The Rake

by Georgeanne Hayes

  Demi found her voice. She jumped to her feet. “You can unpost them! I told you I would not marry you, not under any circumstances whatsoever!”

  Her aunt gave her a stern look. “Nonsense! Of course you will. You accepted, the banns have been posted. Your disgraceful behavior the other day aside, you would be ruined if you even considered such a thing!”

  “My disgraceful behavior!” Demi gasped in outrage. “How dare you blame that on me!”

  “You forget yourself,” Alma Moreland snapped furiously. “I should have known nothing I could do would cure you of your father’s wildness! Or your mother’s utter lack of good sense, for that matter.”

  Instead of being cowed by her aunt’s wrath, Demi’s eyes narrowed. “I’m curious to know why you’re so obsessed by my father’s behavior,” she said tightly.

  To her surprise, Alma Moreland turned as white as a sheet before reddening almost to the hue of a plum. “Nonsense!” she snapped, avoiding Demi’s gaze. “If by obsessed you mean dealing with his difficult offspring, then I suppose you might call it so.”

  At that moment, everything became crystal clear to Demi. Alma Moreland was obsessed with her father. She’d been in love with him when he’d run off with her mother and she’d hated both of them ever since … still hated them. Her marriage to a man of wealth and title hadn’t bothered either one of them. They’d been happy and in love and couldn’t have cared less that they lived from hand to mouth, so long as they were together. She had been Alma Moreland’s chance to get even.

  “He’s dead. Mother’s dead and you’re not going to make me pay for what you think they did to you.”

  Alma Moreland glared at her with pure hatred for a split second before she very carefully composed her features. “You’re delusional. Go to your room and consider very carefully before you think to throw away Mr. Flemming’s offer. I’m surprised he will even consider going forward with the agreement, but he is a good man and willing to overlook the folly of youth.”

  Whirling angrily, Demi stalked from the room.

  “She needs a firm hand,” her aunt said as she left.

  “I believe I am up to the challenge,” Jonathan Flemming responded coolly.

  A maid was sent up to inform her that she was to be confined to her room until she was ready to ‘behave properly’. She took that to mean until she agreed with her aunt’s plans for her. She wouldn’t have cared except that she couldn’t bear to be locked away so that she couldn’t even find out how Lord Wyndham was faring. Her aunt, apparently believing she might try to flee, had stationed a rotation of ‘guards’ to patrol the upper hall. Even Sarah was forbidden to come to her room.

  She would’ve immediately capitulated, just to have a chance to see Garrett, but she knew her aunt wouldn’t believe it even if she tried. She would have to endure several days of punishment at least before her aunt believed her properly repentant.

  She would go crazy worrying about Garrett.

  It was well past midnight when Demi heard someone pause briefly outside her door and a faint slithering noise. At first, she thought it must be her aunt, listening to make certain she was still in her room, but then she noticed a piece of paper on the floor. Leaping from the bed, she rushed over to pick it up.

  Her hands were shaking so badly she had difficulty lighting the lamp, but the moonlight streaming through her windows wasn’t bright enough to read the note. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but perfectly formed and very precise.

  His fever has broken. He is on the mend.

  She was still clutching the note to her chest when the door opened abruptly. Demi took one glance at the look on her aunt’s face and dropped the note into the lamp. The light blazed briefly as the note blackened, curled and then disintegrated.

  Her aunt’s lips tightened. After a moment, she left without a word, slamming the door behind her.

  Demi let out the breath she hadn’t even known she was holding and climbed back into her bed. Relief, so profound it brought tears to her eyes, swept over her, and gratitude--both for the fact that Garrett was recovering, and for her unknown benefactor who’d gone to such trouble to let her know. She suspected it had been Mr. Fitzhugh who’d written the note. Sarah couldn’t read or write, but very likely it had been she who’d slipped the note beneath the door.

  She was certain the effort would cost her, but it had been well worth it and was deeply appreciated regardless of what her aunt might decide to do in retaliation.

  She just hoped Sarah didn’t get into trouble.

