The Rake and The Rose (A Rake's Mistake)

by Amelia Clearwater

  The Rake and

  The Rose

  Amelia Clearwater

  Copyright © 2013 Amelia Clearwater

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1493513060

  ISBN-13: 978-1493513062

  DEDICATION

  To my husband. For spending time listening to the tap tap tap of the keyboard at all hours of the night and giving up precious sleep to allow me to write.

  You listened to me talk about these characters, their lives flourished with your critique and nudging in the right direction. You are my happily ever after, and the very reason that I can write about them.

  I Love You.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  i

  Prologue

  Pg 01

  Chapter 01

  Pg 05

  Chapter 02

  Pg 18

  Chapter 03

  Pg 31

  Chapter 04

  Pg 43

  Chapter 05

  Pg 59

  Chapter 06

  Pg 69

  Chapter 07

  Pg 80

  Chapter 08

  Pg 94

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  To Tame a Tigress

  Prologue

  Chapter 01

  About Amelia

  Pg 113

  Pg 122

  Pg 133

  Pg 146

  Pg 159

  Pg 168

  Pg 187

  Pg 204

  Pg 220

  Pg 234

  Pg 242

  Pg 250

  Pg 261

  Pg 273

  Pg 290

  Pg 302

  Pg 305

  Pg 310

  Pg 313

  Pg 325

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Rake and The Rose was written out of spontaneous desire, along with characters taking over a story all on their own. I couldn’t have done this without my Editor, historical consultants and Illustrator that created the beautiful cover art. The process of creating a historical romance has been both exhilarating and life changing.

  The historical aspects of this book although fictional, have been researched with great care, something that is very hard and time consuming to do. I am so grateful to have friends and family who are in the historical society who were there to help me in this endeavor.

  My editor is not only family, but also a phenomenal historian, who has given me vast ideas to continue with my writing.

  The cover was created by a Ms. Sehreen , who took so much time and effort into it that I couldn’t possibly ever thank her enough.

  And last but certainly never least, my husband, he gave me my pen name and has put up with my writing at all hours of the night, sacrificing his sleep and comfort so that I could get my dreams and ideas down. He was my first romance story, and will be my last.

  And finally, thank you to my readers. For without you, I could not make a living doing what I love

  PROLOGUE

  England 1815 . . .

  “Alexander!” The shout rang through the entire household, starting from the ground floor; going to the first floor; ringing off the silk curtained walls, paintings, and down the hall of the manor and into the second floor; to the slumbering peace of the Lord Alexander Cromwell on the third floor. The country estate near Winchester was supposed to be his escape from the duties of a Marquess. His life-long maid, who had also been his nanny, came bustling in with her skirts in a swirl of agitation.

  “Alexander!” She was the only one allowed to call him that instead of “My Lord.”

  “What in confounded hell is it?” he groaned into his pillow gritting his teeth. One malicious green eye stared out from a mopped head of brown. "It had better be good," he growled. "I'm as hung over as a sailor and twice as irritable as an old man."

  Francesca chuckled. She had come to work in his family with children from strange lands. Despite her working for him for so many years, he still did not know where she came from. She had been taken in by his late father, Benjamin and mother, Evelyn. There were objections from his unruly step-aunt, who two years after the passing of the first Lady Cromwell, took on her sister’s married name.

  The memory still struck Alexander raw. His mother's rooms had remained untouched, including her boudoir. He remembered his father announcing the engagement when he had turned eighteen. Now at twenty- three, Alexander was the talk of the town, and the rumors were that his reputation with women was a strange one indeed.

  Alexander had hardly been able to muster up lust, let alone feelings for a woman after what had happened. Sure, he felt a man’s normal urges, but he never once gave in to them with wild abandon, as so many of his friends joked about with brothels. His aunt thought she knew what was going on. Although he had wooed plenty of women, never did he bed any of them, not after Lissie. He exhaled remembering the ache in his heart and thrust it to the side. Virgins were not an option, period, at least not until marriage.

  Now, he faced a serious problem. He realized it as he got up and was promptly shown his laid out attire. He was the last male in the Cromwell line, and in order to keep the line going, his father had made him promise at his deathbed he would be married by twenty-three, and if he was anything he was a man of his word. He had to keep his word, at twenty one he needed to find a woman to continue the line. Better early than later.

  He yanked on his half dress colors of deep blues and blacks, but contemplated on getting into his buckskins instead. Well, that all depended on the company.

