The Rake

by Georgeanne Hayes

  Alma Moreland’s eyes narrowed. “You have options I am unaware of? A dozen beaux waiting in the wings to snap you up? A dowry? Or, perhaps you were thinking more along the lines of entering service? In which case you must have references I am not aware of. Talent that might qualify you to instruct young ladies of family? An education that would make you acceptable as a governess perhaps?”

  Demi stared at her aunt in dismay, knowing even without her aunt’s cutting remarks that she had no options open to her. Her father had been a charming rogue, but neither wise nor frugal. Her mother’s portion had been gone, she felt sure, even before her birth. Her father had inherited even less. The youngest son, his father had purchased his colors and shipped him off to India to seek his fortune.

  She’d spent the better part of the past year trying to think what she might do to support herself once Phoebe had married, for her aunt had made it clear almost from the first that she was looking forward to discharging her obligations to her sister’s child. She had not been able to come up with a solution, unfortunately, and had come up empty of any idea except a vague one that Phoebe would perhaps consider allowing her a place in her own home.

  She might have been willing to consider it, but as headstrong as Phoebe was, she was as cowed by her mother as Phoebe and would not directly oppose her if her mother forbid her to do so.

  She licked her dried lips. “I had thought, since Phoebe is to be settled soon, that she might find a place for me in her household.”

  Alma Moreland gave her a look. “Are you mad? You might well consider becoming a servant in your cousin’s home, and I make no doubt that dear Phoebe is kind hearted enough to take you on, but I will not have it said that I did not do my best to see my niece comfortably settled in her own home.”

  “I am quite accustomed to seeing to Phoebe’s needs. I shouldn’t mind it at all, and certainly no one could doubt your generosity to me or your earnest efforts to keep my best interests to heart,” Demi added placatingly.

  If possible, Alma Moreland looked even more outraged. “Are you suggesting that you have been used as a mere servant?”

  “Certainly not!” Demi disclaimed immediately. “I am glad to help out in any way I can, knowing what you have expended on my behalf … and cousin Phoebe is very dear to me. I am only saying that I would not mind being a help to Phoebe, for she is certain to marry well and will have a large household.”

  “Which you would not be qualified in any way to be of help to her!” Alma Moreland reminded her sharply, not appeased in the least by Demi’s attempts to placate her. “I will not hear of it! I have given Mr. Flemming my approval, assured him that you would welcome his offer and you will not disappoint me. Is that clear?”

  Demi felt ill. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Finally, she managed to nod. She was dismissed, but she felt little relief. Rising a little unsteadily, she left the study. To her dismay, Phoebe’s party was milling about the hall, on the point of departure. She glanced blindly in their direction when she heard her name called.

  “You are not coming with us?” Phoebe asked, for the second time, Demi dimly realized.

  She formed her lips into the semblance of a smile with an effort. “Thank you, but no. I have a touch of headache. I believe I will lie down for a bit.”

  “Oh! You poor thing! You must ask my maid to fix you up. She has a marvelous cure for headache.”

  Demi nodded and forced another smile, flicking her gaze across the faces turned toward her before turning away. Gripping the banister, she climbed the stairs with an effort, feeling as stiff and uncoordinated as an elderly woman. It wasn’t until she had collapsed upon her bed that the images resolved themselves into individual faces. Lord Wyndham had been among them, his gaze piercing although his face had been a mask of polite boredom.

  She wondered a little vaguely if she had given herself away. She had smiled and spoke and comported herself, she thought, remarkably well under the circumstances. Phoebe had not seemed to notice she was laboring under any sort of distress. She could not recall a single smirk that indicated any of the others saw anything in her behavior to amuse them.

  It was amazing, really, how often a group of people took on the characteristics of a pack of wolves. Individually, they were seldom predatory, but they had only to find themselves surrounded by their peers to bring out the worst in them, the search for weakness in a loner that they might use to rip them to shreds.

  She found she was too distressed to think up an alternative to her aunt’s ultimatum. She suspected that, even had she not been distressed, nothing would have come to mind. Her aunt’s assessment of her situation was all too true. She did not have enough education to seek a post in teaching. She had no talent with either water colors or musical instruments that might make her desirable to families with daughters. Without her aunt’s support, she had no references and no connections to secure a place for herself in service. Her lack of a dowry had been sufficient to discourage any interest in her as a matrimonial prospect with the exception of Mr. Flemming. Her aunt had made it clear enough that she would accept Mr. Flemming’s proposal or find herself on the street. The prospect of having no where at all to go was only slightly more frightening than that of marrying Jonathan Flemming.

  She finally concluded that it was worse, however. On the streets, she would be prey to many men of Mr. Flemming’s ilk, or worse, not just the one.

  It was a great pity she had not been born with the beauty to become a courtesan. She knew she would be a pariah even for thinking such a thing, but it was almost better to contemplate the life of a mistress or courtesan.

  Unfortunately, that was out of the question. So, too, was the wild idea of taking to the stage. If she’d been talented enough, her looks might not have mattered. If she had been beautiful enough, a lack of talent wouldn’t have been a problem, but she was fairly certain having neither would only land her in the streets.

