by Kruger, Mary
The Rake’s Reward
Mary Kruger
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Mary Kruger
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Cover Art copyright 2011 Princess Pages
Chapter One
Lady Diana Randall flung open the door to the Gold Drawing Room and hurtled across the floor. “Cecily! Is it true?”
“What?” The slight figure standing by one of the tall windows dropped the brocaded drapery she had been holding and spun around. “Diana, you gave me a start,” she scolded, but her eyes twinkled. “Whatever would Mama say if she saw you enter a room like that?”
“Never mind Mama! Is it true?”
Cecily glanced out the window again. In the square below, a man could be seen climbing into a high-perch phaeton, its wheels picked out in yellow. “Is what true?”
“Is that him, just leaving? Oh, my, he is handsome.” Diana joined her sister at the window and gazed down at the man as he picked up the ribbons and drove away at a sedate pace.
“Yes, but not much of a driver,” Cecily muttered. “It might ruin his hair if he drove too fast.”
“How can you say that! That rig is bang up to the mark!”
Cecily’s eyes sparkled again. “You’ve been talking to our brother, I see. Such language, Di!”
“Oh, scold if you want, Cecily, I think the marquess is divine. Is it true? The servants are buzzing with it. Did he propose?”
Cecily raised her hand to her mouth and then quickly lowered it again, before she could gnaw on what was left of her thumbnail. “Perhaps you should ask the servants, if you really wish to know.”
“Oh, don’t roast me so, Cece! I shall expire on the spot if you don’t tell me!”
“Will you?” Cecily extended her left hand, now adorned with a gold ring set with a single ruby and a diamond on either side. “Yes, he proposed, and yes, I said yes. What do you think?”
“He did! Oh, Cece, I’m so happy for you!” Diana grabbed her sister in a crushing embrace and then pulled away, lifting Cecily’s hand to look at the ring. “This is never the Edgewater ancestral ring!”
“No, I fear there is no ring. No jewelry at all. Edgewater bought this at Rundell and Bridge.”
“No jewelry!” Diana stared at her in dismay. “And instead he gives you this paltry thing?”
Cecily snatched her hand back. “You know I dislike ostentation, Di. Besides, I have my pearls, and Mama has promised me diamonds when I marry.”
“Married!” Diana’s eyes grew wide. “You really are going to marry, aren’t you? Oh, you must tell me all about it!” Diana caught at Cecily’s hands and led her across the gold and white Aubusson carpet to a blue velvet sofa. “You must be the happiest girl in the world.”
Cecily’s nose crinkled. “Well, yes. I suppose.”
Diana stared at her. “You don’t sound too certain.”
“I am!” Cecily protested. “It’s what I wanted. But—”
“But?”
Cecily’s nose wrinkled again. “He hasn’t a sense of humor. I never realized that before. You see, he went down on his knee to propose—”
“Cecily! How romantic.”
“Yes. Well, after he proposed and I accepted, I said he’d best get up, else the knees of his pantaloons would wrinkle.”
“Cecily!” Diana stared at her. “You didn’t! When you know he’s so concerned about the fit of his clothing!”
“I did.” Cecily’s tone was rueful. “It would have been bearable if he’d only laughed, but he didn’t, Diana. He simply stared at me. It was most uncomfortable, I can assure you.”
“Well, I think he’s a wonderful catch, and you shouldn’t criticize him just because he doesn’t laugh at your jests. I never do,” she added, proudly.
“I know. Silly of me, isn’t it?” Cecily said, meekly. “But, there it is. I enjoy laughing with a person. I think it’s so important, don’t you?”
“Oh, pooh! What does that matter? He’s so handsome, Cece. I’m sure if he called on me, I’d swoon with it.”
Cecily’s mouth quirked. “I’m sure you would, Diana.” In fact, most girls would. Which made Cecily wonder why the Marquess of Edgewater, her intended, didn’t have quite that effect on her. Handsome, he certainly was, charming, and more intelligent than he appeared, giving his dandified ways. That last was very important to Cecily. In her second season, she was no green girl, to be seduced merely by a handsome face. No, she wished for more from the man she would marry, though she didn’t deny that she had been flattered when Edgewater had begun paying her attention. He was, as Diana had said, a most eligible parti, titled, monied, popular. Cecily wrinkled her nose again. Why in the world wasn’t she ecstatic?
