and a sharp pain pinched behind his eyes. “Oh, shortish. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Has a habit of frowning. Small hands. Nice ankles. Very tight,” he motioned with one hand across his chest, “coat…buttons…”

  Gudgeon waited politely, leaning slightly forward, head inclined.

  “That’s all,” Marcus snapped.

  “I see, your grace. It should be no hardship to find such a woman in London.”

  “Gudgeon, your tone does not go unnoticed. I hope you’re not going to be obtuse this morning. With my head, I’m in no mood for your truculence.” He strode to the window, scratching his bare chest, frowning hard. A rare splash of winter sunshine gleamed through the glass. The sort of light that seemed only to show itself for the purpose of spitting in his eyes, because it certainly produced no heat. “She can be found at the theatre in the evenings.”

  “The theatre, your grace?” Gudgeon’s voice was heavy with despair.

  “Yes.” He growled over his shoulder. “She’s a seamstress there, but that does us no good now. We need her here before noon.”

  “No need to fret, your grace. I believe she has already found you.”

  He whirled around. “What?”

  The valet resumed folding clothes he’d retrieved from the floor. “A person of that description arrived shortly before the Dowager Duchess, your grace. I took the liberty of putting her in the library to avoid any awkwardness.”

  “Hell, Gudgeon, you might have said.” He squared his shoulders, oddly nervous at the prospect of a bride waiting below.

  “It didn’t occur to me, your grace, that she was the lady you had plans to wed.” The valet sighed, picking a pink feather from his master’s discarded shirt. “She introduced herself to me quite differently.”

  “Well, what did she say her name was?”

  “She didn’t, your grace. She said she was here to call your bluff. ‘Teach the rotten toff a bleedin’ lesson’, I believe were also words flung about at some speed. With the Dowager Duchess arriving at your gate, I didn’t question the young lady further.”

  * * * *

  Marcus, yet again, found himself amused by this mouse with her upright posture, her prim, pale little face, and utterly beguiling hazel eyes. She was all properly buttoned-up. But her rich, emerald velvet gown with a maidenly lace collar and cuffs didn’t make her any less intriguing a parcel to a man with an experienced eye and the greedy instincts of a hunter. She wore her light brown hair pulled back, most of it hidden under a jaunty bonnet. The small cameos dangling from her ears, trembled a little, but the rest of her, at first glance, was still and composed.

  “The name, your grace, is Hale. Emma Hale.”

  “Of course.” He swept across the room, still buttoning his waistcoat, Gudgeon following, jacket at the ready. “Emma.” She was beautiful, he realized, not just pretty.

  “I assumed you forgot. I wasn’t wrong, was I?”

  His most charming smile, he saw, didn’t work with her. She strolled away to examine his bookshelves, and he let his eyes wander over her slim waist and the many ruffles of a pert bustle. “It was good of you to come, Emma.”

  “Miss Hale,” she rounded on her heels, “to you.”

  Earlier, in his carriage, her voice was soft, quiet. A little prim and clipped. Now, it shot out of her in quick, tart bursts, not in the least demure. She put her best foot forward, evidently pulled out all the stops with her fashionable frock, the pearls around her throat, and the kidskin gloves. She wanted him to see she didn’t need the money. Was she about to turn him down?

  A hot bubble of panic burst in his gut. He couldn’t let her get away again. It took him long enough to find her, as it was.

  He thrust his arms back for the jacket and for the comforting reassurance of Gudgeon’s presence, always there, always prepared.

  “I wonder if anyone would have cared if I had shot you,” she quipped in that sing-song cockney accent. “They might have given me a bloody medal.”

  At that, he laughed. He should have been angry. Instead, he suffered an unexpected caress of warmth when she looked at him with those melting, toffee eyes, and he knew he would forgive her anything.

  “You’re right, Miss Hale.” He dropped into a leather chair. “They would have rewarded you, no doubt.” He fixed her with a steady, heated gaze. “So, you needn’t have run away abroad after all. To France, wasn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.” Turning, she walked around his desk, fingers playing over the blotter, coming to rest on a letter opener. He wondered if she might try to stab him with it.

  How many secrets were hidden behind that ever-changing voice?

  The woman was a damned chameleon. The only thing that didn’t appear to change was her opinion of him.

  * * * *

  When she lifted her gaze and met his, she felt him reading her. She might have been a diary left open, dropped by accident at his feet, and he, looking to tease the writer, picked it up and read. He made her blush. No other man ever achieved that monumental task.

