Redeeming a Rake

by Cari Hislop

  Thank you for all my gifts. I can’t tell you what they mean to me. I’ve been dreading today for weeks. How can one year have passed since I last saw you? It feels like ten. I almost wish I was more selfish so I could send for you. Ignore me, you’re probably scheduled to leave early in the morning, but would it be impertinent to ask you how many names are left on the list? Please say it won’t take another year to see you or I’ll knit you a new set of woollen socks, only this time I’ll use the scratchiest wool I can find and accidentally leave them lying near my tabby’s favourite window seat. If they come full of fleas, don’t blame me. Bad kitty!

  I was going to attend Lady Gerald’s route this evening, but I think I’ll stay home and look at my new painting instead. Let the gossips drone on about the latest scandals, I’d rather stare at the blue sky and wonder where you are and what you’re doing. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I do wish you had delivered the final gift in person. It would have been so lovely to see you, even if only for a few moments at the door. Thank you again for saving me from what could have been a miserable day. I’ve been using your handkerchief hourly since I received it. Your boot-boy assured me that not only are you in good health, but that you’re in London and not some far flung corner of the Kingdom. I shall take this opportunity to wish you pleasant dreams.

  Your appreciative friend who misses you,

  Tolerance

  Geoffrey sighed with pleasure and sunk lower into his chair as he stared into the fire. He looked up at the sun-shaped ceramic clock on the mantel. It was too early for bed. He didn’t want to sit alone for hours in the dream garden. Did she really miss him? He couldn’t imagine she’d lie to make him feel better. Folding his letter he settled back in his chair lost in memories of her smile, wondering how long he’d have to wait to kiss his duchess.

  The days rolled into weeks as Geoffrey continued his search for redemption. The year had not only altered Geoffrey’s appearance, but the way people treated him. His once skeletal body was transformed into slender muscular perfection. His hideous face had been restored to an aged version of his youthful fragile beauty. Gloved in fashionable clothes, he was a wealthy handsome man who drew endless admiring glances. At first Geoffrey enjoyed the attention; he’d never known so many women to throw themselves up against him and bluntly offer to warm his bed free of charge. The old Geoffrey would have spent his days and nights bedding the next willing wench, but there was only one woman he wanted in his arms. Geoffrey couldn’t know that with his thoughts on his friend, his relaxed adoring smile was often mistaken as a come hither look by any woman standing or sitting in the way; it was a misunderstanding that continued to plague him everywhere he went.

  Ten agonising months after giving Tolerance the painting, Geoffrey had only one family from his original list left to find, but they were proving difficult to locate. He’d sworn he’d find them before allowing himself the pleasure of seeing his friend, but each passing hour tightened his cravat like a noose. The need to touch his angel, if only to kiss her hand, was becoming painful. Every day brought new obstacles that kept him from galloping back to London and knocking on her door. Adding to his misery she’d had started mentioning worthy men and describing their shared activities in her letters. Geoffrey cursed the good men to hell and spent his daylight hours sulking. His only relief was in the dream garden where Tolerance would insist she had no plans to marry any of her suitors, but a dream woman couldn’t ensure the unthinkable. Each day he found it more difficult to concentrate on completing his list. He was going to end up in Bedlam and he could only blame himself.

  One week later on a cool April evening, the Duke of Lyndhurst rode up to Stamford’s largest coaching inn on the Great North Road with a sullen look on his face and an empty stomach. Announcing his identity, he was shown straight to the best private parlour where he found his secretary asleep in front of the fire. Geoffrey grabbed the other chair, he dragged it over the wooden floor to the fire. The sleeping man jerked awake and looked around to find his master scowling at him. “Well? Have you found Lady Penelope Standish?”

  “I’m sorry Your Grace, we’re still searching. The family recently changed their residence and left no forwarding address.”

  “I’m not asking you to write a Dome’s Day book. I need to speak with her. Find her!”

  Hawkings was an intelligent man. His fear of being eaten alive by his employer was always outweighed by the pleasure of handsome quarterly wages. When one couldn’t give a snarling devil what he wanted, one offered the next best thing. Hawkings couldn’t open his leather pouch fast enough. “You have a letter from your friend Your Grace.”

  The words had an immediate calming affect. The devil’s angry pale blue eyes suddenly calmed and his snarling lips relaxed before turning up at the corners. “Thank you Hawkings.” Her letter pressed to his stomach, Geoffrey could almost feel a small ray of warmth shining into his cold innards. “Check on my dinner. I want to eat some time this year…please.”

  “As you wish…”

  Alone, Geoffrey broke the seal, silently praying he’d read something to cheer him up.

  Dearest Geoffrey,

  I’m glad to hear that you’ve shaken off your latest cold. That makes three colds in six weeks. Please come back to London and give yourself a rest. I’m very concerned for your health. Are you sure you’re eating enough? Is it necessary to search the breadth of England on horseback? I know it’s quicker, but if it kills you I won’t get to see you again and yes I know how selfish that sounds.