The door was opened at that moment by a bewigged footman wearing the Marlow green and gold livery, and the Duchess of Marlow glided in. “Oh, my dear child,” she said, holding out her hands as both Cecily and Diana rose, “is it true?”
“Yes, Mama.” Cecily raised her cheek for her mother’s kiss. “I am betrothed.”
“Oh, I am so pleased.” The duchess sank gracefully into a chair, the layers of her morning gown fluttering around her. “I knew you could bring him up to scratch, my dear.” A look of horror crossed her face. “Gracious, you surely didn’t receive him looking like that, did you?”
“Like what?” Cecily glanced down, and saw that her sash of pale green grosgrain was twisted. “Oh, dear.” And here she had taken such pains to look her best. Her morning gown of white muslin was unexceptionable, with its chemisette filling in the low neckline drawn to a frill at her throat, and ruching at the wrists of the long sleeves. Even her hair was neat, bound up by a ribbon to match the sash. Why could she never look bandbox perfect, like Diana, no matter how hard she tried? “The marquess didn’t appear to notice, Mama.”
“I should hope not! I begin to despair of you, Cecily. Sometimes I wonder how you can be my daughter.”
“Yes, Mama,” Cecily said, wryly. Diana was the one who most resembled their mother. Unlike Cecily, both were tall, slender, raven-haired beauties. Nor was she fair, like their father. Instead, she was somewhere in-between, with golden skin that looked positively sallow if she wore the wrong colors, and hazel eyes that were fortunately fringed with long, dark lashes. Her features weren’t bad, she allowed, though her mouth was a trifle too wide, but best of all was her hair. Neither brown nor blonde, but, again, in-between, it framed her face in short, feathery curls, a style that, while no longer fashionable, suited her admirably. It didn’t make her a beauty, though. Nothing could do that. “I do wish I knew why he chose me.”
“Why, because you are the Duke of Marlow’s daughter, of course,” the duchess said.
Cecily winced. “I’d rather be chosen for myself than because of that!”
“But it is the way of the world.” The duchess’s face softened. “Come, sit by me,” she said, gesturing towards the tapestried footstool. Cecily perched on it, flinching as her mother took her chin in her hand. “Now, don’t fidget, child. It is a most suitable match.”
“He doesn’t love me, Mama.”
“My dear child, what has that to say to anything?”
“Cecily!” Diana sounded horrified. “Don’t you love him?”
“I like him very well.” She looked imploringly up at her mother. “Love wil
l come, won’t it, Mama?”
The duchess waved a hand in dismissal. “Silly chlld, that is not how things are done in our world. And if love should come.” She shrugged. “It’s all very well, Cecily, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“No, ma’am.” Cecily said, her head bent.
“Tcha. I never thought you were a foolish romantic.”
“I suppose I am.”
“Why are you marrying him?” Diana asked.
“Because I like and respect him, more than any other man I’ve met.” Cecily turned back to see her mother regarding her with unexpectedly sympathetic eyes. “I am persuaded we shall deal well together.”
“Deal well! If that’s not the most odiously practical thing I’ve ever heard—”
“Well, I am practical, Di,” Cecily said, mildly. “I realize I shall have to marry someday. You know what Father said. Neither you nor our sisters can marry before I do.”
“Oldest first. Yes, I know.” Diana made a face. “It’s so unfair.”
“Why?” Cecily’s eyes danced again. “Have you a tendre for someone I don’t know about?”
“No, but perhaps I might have flirted with Edgewater myself.”
“Children,” the duchess said, in a tone that, though mild, made them both attend to her. “Now, we must start making plans. Madam Celeste will make your gown, of course, and we must find when St. George’s is available.”
“The marquess might have some ideas, Mama,” Cecily said.