  In that moment, she wished she was in her auburn wig, standing on the stage, protected by footlights and a fan of peacock feathers. But she wasn’t. She was plain Emma Hale. He lusted after Holly, who wasn’t good enough to marry, and Emma was merely convenient, a cipher to be used and ignored most of the time while he went about his merry way.

  Her heart hurt. Cold talons pinched it spitefully, almost taking her breath away. Marcus Craven was a rebel, who delighted in being unexpected, deliberately saying all the wrong things. He used her now to shock people. He would be smug about it, relishing the scandal of marrying a nobody, a plain, little seamstress. Who, against all her efforts, happened to be in love with him.

  Why
else would she be there, ready to marry the rogue?

  “So, about this marriage lark.” She straightened her shoulders, hands clasped.

  He was watching her. One finger lay across his lips, elbow resting on the arm of his leather chair.

  “Do you make a lot of marriage proposals to strange women?”

  He shrugged with his free shoulder. “I’m a romantic at heart. I’ve been engaged several times.”

  “Never married,” she pointed out.

  “Never seemed a good idea once sober.” He threw out another slow, menacing grin, so she couldn’t be sure if he meant it.

  “You must drink too much.”

  “Or not enough.”

  Sensing the danger of looking into his eyes too long, she walked around his library, pausing to spin the globe on its brass axis. It wasn’t good to be distracted with lusty thoughts in the midst of negotiations. “You mentioned a wager. A lot of money, you said.”

  “Yes. A vast amount.”

  She folded her arms, turning to face him. “If I help you win the wager, I ought to get half. Fifty-fifty.”

  There was a gleam of surprise, a subtle lightening of the wicked blue. Sober and clear, his eyes were far too knowing. He raised a hand to his chin. “Seventy-thirty.”

  She didn’t blink. “Sixty-forty. Final offer. Take it or leave it.”

  He rubbed his lower lip, his eyes pinned to hers. “For that, I’d better have a wedding night to remember.”

  * * * *

  She seemed to consider it, fingers tapping along his bookshelves. Would she accept his challenge?

  At last, she took one step forward, putting out her hand. “Fifty-fifty. And you’ll have an unforgettable wedding night. I can promise you that.”

  He hesitated. This woman clearly thought she had the upper hand. How did she get so damned sure of herself? “You said sixty-forty was your final offer.”

  “Changed my mind,” she cooed. “A woman’s prerogative, ain’t it?”

  Marcus made a mental note to be more cautious in the future when embarking on any negotiation with his saucy-mouthed wife. He looked at her outstretched hand and then at her face.

  Long lashes fluttered. “Don’t push your good fortune, or my patience, toff. Do we have a deal or not?” With a quick glance at the pendulum clock on the mantle, she reminded him they were running out of time.

  It was fifteen minutes to noon.

  Marcus grabbed her hand and shook it. Oh yes, they had a deal.

  “And this mistress of yours,” she added.

  He smirked. “You’re going to ask me to give her up?”

  “Not at all, your grace.” She smiled, changing her accent again, smoothing out the rough edges. A hot flame of desire licked his groin. “The more the merrier,” she added with a wink.

  Behind him Gudgeon coughed, dabbing a folded handkerchief to his perspiring brow. The poor valet was probably relieved when the bell rang, announcing the arrival of the parson.

  As the library door closed behind Gudgeon, Emma hurried over to lock it.

  “May as well seal the deal,” she said, returning to where he stood, her eyes on the tautly stretched material of his breeches.

  His gaze swung to the mantle clock. “Only fourteen minutes to noon. We have to…” she was lowering to her knees before him, “…let the parson… in.”

  “Oh, I don’t think this will take that long.” She reached for the buttons on his straining breeches.

  A moment later, feet resettled to keep his balance, he was groaning helplessly, clutching her head, knocking her bonnet askew. His fingers destroyed the ladylike knot of her silken hair as she administered to his manhood with her soft lips, slippery tongue, and slow, deliberate sucking.

  He was marrying a damned wanton.

  How many voices did she have, and which was the real one? He ought to know better than to consider marriage to a woman who had once shot at him. But as usual, Marcus Craven never listened to warnings. Why break precedent?

  He’d won his wager. And a hell of a lot more than that.

  * * * *

  The arrogant rake thought he could marry her, enjoy the marital bed, and still keep his bit of fluff, did he? She wasn’t sure which side of her ought to be more insulted, wife or mistress. Well, he was in for a surprise. An unforgettable wedding night, just as she’d promised.

  Chapter Six

  Holly O’Neil was in top form later that same night. As she stormed into her dressing room calling, as usual, for her ever-disappearing seamstress, she found the gas lamps turned low and smelled his shaving soap, sandalwood and lemon. Tonight there was only one cluster of flowers on the oval table beside the chaise, a mass of salmon-pink roses, most still in bud, beautiful and incredibly expensive this time of year.