  I’m so pleased to hear that the ache is fading, but please don’t die from exhaustion before I can tell you in person. Speaking of exhaustion, last night I came home from the Preston’s dinner party feeling like I’d been wearing magic slippers that kept me swirling all night. I was so tired I’d have crawled into bed wearing my gown only Jane, my maid, insisted on keeping me awake long enough to undress, the heartless creature. I’d still be asleep, but for my naughty son. Those toy soldiers you sent him are never far from his hands. I must say I was almost irritated with you this morning when Alex escaped his nurse and used his sleeping mamma as a battle ground. Little tin feet marched over my arm and down my hip in measured time pulling me out of the most enjoyable dream. He was quite upset when I rolled over and killed a whole battalion. An uncomfortable state for the mountain as well as the tin warriors. He’ll never know how close I came to spanking him. I can’t stay mad at my baby, but at the same time he doesn’t seem like a baby any more. He’s a little boy and I don’t know anything about boys, or men for that matter. Alex is nearly three years now and showing strange signs of maleness. I’m starting to wonder if he’d be better off having a father. I once swore I’d never marry again, but I’m starting to change my mind. I don’t want Alex growing up to be a Mama’s boy, always clinging to my garter ribbon. I’m sure you know the type of man who never get on with any woman except their mother; they always look rather odd. I want to find a man who’ll be a good father to Alex and who’d love numerous children and cats. I’ve had a number of offers and I wanted to ask your opinion. I know you’ll be able to tell me if they’re good men or scoundrels in disguise. These aren’t the only men I’d consider; these are merely the men who’ve actually asked me to marry them.

  Lord Billings

  He seems like a good man. He’s a bit older, but he has good teeth and he seems genuinely taken with me. Even if I’m not in love with him I can at least say I enjoy his company. He seemed quiet at first but he has a pleasing sense of humour.

  Captain Wentwhistle

  He’s rather short, but at least I’d never get a crick in my neck. One could spend the rest of one’s life looking straight into one’s husband’s eyes. He’s only a few years older than me. I think he’d have gone into the church if he wasn’t the second son. He has that enforced military air poor man, but he seems fond of me, and he doesn’t make my skin crawl. He says he likes children, but then it’s well known I’m an overly fond parent.

&
nbsp; Mr Thackeray

  I think he’s my favourite from the present list. His teeth are bad, but he has kind eyes and he always treats me with the utmost respect. I can’t imagine him teaching my son rude habits or being a cruel thoughtless husband, but one can’t always tell. I’m so scared of accidentally marrying another Charles. Ideally I’d prefer to marry a friend who would hopefully prove a loving husband and father, but one can’t always have what one wants. I believe you know the other three; Lord Felton, the Earl of Leicester, and Lord Shrewsbury. I’d be most grateful if you could let me know if you think any of these six men would make a good husband. I’m in no hurry. I have no wish to chain myself to the wrong man.

  Just incase you return to London and try to call on me, there’s a slight change in my diary. The Somerset musical was cancelled last week so I’ll be going to the Farnham’s ball instead. Do tell me if you like any of the men on my list. As I’m sitting here draped in your glorious silk shawl I must thank you again. I’ve been wearing it every day since it arrived three weeks ago. I had another envious lady ask yesterday where I got my sun shawl. When I told her it was a gift from a friend she asked me if I was friends with many lucky devils. I think of you every time I wrap it around my shoulders. I wonder where you are. I wonder if you’re taking good care of yourself and if you’re riding through the wind and rain. I wonder when I’ll see you. May it be soon!

  Sincerely your sunny friend,

  Tolerance

  Geoffrey managed to finish the last paragraph before a noxious mist obscured the elegant scrawl and a sharp stabbing pain in his chest caused the unmanly sensation of water droplets escaping from his eyes. His friend was contemplating marriage and his name wasn’t on the list. Even more unspeakable, she wanted him to approve one of the worthless worms. The letter was crushed into a ball and shoved into a pocket. He was too exhausted to pull himself back into a saddle. He’d have to waste eight precious hours on sleep while the angel danced the night away with men more worthy than himself. “Hawkings!” Geoffrey’s rage rumbled off all four walls. A few moments later his secretary burst through the door.

  “Yes Your Grace?”

  “Get me food. I need my bed. Wake me first light, I’m going back to London.” Hawkings took in the heartsick expression shadowed by rage and closed the door, his running footsteps thundering into the distance. His stomach bloated with a cold meat pie and warm ale, Geoffrey collapsed onto his bed fully clothed and fell asleep with his cheek pressed into a cold wet patch on his pillow. Finding himself outside the wooden gate he marched through the yew tunnel and stopped. The garden looked like a smeared pastel painting. He blinked away the mist in his eyes he roared over the bird song. “Sunshine!”

  She came running from the far end of the garden with a worried expression, her skirts hike up to her knees. “What’s the matter? You look upset.”