  The immutable truth was that she was completely at her aunt’s mercy, and her aunt had none.

  By the time the maid came to summon her to the dreaded luncheon, she had calmed somewhat and realized she had no option other than accepting her fate. She felt distinctly ill. She was also angry with her fate, but she knew she could not fight it.

  She got up, washed her face, tidied her hair and smoothed her gown. Dragging in a deep, sustaining breath of air, she left the room and went downstairs to face her future.

  Chapter Three

  Simple obedience, Demitria knew from past experience, was not sufficient. Her aunt would expect her to be pleased, or give the appearance of it. If she sat like a stone throughout the luncheon, pale, uncommunicative, refusing to eat, her aunt would take it in the same way that she would see open defiance. She would be livid and she would leave Demi in no doubt of it once Mr. Flemming took his leave.

  She ate slowly, and with extreme care, to keep from choking or being violently ill when her knotted stomach rejected the food she swallowed determinedly. She managed to smile at every mildly witty remark that Mr. Flemming made and even to participate in the conversation beyond a simple yes or no to questions put to her.

  Alma Moreland sent her several approving glances during the course of the meal. Instead of being relieved, however, Demi began to think of them as gloating smirks. Slowly, the shock wore off and anger began to simmer beneath the surface of her calm. Presently, it occurred to her with a touch of surprise that she hated her aunt. She hadn’t considered it before. If anyone had asked, she would almost certainly have said, dutifully, that she loved her aunt, but the truth was she had never felt any warmer emotion toward the woman.

  She had tried. In the beginning, when she had first come to live with the Morelands, she had wanted desperately to win her aunt’s affection. She had hungered for the love she had lost when her parents were killed and had been eager to please. In time, she’d come to realize that Alma Moreland simply was not capable of feeling any affection for anyone beyond herself. It was not only she who fai
led to engender it. So far as she could tell, Alma Moreland had never felt more than a distant sort of fondness for either Lord Moreland or Phoebe. What little she had to give had been reserved for her son, and Demi was more inclined to think that less akin to love than pride.

  There had been a time when she was younger when she had pitied her aunt, certain that some terrible thing had happened to her that made her that way and that, deep down, she suffered. Perhaps it was true, but Demi neither pitied nor empathized with her any longer. Whatever might have occurred to make her the cold, unfeeling, tyrant that she was, was not an excuse for her complete disregard for the feelings of others.

  Demi entertained herself thorough the latter half of the meal with fanciful revenges, but in the end she was obliged to admit to herself that there was little hope of her ever being in a position of power that would allow her to seek any sort of satisfactory retribution.

  She was well and truly under her aunt’s thumb and about to be passed off to another thumb that was probably just as merciless.

  Her interview with Jonathan Flemming was as uncomfortable as she’d envisioned but, fortunately, even her own personal purgatory had a time limit. Mr. Flemming professed a great regard for her, all the while staring down at her bosom lasciviously, as if she were sitting before him naked. Demi managed to repress a shudder, pasted a smile on her lips and mouthed the same lie. Her aunt returned to the room, professed her delight at the match, allowed Demi to kiss her cheek, and she and Jonathan Flemming sat down to haggle over the fine points of the settlement. They were still ensconced in the parlor, discussing the nuptials, when the party returned from their picnic.

  Phoebe uttered a shriek of delight when her mother announced Demi’s engagement and flew across the room to congratulate Demi, evidencing every appearance of genuine excitement. Before Demi knew it, she was surrounding by Phoebe and her friends, chattering so rapidly and excitedly they reminded her far more of a gaggle of geese than a half dozen young women. She accepted their excitement and congratulations, wondering if they were truly as happy for her as they appeared to be, simply excited that someone was getting married in general, or, cynically, if they were thrilled because they no longer had to concern themselves that Jonathan Flemming might cast his handkerchief in their direction.

  She finally decided that it was more than likely the second of the two possibilities. They were Phoebe’s friends, not hers. If they had been her friends, they would have been commiserating with her, not congratulating her, or possibly the last of the three conjectures. They were none of them in any danger of Mr. Flemming’s attentions, though. He was of good family, and apparently well enough off, but he was obviously also aware that he was not considered a great prize on the marriage mart and Phoebe and her friends were above his touch.

  The men who’d accompanied the party promptly scattered at the announcement, like a flock of birds startled by the huntsman’s gun, disappearing almost before anyone was aware of their intentions. The moment Phoebe and her friends ebbed away, gathering in an excited little knot to pry the particulars from Alma Moreland and Mr. Flemming, Demi rose and headed toward the door.

  She’d almost made good her escape when Phoebe stopped her. “You are not leaving when we are right in the middle of planning the wedding?”

  Demi smiled wanly. “I feel certain that I can leave it in Aunt Alma and Mr. Flemming’s capable hands.”

  Alma Moreland sent her a narrow eyed glare, but for once Demi found she simply didn’t care. Jonathan Flemming was another matter. She didn’t particularly like the look he sent her and forced another smile. “In any case, I don’t feel at all well and see no reason to expose everyone if I should be coming down with something.”