  “Lucette?”

  The little maid popped her head around the dressing screen. “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  “He was here, wasn’t he?”

  “Oui. He sent away all your other flowers, and he is waiting to take you to supper, mademoiselle.”

  Of course he is. He wouldn’t pass up the opportunity of having two women in one night, would he? She was furious. That scoundrel was about to get his comeuppance and not before time.

  “You will wear the peacock blue gown, mademoiselle?”

  “Oh yes,” she snapped. It was her best evening gown, peacock silk with a cuirasse bodice and soft, polonaise bustle falling in drapes behind her. She would pull out all the stops before she let him know the tremendous mistake he’d made in courting two women at the same time.

  She tore off her gloves, sparing the roses only a passing glance as she marched to the dressing table. Inside a small drawer by the mirror, she located his neatly folded handkerchief, freshly laundered by Lucette. Her face grim, she tucked it inside a small beaded purse and then reached for her face powder.

  The Duke of Penhale wanted to play games with two women, did he?

  Very well, then, they’d play.

  * * * *

  When he saw her emerge from the stage door, he thought his heart would stop. He actually felt physical pain. The gown she wore accentuated the hour-glass shape of her figure, while the low shoulders, trimmed with a cloud of diaphanous gauze, showed off more décolleté than was surely proper. It must be a French design, he decided. One never could trust the French.

  She wore a lusciously curled pile of bright auburn locks, fat, heavy ringlets falling down over her shoulders, and she shimmered in diamonds.

  “Only ten minutes,” he commented dryly, as she sauntered closer, swinging a little beaded reticule from her wrist. “Not bad at all for a woman. I feel privileged.”

  “Well, you haven’t been,” she replied, treating him to a half-smile. There should have been a ‘yet’ at the end of that sentence, he thought, but she deliberately left it unsaid, the omission causing a small tremor of understanding between them. She stepped up into the carriage, not waiting for his hand. He followed, the step lowering under his weight.

  * * * *

  Every eye turned to observe their progress through the room, every fork paused mid-air. Conversation halted, then resumed in a partially exhaled whisper.

  Where so many men had failed, the Duke of Penhale succeeded. Le Petit Oiseau was his. The envy was palpable.

  The maitre d’ escorted them to a small private room in the back of the club, where there was a candlelit table set with fine crystal and silver. Thick, velvet drapes around the walls added to the sense of seclusion and luxury. A single, deep red rose, the stem wrapped in silk, waited for her.

  “Is this where you bring all your women?” she teased.

  “There are no other women,” he replied, his face unreadable. “Apart from my wife.”

  Before she sat, she saw the package waiting on her chair, tied with a red satin bow.

  More presents? She dismissed this one just as she had the earlier gift of diamond earrings, setting the parcel aside.

  He held the chair out for her and, a
s she sat, his knuckles brushed the back of her bare shoulders above the chiffon cloud. The slight contact echoed and multiplied in every sensitive place on her body. This extraordinary effect she could only liken to the nervous excitement of flying too high on a swing and feeling that little pit in one’s stomach at the brief moment of lost contact with the wooden seat. She almost cried out in shock and then, unusually fraught, picked up the rose and buried her lips in it, afraid of what they might reveal.

  “From my father’s hothouse in Cornwall,” he explained. “The gardener sent some up for the townhouse. It’s an ancient variety. Always blooms early and stays late. Impatient and stubborn.”

  It was a beautiful color, a very rich, lusty, blood red. “A reminder of your home,” she said. He looked at her as if he didn’t understand, so she added, “You must miss your country estate.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My elder sister, Maude, and her family live there. It’s more their home than mine.”

  “Oh.” She paused, still holding the rose to her lips. “Your father’s hothouse? Isn’t it yours now? Surely you inherited everything along with the title.”

  “Yes.” His shoulders were stiff, his jaw tight.

  Evidently, he was uncomfortable with the subject. She’d once seen a painting of the Penhale estate, a large, rambling house, part of it dating back more than three hundred years. Steeped in history, it was the sort of place one might imagine ghosts gliding about the passages, weeping for the injustices of the past, seeking vengeance. Marcus Craven, she thought, would look perfectly at home in that museum-like place.

  “Aren’t you going to open your present?”

  She glanced at the package on the table where she’d set it. “You shouldn’t keep buying me gifts, Marcus. What would your wife say?”

  Coughing sharply, somewhat irritably, he signaled for the waiter to open the champagne.