“As if he would! He’s only a man.” Cecily and Diana exchanged amused glances. “If we left it up to men, your father would have you married in the country at Marlow, like some hole and corner affair, and the marquess would likely choose the same day as the Royal Wedding!”
“Not that I could compete with the Regent’s daughter.”
“Of course not, you’re ever so much prettier than Princess Charlotte,” Diana said, and Cecily’s mouth quirked.
“Regardless, you do have a point, my dear,” the duchess said. “We must plan the date very carefully, or no one will pay us any attention at all!”
“And we can’t have that, can we?” Cecily murmured.
“Gracious, no.” The duchess rose, her gown draping about her, and reached again to take Cecily’s chin in her hand. “It will work out, child. I trust you will be very happy.”
“Yes, Mama.” Cecily’s eyes gazed back at her, clear and direct. “I expect I shall.” She dropped a curtsy as her mother glided out of the room, and then rose, her face determined. She would be happy. She would not allow herself to doubt that for a moment.
But, much later, in the early morning hours, Cecily lay in bed, listening drowsily to the sounds of the street vendors making their rounds through Grosvenor Square, and wondering about her life. Had she made the right decision? She hardly knew the marquess; she’d met him only in public, and had little real idea what he was like. After yesterday, however, she suspected that he was as much a high stickler as his adherence to fashion implied. If, for example, he knew what she was planning to do this morning, would he approve?
An impish smile spread across Cecily’s face, and she threw back the covers, jumping out of bed and running to her wardrobe. There she pulled out some clothes and, after splashing water on her face, hastily began to dress. If her mother could see her, she thought, gazing at herself in the pier glass, she’d likely faint, for there Cecily stood, garbed in an old shirt and a pair of breeches that had once been her brother’s. Stuffing her hair up under a soft cap and carrying her boots, she slipped out into the hallway. The servants, even Jem, the groom, who no doubt had Dancer saddled for her by now, and Annie, her maid, would keep her secret. Lady Cecily Randall, the very proper daughter of the Duke of Marlow, preferred riding unescorted and astride.
A brief while later, she was mounted upon Dancer and heading towards the park. The thought of what she was doing, in defiance of the restrictions society placed on young, unmarried girls, made her grin with guilty delight. She wouldn’t be able to do this once she was married, but there would, she was certain, be other compensations. Her spirits began to rise, and she broke into song, making Dancer’s ears prick back. How could one be depressed on such a fine, spring morning? All would be well. Somehow, she would love the man she married.
It wasn’t easy being a rake.
Alexander Darcy, Viscount St. Clair, regarded himself in his shaving mirror, studying the effects of a night spent in the pursuit of pleasure. Dispassionately, he noted the red-rimmed eyes, the pallor to skin usually swarthy and dark, the lines in his forehead that hadn’t been there just yesterday. He looked a good deal older than his twenty-nine years, and he felt it, as well. What was it he had done last night? Rubbing his throbbing temples, Alex struggled to remember. Ah, yes. Gambled at Crockford’s, had he not, with such devil-may-care abandon that he had won in that exclusive, ruinously high-stakes club, adding to a fortune already ample enough to provide his every need. Gone from there to the arms of Nanette, his current chere amie, and it was probably just as well that he remembered little of that encounter. And, drunk too much wine, which was why neither gambling hell nor mistress was clear in his mind. Better that, though, than the rare self-disgust and depression he now felt, and which he would soon assuage, he hoped, in any of the varied pursuits of a gentleman of leisure. Anything, to keep the emptiness at bay.
He was scowling at his reflection when there was a discreet knock on the door. Parsons, who served him as butler and valet, came in, carrying a steaming bowl of water. Without a word he set it down on the washstand; in equal silence, Alex lathered his face and proceeded to shave himself, something which Parsons heartily disapproved, but which Alex trusted to no man. He had learned in a hard school never to leave his throat, or any other part of himself, unprotected. Including his heart.
“God’s teeth, but I look like the devil himself,” he muttered, looking at his reflection again as he wiped away the remaining shaving soap.
“The wages of sin, my lord,” Parsons said, in a voice as expressionless as his face.