  As she’d hoped, that comment was sufficient to quiet even Mr. Flemming’s objections to her departure. She left amid instructions, well wishes, and suggestions, moving down the hallway toward the stairs. She’d already reached the foot of the stairs when it dawned upon her that her aunt would almost certainly be up to check on her before very long, to ascertain whether she’d lied or not.

  Changing directions, she made her way through the study and out onto the verandah that ran nearly the width of the manor in back. The sun was dipping near the tops of the distant trees and already the air was cool. She shivered, chaffing her arms and wishing she’d thought to grab a shawl. As tempting as the thought was of returning for one, she dismissed it. She’d escaped and she wasn’t about to be caught merely because she couldn’t bear a little discomfort.

  A faint whiff of something burning tickled at her nostrils and she looked around to discover its source. Lord Wyndham was lounging against the wall near the balustrade that ran round the verandah, smoking a cheroot. Nodding, she hurried down the steps and crossed the garden, walking as briskly as her skirts allowed, ladylike be damned.

  She had no destination in mind, but as she reached the edge of the garden, she gathered her skirts in her hands and, lifting them out of her way, darted across the meadow. She had not run in years, not since she was a little girl and certainly not since she’d begun to wear a corset. She discovered very quickly that the skirts were not the only impediment to putting as much distance as possible between her and Moreland Abbey. She had not run far when she was forced to stop. Struggling to catch her breath, she dropped to a walk once more, but a wave of nausea washed over her. She came to a complete halt then, struggled to will it away and finally lost the battle and dropped to her knees.

  She’d no more than finished being violently ill when someone offered her a handkerchief. She didn’t even glance up. “Go away!”

  “No. You are ill.”

  Demi squeezed her eyes closed when she recognized his voice. It needed only that in a very long day of trials. She would not have cared if Jonathan Flemming had stood by while she wretched, in fact the more she repelled him the better she liked the thought. But the stunningly gorgeous and perfect Lord Wyndham? The object of her secret devotion? Was she to have no memories even to look back upon with fondness? She took the handkerchief he offered almost angrily and wiped her face and mouth. “I’m fine now. Thank you! Please go away.”

  Instead of answering or retreating, he grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet. To her surprise, instead of turning toward the house, he glanced around and headed toward the nearest tree. Demi followed him numbly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her, but even that solace was denied her. They reached the tree without incident. Once there, he shrugged out of his coat, draped it around her shoulders and urged her to sit.

  She sat, huddling in his coat, absorbing the warmth that remained from his body, and the wonderful scents that adhered to it. She’d never been particularly fond of the smell of tobacco, or horses, and yet, mingled with the other scents that were his alone, she found it made her feel comforted and edgy at the same time, and strangely warm all over. It occurred to her that she would most likely forever afterward think of him whenever she smelled that particular blend of tobacco.

  Which would be marred by the additional memory of having spilled her lunch in the grass first. She dropped her face into her hands, wondering what she had done to deserve having such horrid things happen to her.

  “You’re certain you’re not coming down with something?” he asked, settling beside her.

  “I could not be so fortunate,” she muttered morosely.

  He chuckled. She felt him digging in the pockets of the coat he’d thrown over her shoulders. She was beginning to wonder what he was about when he pulled a small flask from one pocket, removed the lid and nudged her shoulder. The pungent aroma of strong spirits wafted past her nose. She looked down at the flask, knowing very well she had no business even considering taking a sip of the vile mess, which he most certainly knew as well.

  She took the flask, held her breath and took a large sip. It burned her mouth, her throat and finally her stomach as it hit bottom. It snatched the breath out of her lungs so that she sat gasping for several moments. It al
so scoured the taste of sickness from her mouth, however, and as the burning slowly cooled, warmth seemed to spread outward from the pool of lava in her belly. “Thank you,” she managed to say hoarsely after several moments.

  Hooking the ball of his fist beneath her chin, he caught her chin with his thumb and forced her to look up at him. Reluctantly, she did. “I had pegged you for a fighter.”

  She gave him an indignant look and lifted her chin away from his hold.

  Shrugging, he capped the flask and dropped it into the pocket of his coat once more. “I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t seem particularly pleased about your engagement.”

  She blushed, but she didn’t want pity, and she had no desire to become grist for the local gossip mills--not that she could imagine Lord Wyndham taking part in such a thing, but all the same it would not do to openly oppose the match. Mr. Flemming might be angered enough to withdraw his offer, and the lord only knew what her aunt would do in that event. “It is only that it came as a great surprise. I have not had time to accustom myself to the idea,” she said stiffly.

  He looked her over with a critical eye, or so it seemed to Demi. “I confess, I find it hard to imagine you was a minister’s wife.”

  Demi sent him a look. “If you have only come to insult me, you may go away again!”

  His eyes gleamed with amusement. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You wound me. I have gone out of my way to offer solace, and all you will do is tell me to go away. I must tell you, Miss Standish, I’m not at all accustomed to this sort of treatment. In general I seem to have the opposite effect on women.”