  It was not that he was not ready to marry, no any young man at twenty one started to realize that now was as good a time as any to fetch himself a lovely, young, and pretty bride to make young and pretty children with. He hoped, with a somewhat lacking sense of faith in that hope, that Giselle would not pick someone who he would find revolting let alone dull through the rest his days.

  With the look Francesca gave him, he realized his hope would be somewhat shattered.

  “So, who is here? Obviously you wouldn’t get me up early for no reason Francesca.” He shoved his hair out of his eyes and the older woman curtsied sarcastically.

  “The women your aunt sent for to court are here…” She looked a bit annoyed. "I can tell them you are having the hangover, if you'd like."

  The young Marquess’s irritation sparked, but his humor won out. “It isn’t like you to hold your tongue,” Alexander said sweetly, but raised a brow with a bit of worry in his gut at her more than dagger-sharp tone.

  “Well, the pickings are slim in regards to brains, My Lord,” she said bluntly and bustled out of the room leaving him to finish dressing.

  A few days prior . . .

  She woke up in a fuddle. She realized she was flat on her back, staring at a canopy of trees. Mud clung to her clothing from the previous rains and she felt a sharp pain in her head. Her upper body lay on a flat rock embedded in the ditch. The worst thing was she had no idea why she was there, or whom she was- or for that matter where she came from! It was all gone! She checked herself logically for any injuries. Only her head; it seemed sore in one spot, and gashed in another.

  She heard the barking of dogs, and footsteps. Why was she so afraid? Rushing up despite h
er nausea, she broke west to where there was a gap in the wilderness. She saw a dirt road and stared at the signs: East to London; West was Bath. She glanced around and felt a sharp pang in her skull. No, she couldn't go east. Something was there, something very bad. She looked around and saw a sign that pointed in the direction of where she had just come, Caversham. She wondered what in the world that was, reasoning and foggy memory came forth that it was a town, like how London was a city.

  Something cold touched her chest and she jumped. It was the large locket around her neck in a similar shape of a pocket watch, with a beautifully engraved cameo on the front and polished gold for the backing engraved "To Charlotte, Love Mama." When you opened the locket, there was a miniature portrait of a young woman on one side. There was another behind it, that of a little girl, who looked similar to the young woman, which was original to the locket.

  Both the girl and the woman had startling red hair. She regarded the miniature with a bit of surreal wonder, and glanced momentarily at the older woman on the opposite side. She assumed it was the mother, for she too had auburn hair. But was the woman in the miniature her mother? Did she have red hair? She attempted to look at her hair and realized that she couldn’t tell.

  It had taken her a bit of an effort to unlock the genius-devised latch. Only someone who knew how to twist it right could get it open. She assumed she had done it so much that it was out of habit, not out of memory. But then that begged the question- and brought on the headache- as to why she remembered habits and not memory. She then scolded herself to not worry about trivial details in such a precarious situation.

  "Charlotte?" she said out loud. That must be her name. It felt right, which was a very good feeling, as nothing felt right at that moment. And with grim determination, she took a look at what she was wearing, and knew it wasn't quite all right to wear around polite society- not that she remembered what polite society was. Her night rail and chemise were smudged with dirt, so she went and found herself a small creek and washed off what she could. Her head was still terribly sore, but it was scabbing. Thankfully, her long thick hair had caught most of the blood. The mere thought of it caused her to be dizzy.

  Attempting to wash her hair proved of little use; the mud simply washed and caked again. Charlotte glanced at the way she had wanted to go, which was west. She realized she would have to walk through the woods, and exhaustion hung about her like a fog. But that would have to wait; besides it wouldn’t take too long to find shelter…would it? She prayed it would not and started picking her way through the terrain of the English countryside.

  CHAPTER 01

  The women on the first floor drawing room bustled with nervousness, all twittered and quacked very much like a squadron of ducks about a pond. What would Lord Cromwell look like, if he had to gather women? Was he hideous? Deformities? Either way the estate was very grand. So most did not really care for his features- or rather their families didn’t when money came into it. The women had all come with a couple of relatives and or ladies in waiting. Some prattled about how lovely the estate was; others primped themselves like flustered birds.

  Giselle, Alexander’s aunt and stepmother, was not a favorite of the staff or anyone who resided at Cromwell estate for long. She had been dubbed “The Dragon” in regard to how nasty she could be. Giselle flitted about the room making sure all the ladies looked their best, for this was most important.

  Her goal to get Alexander a wife had to work, but for her own reasons of course.