From under his brows Alex gave him a look that would have made a lesser man quail. “Turned preacher now, to match your name?” he said, an edge to his voice, and Parsons’ face grew even more wooden. “Oh, hell. Forgive me, Parsons, but you, of all people, should know I cannot abide being preached to.”
“No, my lord.”
Alex glanced up, and then gave Parsons the sudden, charming smile that so changed his face, giving him the look of a fallen angel. He had disarmed many an adversary with that smile into forgetting just how dangerous he could be. Dangerous when he was crossed, with the pistols and swords he used so well, or with his fists, lithe athlete that he was; dangerous in a different way in amorous encounters, with the skilled and subtle lovemaking at which he was equally adept. But he was most dangerous like this, smiling, charming, and yet highly alert, his quick brain analyzing and dissecting everything. Such intelligence had made him invaluable during the late wars with France, which Alex had spent on the Continent, gathering information for England’s defense. He had returned home enigmatic, cynical, apparently cold, and yet undeniably charming, a hard man to know, an even harder one to like. Few suspected, however, that beneath the careful facade he showed to the world, Alex was a very lonely man. It was not something he would admit, even to himself.
“My apologies, Parsons,” he said, his voice meek. “I am not quite myself this morning.” For a moment, he thought it wouldn’t work; unfortunately, this was himself, the man he’d become, and he sometimes wondered why Parsons put up with it.
Parsons, obviously struggling with himself, gave in. “I expect you have the headache this morning, my lord,” he said, going so far as to spread his mouth in the slight curve that passed for a smile.
“A trifle, Parsons, and a good ride should work it out of me.” He rose. “I’ll want the black riding coat, and inform the stables to saddle Azrael.”
“Yes, my lord,” Parsons said, h
is voice wooden again, and turned away, to lay out Alex’s clothing.
Behind his back, Alex grinned. It wasn’t at all to Parsons’ liking that his employer rode a horse named for a dark angel, but then, little of what Alex did lately was to Parsons’ liking. The comradeship that had served them so well in their past adventures had changed. Parsons had, appropriately enough, turned to religion since their return from the Continent and was now a devout churchgoer; Alex, spending most of his waking hours in raking, was a devout hedonist. Why Parsons stayed with him, God only knew.
A little while later, Alex rode out from the mews near his lodgings, pausing out of long habit to check the street before entering it. Nothing untoward was in sight, however, no soldiers waiting to arrest him, no assassin to perform his deadly deed. No danger at all, in fact. He had left all that behind. He was in England, and it was a fresh spring morning, the start to another aimless day.
With little effort, he steered the huge black stallion down Piccadilly and into Hyde Park, riding down the road which later that afternoon would be filled with fine horseflesh and carriages of all descriptions, in the daily promenade of the ton. If the weather held. Alex cast a skeptical glance at the sky. So far, this spring had been damp and chill, though today was clear. Perhaps because of that, he wasn’t alone in the park; some distance off was a youth, mounted upon a gray that was too big for him. Good seat, Alex thought critically, before guiding Azrael down another path. He had no desire to speak with anyone so early in the morning. There would be enough time for conversation in the rest of the day.
Alex’s mouth twisted as he let Azrael have his head. It would, most likely, be a day like any other: lounging down St. James’s this morning, and perhaps calling in Whites’, to catch up on the news of the day; stopping at Gentleman Jackson’s for a round or two of boxing, or at Manton’s to practice shooting. Visits this afternoon, to acquaintances and friends, and perhaps he would join the promenade of the ton through the park. As for the evening—well, he had many events to which he had been invited and which he had no intention of attending. Which, he thought, was perhaps why he was so sought-after. The ton prized exclusivity; the more invitations he refused, the more were sent to him, and those hostesses who could claim him as a guest considered it quite a coup, indeed. He doubted people would believe him if he told them that he found such social events genuinely dreary, or that ton life was stifling and dull, after the years he’d spent on the Continent. No, he would not be present in any fashionable drawing room tonight. He might, however, pay a visit to Nanette, and, in all probability, consume more wine than was good for him. A typical day, and not at all exciting. And that, he thought, was how he wanted it. He had had quite enough of excitement in his life.