  Geoffrey blinked away another layer of mist and crossed his arms. “Of course I’m upset; I thought you cared for me.”

  She looked at him as if he’d accused her of growing wings. “I do care…”

  “If you care Madam, how could you send me that cursed list? If you couldn’t bear the thought of including me, even if only to soothe my self-esteem, you could have spared me the pain of knowing I’m not even at the bottom.”

  “Why are you shouting at me? What list? What are you talking about?”

  “You wrote me a letter listing possible husbands. How could you ask me to critique a list of worms when you know how I feel about you?”

  Her eyes went wide as she stepped closer. “How do you feel about me?”

  She was staring up at him with an expectant look that made him suddenly feel nervous. What if he revealed his feelings and she replied that she only wanted to be friends? “I want to kneel at your feet…and thank you…for everything.”

  “But how do you feel?”

  A heavy silence fell over the garden as if the birds and trees were waiting to hear Geoffrey’s answer.

  “When you’re near the sun always shines. You make me feel that I could do the impossible if you believed in me.” Her adoring smile allowed him to sigh in relief. “Knowing you care for me makes me feel I deserve to be alive, if only to love you.”

  She reached up and touched his cheek. “I said in the letter that the list wasn’t complete. Who do you think I meant that for? I only sent the list to see if it caused a reaction; I miss you!”

  “Reaction? I nearly had heart failure. I’m riding back to London in the morning; don’t be surprised if I show up on your doorstep and chase you to the nearest church waving a special licence.”

  “As long as you don’t chase me on foot. I understand running is considered undignified for a Duke.”

  “How else am I to chase an angel? I can’t fly and what if you run into a house; I can ride a horse into a drawing room.” Almost reassured by the smiling woman the ache eased allowing him to tug a lock of her hair. “Besides, it affords the Duke a tantalising glimpse of charming ankles. You wouldn’t deprive your groom such a simple pleasure?”

  “That depends, on how long it takes you to catch me.” Geoffrey’s heart thundered in his chest as he raced after the laughing woman with her skirts hiked half way to her knees.

  Chapter 14

  The Farnham’s ball was a mad crush. Tolerance could barely hear herself think as she smiled at the man talking to her about something to do with politics. From the few words she understood, it appeared he was hoping to gain a seat and become an MP, but he needed a wife. The direction of his eyes towards her décolletage suggested he was hinting he thought her a suitable candidate. She had a feeling his interest had more to do with the income from her son’s estate which she had sole control of for the next eighteen years. Being a politicians’ wife meant smiling and fawning over an endless list of self-important bores in the hope they’d support her husband. If she wanted to be tortured there were many well known techniques that would kill her long before boredom. Being polite she kept smiling at the man and tried to keep her thoughts from drifting to the dream Garden. The only reason she’d come to the ball was because she’d mentioned in a letter to her friend that she’d be attending. The ballroom faded as she remembered waking up laughing. The dream Geoffrey’s had been helping her out of the fishpond after an improvised dance had somehow gone wrong. She could still hear him swearing on his honour he hadn’t planned it. She laughed out-loud as she remembered his warm arms pulling her close and continuing the dance. The future politician, flushing with pleasure that Mrs Spencer found him amusing, didn’t notice the tall slender man with short black hair winding his way past ogling groups of ladies.

  “Hello Sunshine!” The husky whisper in Tolerance’s ear made her flinch in shock. “Remember me?”

  Forgetting the politician, she whirled around and stared open mouthed at her dream Geoffrey in the flesh. “Geoff…?” The pale blue eyes smiled in smug triumph before looking her over with the same admiration she’d seen in her dreams. “Tell me you’re not a lovely dream!”

  He took her offered pale blue glove and held it tight as he brought it to his lips. “To be thought a lovely dream by such a lovely lady is a dream come true.” He kissed her hand again, his lips lingering longer than society dictated as proper causing a wave of whispers from curious bystanders.

  She forced her eyes to leave his face. His white waistcoat and his cravat looked oddly bland. It wasn’t until she looked at the naked fingers holding her hand that she realised there was something missing. “You’re not wearing any rubies.”

  “They held unpleasant memories.”

  “Have you sold them?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t want your ring, will you sell it to me?”

  “Why would you want it?”

  “Because…” She couldn’t tell him it was because he was her knight in pale blue velvet. He wouldn’t remember the irritating child who’d interrupted his solitude. “…because it holds good memories. I’ll pay you twic
e its value.” His come hither smile was making it hard to breathe; was she awake or asleep?

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “But if you don’t want it, what will you do with it?”

  “Give it away. After eighteen years of hell I think it’s earned a more deserving finger.” Staring into his eyes she could see the inn and feel the chill in the evening air. She was twelve. Her parents had stopped half way home after visiting relatives. Her empty stomach ached for food, but her mother had threatened another hungry night if Tolerance didn’t find her ribbon and plait her hair.