  A pounding at her window the following morning woke her to her aunt’s retaliation. Crawling from the bed, Demi staggered to the window and pulled the curtain back. One of the yardmen was hammering on the edge of her window sill. She stared at him in confusion, still too sleepy, at first, to comprehend what he was doing standing on a ladder outside her room. Noticing her at last, he paused in his task, looked to his right, then left and finally twisted around and looked behind him.

  Curious, Demi leaned toward the window and looked around, as well. She didn’t see anyone, which was no great surprise since it was barely daybreak, but apparently that was what he’d been trying to determine. Shoving his hammer into a loop on his belt, he grasped the edge of the window and pushed it up while Demi stared at him, completely baffled now. If he hadn’t been nailing her window closed, what had he been doing with the hammer?

  Pulling a pouch from his belt, he held it out to her. “Sarah says, bread and water for three days. This should tide you over.”

  Demi took the pouch and opened it, staring down at the assortment of fruit and cheese.

  “Stash it where your aunt can’t find it.”

  He closed the window then, hammered a few more times on the sill, climbed down the ladder … and walked off, leaving the ladder under the window.

  Demi bit her lip. Half the servants on the staff were going to be dismissed before this was over. It was heartwarming, though, to realize someone was on her side.

  Sighing, she drew the drapes across the window once more, found a place at the bottom of her armoire in a hat box to hide her stash of food and climbed back into the bed. There was little to do locked in her room all day beyond sleep, and she’d had so little in so long that it was no great feat to go back to sleep once more.

  The three days she remained locked in her room ranked among the worst in her life. On the fourth day, a seamstress arrived with two assistants to take her measurements for her wedding gown and make the final fittings. Demi made a supreme effort to behave as if she was completely subdued. It wasn’t as difficult as it might have been otherwise, for the days she’d spent locked in her room had severely lowered her spirits.

  She was rewarded for her ‘good’ behavior by being allowed to join the family downstairs for dinner. Unfortunately, the ‘family’ included Jonathan Flemming and merely seeing him was sufficient to set her temper at a slow boil. It took far more of an effort to behave civilly toward him even than it did her aunt. Alma Moreland, by and large, ignored her. Jonathan Flemming was determined to draw her into conversation.

  However, now that Garrett was on the mend, she knew he would be leaving soon. If she did not convince her aunt and Mr. Flemming that she was meek and compliant, she would not get the chance to see him before he left the Abbey.

  It still took more of an effort than she would ever have thought possible, particularly since she had to endure an evening in the parlor afterward. Finally, however, he took his leave. Shortly after that, she went up to her room to get ready for bed.

  For the first time in nearly a week, Sarah was allowed to come in to help her prepare for bed. “How is Gar--Lord Wyndham faring?” she asked the moment the door closed behind her maid.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “He has the devil of a temper when he’s crossed. Mending far too slow to suit him. Ready to shake the dust of Moreland Abbey, no doubt about that.”

  “Well enough to receive visitors?” Demi asked in a hopeful whisper.

&nb
sp; Sarah eyed her with disfavor. “Don’t be gettin’ wild ideas now, Miss. He’s well enough he’s no need to be watched round the clock and Mr. Fitzhugh is handling things just fine. Yer not needed in the sick room, and unless ye want to be locked up in here till yer wedding day, ye’ll take my advice and stay put.”

  Demi studied her maid speculatively. “We’re very much of a size.”

  “Aye. The gowns ye’ve give me only needed a nip here an’ a tuck there … No! Absolutely not! Lady Moreland would have my head.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sarah was a bit more buxom, and a few inches taller than Demi, and she was more inclined to think the gowns, especially since they’d originally belonged to Phoebe, had needed no nips or tucks, but she wasn’t about to quibble over it. It took her night twenty minutes to talk Sarah into the scheme and she was still far from happy about it when she climbed into Demi’s bed and pulled the covers over her head.

  Demi moved to the mirror to check her appearance, front and back, and decided she was satisfied. She might not pass for Sarah in any room bright enough to distinguish her features, but there would be no bright rooms that she would have to pass through at this hour of the night.