  She glanced at a black corkscrew-curly haired girl whom she had brought there by personal invitation and smiled at her. This girl had no family or maid with her, but she sat demurely on a sofa facing a window, looking rather unhappy, her eyes dark storm clouds.

  Everything would work out perfectly. It had to. Much of Giselle’s future well being relied on the success of this plan, and she would take every pain and measure to make sure it worked in her favor.

  When her sister- the former Lady Cromwell- Evelyn had passed away, Giselle had been working in a textile mill. She knew the stress of poverty and looked again at the curly haired beauty with sky eyes. “Lottie.” She said nodding her head. The other women chatted around them but did not seem to care for their conversation.

  “Good afternoon Lady Cromwell.” The young woman had a dimpled smile. Quite fetching.

  “I hope your father is well.” She gave her a soft smile of welcome. For Lottie was her prized horse in this race to catch the Lord Cromwell.

  “He is, but I worry that I will not catch Lord Cromwell’s eye…” the girl was gangly and awkward, but even Giselle could see the beauty she would grow up to be.

  “Child listen to me…my adopted sister Evelyn would dress as a commoner and visit me when I worked in the textile mills.” Lottie looked startled and her mouth dropped open.

  Giselle exhaled quickly, “That did not stop Benjamin Cromwell from seeing my sister in the street, wearing rags- she was sneaking out of the house you see- and falling madly in love, with her green eyes and dark hair.” Giselle felt a bitter note come into her voice. “I had been left behind and thrown out of my adoptive home with Evelyn's parents after my adopted sister married.”

  What Giselle failed to state was although given money by her all too caring sister, and having deep feelings of love for Evelyn it did not stop her from taking notice of Lord Cromwell when he was free of his year in mourning. She cleared her throat and continued. “When Evelyn died, yes I had been forlorn; but I also knew that I needed to survive-”

  “I didn’t think one could marry their brother in law.” Lottie seemed to muse, Giselle happily cleared that up with a wave of her hand.

  “Technically we were not siblings by paper, which is why I was thrown out…but the late Lord Cromwell had been lonely, and I was worried I would not catch his eye... I was younger than Evelyn and even though not as pretty, still a sight to behold if I do say so. He whisked me away from the hand-to-mouth lifestyle I had been living, Benjamin transported me into the decadence of upscale society.”

  Lottie looked confused “What does this tale have to do with me?”

  “Like myself I think you’d take to high society like a duck to water and I will do everything in my power to ensure that you get your chance. As your father would want.”

  “But I don’t want-” But Giselle was waving her hand.

  “Not now my dear one, I need to get all the others ready.”

  The young woman looked resigned, “Of course Ma’am…”

  She sighed inwardly as she walked along, her grey eyes glancing across from girl to girl yet again. One of them had to do; especially that black haired Lottie.

  Speaking of which, she had to get Alexander and the ladies’ fathers ready for their hunting trip this afternoon, a few foxes had been seen earlier.

  A few miles from the estate, deep in the surrounding woods and ravines, her feet scrambled for purchase along the riverbank’s rocks covered in moss. Charlotte clung to the edge of a sprouting tree root and dragged herself out of the wet and cold. She was freezing, and her night rail had long since been torn at the bottom. Charlotte had no idea how she had come to be where she was, nor how she had gotten where she woke up a few days ago. All she knew was she kept heading west!

  Her head ached and throbbed in protest to her getting up slowly and leaning against a great oak tree. She proceeded to take stock of her injuries and found that the gash in her scalp did not feel any better. Blood still smeared on her hand when pressed against it, for the scab had cracked when she had slid down a hill a few miles back. “I need shelter…” she whimpered, her feelings of hope in finding someone to help were shattered with every person that chased her off. Charlotte shook of the impending dread that always came with seeing people through the trees.

  She thought that the gash might be the reason for her lack of memory. Her fear of people at this point was great, though she had no idea what she was afraid of. She did not have very much to go on, except for her name o
n a locket, and a vague recollection that it was indeed herself.

  Charlotte exhaled and tried to remember; anything at all would do! But whenever the thoughts lingered within her grasp, a terrible headache came on. She looked around and tried to find a road, something, but failing; had to continue on. She winced as her bleeding feet stepped on the stones, pebbles, throbbing till they finally found soft grass.

  She felt weak and woozy. It was a miracle she had gotten so far to begin with. She had managed to have water supplied by streams and the little bit of bread given to her by some children who were fishing by a river had kept her from passing out. But even then finding a clean water source was rare, wells suited just fine when she stumbled upon a small town or village, but she did not risk it until nightfall.