  Her hair was a few shades darker than Sarah’s, who was more nearly blonde than brunette, but the mob cap her aunt required the servants to wear covered that discrepancy rather nicely.

  Mr. Fitzhugh was the only hurtle she would have to overcome.

  Dousing the lamps in the room, she waited until her eyes had adjusted to the moonlight filtering into the room, then moved across to the door and eased it open. A couple of servants were standing near the head of the stairs, talking--the changing of the guard--but as she’d expected, there was only one lamp lit in the upper hall. Bundling the clothes she’d been wearing into a tight ball, she drew in a deep sustaining breath and closed the door softly behind her and headed for Lord Wyndham’s room and tapped on the door. Fitzhugh, who’d apparently been on the point of leaving, opened it almost instantly.

  He was holding a lamp, but since it was higher than her head, she thought it probably cast her face in shadow. She bobbed her head. “I just thought I’d see if his lordship had laundry needed takin’ down,” she whispered, trying to mimic Sarah’s speech patterns and accent.

  Fitzhugh hesitated. “I was on the point of retiring and thought I’d take the laundry down myself.”

  Demi shrugged. “There’s no point in us both goin’.”

  Fitzhugh glanced behind him but finally looked at her again and nodded. “Thank you, Sarah. I left them by the chair.” With that, he stepped back, allowing her to enter, then proceeded through the door, closing it softly behind him.

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief when he’d gone, and glanced around the room. A single lamp had been left lit on the table near the door. It had been dimmed, but allowed enough light for her to make out the furnishings well enough to keep from running into them. Garrett was sprawled in the bed, bare to the waist, apparently sleeping soundly, and a ripple of doubt went through her. She hadn’t really considered anything beyond getting into the room. She supposed she had assumed that he would be awake as he had been before. Disappointment filled her. She didn’t want to wake him when he’d been ill so long.

  She had only told Sarah that she wished to see him, however. Moreover, if the servants in the hallway had overheard her conversation, they would expect her to merely collect the bundle of laundry and depart.

  Mentally shrugging, she looked around for the laundry. There were two high backed, overstuffed easy chairs near the hearth, but no sign of clothing in or around them. Deciding he must have meant the chair near the bed, she set the bundle she was carrying down, tiptoed cautiously across the room, and peered at the chair. It was far darker than she’d expected, but she thought she discerned darker shapes among the shadows. In any case, the chair near the bed was the only other chair in the room.

  Moving quietly to keep from disturbing him, she leaned down and checked the seat of the chair with her hand. Encountering nothing, she moved a little closer and bent over again, feeling around on the floor. Her questing fingers brushed fabric that time. Grasping it, she lifted it and dropped it in the seat of the chair, then felt around until she thought she’d found everything. She’d no sooner finished piling the clothing than they tipped and slid off the other side of the chair. Repressing an exclamation of irritation, she moved around to the front of the chair and reached for the clothes that had fallen off the other side.

  She didn’t notice the slight breeze that wafted across her knees.

  The hand that settled on her buttocks beneath her skirts brought her jackknifing upright.

  Twisting around, she discovered Lord Wyndham was leaning over the side of the bed, her skirts over his head. “G--my lord!” she gasped in a sharp whisper, snatching her skirts down.

  Instead of releasing her, his hand snaked around her waist, pulling her back. “You shouldn’t entice a man with such temptation if you’re of no mind to share,” he murmured huskily.

  There was repressed laughter in his voice, but there was no doubting that he was completely serious, particularly since he nuzzled his face in the cleft of her buttocks. Even through her clothing she could feel the heat of his breath and the imprint of his face against her lower cheeks and it sent a jittery sort of twang along her nerve endings. Horrified, she shoved at the hand he’d wrapped around her hips. Obligingly, he withdrew his arm a little way, then slid his hand downward, slipping it between her thighs and cupping her femininity.

  Demi’s heart seemed to stop in her chest for several moments, then launched into a full out gallop, making it difficult to drag in a decent breath of air. She thought for several moments that she might faint.

  “M-my lord!” she gasped finally.

  “You wouldn’t deprive a starving man, would you?”

  He thought she was one of the maids, she realized abruptly. He was suggesting … she allow him to toss her skirts up. A barrage of conflicting emotions pelted her on that instant, jealousy foremost among them--hurt and anger. It wiped out much of the heated desire coursing through her at his intimate touch, not all of it, but enough that she could think more rationally.

  He would not have touched her so familiarly, she knew, if he’d realized who she was.

  She slipped her hand down over his, the one he’d pushed between her thighs--to pull him away, she was--almost--certain. His fingers discovered the opening in her pantalets at that moment, however, and one long finger stroked along the seam of her nether lips. She froze, her breath caught in her throat as a dizzying rush of unfamiliar sensations washed through her.

  He didn’t know her. It was too dark in the room for him to recognize her. She could allow him to do anything and he would never know. No one would ever know. It could be her secret joy, that she’d given herself to the man she loved before she had to receive the man she hated.

  It was a wonderful, terrifying, thought.

  But he’d been near death only a few days earlier. Was he really up to something like this? And even if he thought he was, should he?

  She licked her lips. “You’ll….” She paused, cleared her throat. “Ye’ll hurt yer leg, yer lordship. Yer not a well man.”

  He removed the hand that had been gently exploring her. She thought he meant to release her. Instead, he tugged her around, caught her waist and dragged her across him, depositing her on the bed on her back on the other side of him. Before she could do more than gasp in surprise, he covered her mouth with his own.

  He kissed her as if he was indeed starving, as if he would consume her. The moment his mouth opened over hers, such heat swept through her that it washed the last of her doubts before it. She slipped her hand along his shoulder and threaded her fingers in his dark, unbound hair, cupping the back of his head as he possessed her mouth with hungry urgency. He cupped one hand along her face, his fingers splayed. Slowly, as his tongue raked along hers in an intimate dance that generated waves of hea
t between them, he skated his hand downward, delved beneath the neckline of her gown and scooped her breast from beneath the fabric.

  A cool breath of air wafted across her bare breast, and she felt the skin tighten as her nipple hardened, blood surging into the sensitive tip as he flicked the hardened bud it had become with one finger. Her belly clenched. A wash of warmth and moisture gathered in her femininity. She shifted beneath him in discomfort, uncertain of the strange uneasiness that assailed her. She forgot all about trying to analyze it, however, when he broke the kiss and replaced his finger with his mouth on her breast. A hard shock of sensation struck her the moment the heat of his mouth closed over the tender tip that went well beyond the pleasure she’d felt when he kissed her mouth.

  She felt as if she was falling into a dark tunnel, where her entire being was focused upon that one point of intimacy, upon the heat and adhesion of his mouth, the teasing nudge of his tongue. Dizziness swirled at the edges of her consciousness. Weakness sucked at her body so that it took an effort to cling to him.

  She discovered that she was panting for breath, little gasps that hovered on the edge of soft cries. The sounds seemed to drive him beyond reason. He thrust her skirts up around her waist, sliding his hand between her legs as he had before, nudging her thighs.

  Near mindless with unfamiliar sensations by now, she was slow to react to that gentle instruction, but as she felt his fingers push through the slit in her pantalets, she moved her legs apart to allow him better access. The movement parted the seam where her nether lips met, opening so that the sensitive inner flesh was exposed to his exploration.

  Breathing as raggedly as she was, he released her long enough to scoop her other breast free and fastened his mouth over that tip before sliding his hand downward again to explore her femininity. She gasped, arching upward as his finger traced the sensitive cleft, stroking her and finally settling on the tiny nub of flesh at the very edge, massaging it gently.

  A small cry escaped her before she could think to contain it. He lifted his head from her breast at once, covering her mouth, absorbing the little cries he rung from her with each movement of his finger. The muscles low in her belly began to quake, clenching and releasing rhythmically. A sense of desperation grew inside of her as her entire body seemed to wind tighter and tighter with tension.