Never Resist a Rake

by Mia Marlowe

  It was several minutes before she realized she was clenching her fists so tightly, her fingernails left deep marks on the heels of her palms. How foolish to be so self-destructive when John had proven destructive enough. A tear leaked out and slid into her hairline, leaving a salty streak.

  There was another rap on the door. It was her long-suffering maid. Rebecca thanked her, but assured her she needed nothing and sent her on her way. Then Rebecca climbed back into bed to stare up at the cherubic ceiling again.

  Sleep fled from her as surely as the little naked godlings seemed to flit between the cornices over her head.

  She tossed and turned. Her mind might reject the notion of John Fitzhugh Barrett. Her body had other ideas completely.

  She kept replaying her time on the roof, all tangled up with John. Remembered sensations made her feel achy and swollen in her intimate parts. She put a hand to her own breasts in an effort to still the determined throb. It made matters worse.

  She flopped onto her belly and covered her head with a pillow. It didn’t help.

  Finally, as she skimmed that twilight place between sleep and awareness, Rebecca was jerked back to full wakefulness by a soft scratching on her door.

  Freddie must have decided to come back and check on her since she pleaded that headache.

  “I so don’t deserve her.” Rebecca dragged herself out of bed and went to open the door.

  But it wasn’t Freddie. John was standing in the hallway.

  Rebecca was thankful for her aching palms and the little crescent moon indentations left by her own nails. They’d help her remember her resolve.

  * * *

  Four lovely ladies grinned up at Lord Kearsey. After hours of pitiful fare, this was the best hand of cards he’d held all night. It made the stale fug of cigar smoke and alcohol that swirled around the gaming room bearable again.

  What were the odds that anyone still at the poque table could beat his queens?

  By thunder, he deserved a bit of good luck for a change. After Lord Hartley all but snubbed his dear Rebecca, he’d been of half a mind to gather his little family and return to London. His lordship had invited her especially to Somerfield Park. Had practically demanded her presence. And then the cad had ignored Rebecca completely, spending the first evening of the house party with that infamous Lady Chloe at his side.

  Kearsey would have stormed out after that insult if Lord Blackwood hadn’t promised him a poque game once the ladies retired for the evening. It would have been a shame to travel all the way to Somerset for nothing. There were some fat purses represented in this party. At the very least, Kearsey counted on being able to recoup his traveling expenses at the gaming table.

  Instead, his pile of chips dwindled steadily as the right cards fled from him with each hand.

  But not this time. His four queens were a gift from heaven. Kearsey raised the bid with the last of his chips.

  “Too rich for my blood,” Lord Arbuthnot said as he stood, scooping up more chips than he left in the poque pools. “I pray you’ll excuse me until another time, gentlemen.”

  Both Kearsey and Blackwood stood to bid the earl good night, and then settled again to fight out this final hand. There had been six players at the start of the evening, but one by one, they’d bowed out after having their pockets lightened considerably. Most of their chips were stacked before Viscount Blackwood. The rest were in the poque pools, waiting for this hand to be decided.

  “I could buy this round, you know.” Blackwood drummed his fingers on the tabletop as the longcase clock in the hall chimed three.

  “Where’s the sport in that?” Kearsey said. He’d sunk all his available blunt into his chips. What would his dear wife say if he told her he’d lost the money that was supposed to support them for the next half year? It didn’t bear thinking on. If he could draw Blackwood into committing more of his wealth on this hand, Kearsey might yet come out on top. “What do you say to raising the stakes?”

  Blackwood knocked back his jigger of whisky and took a pull on his cheroot. “What did you have in mind?” Smoke curled out along with his words, as if he were part dragon.

  “I shall give you my vowels.” Kearsey took a piece of paper and the stub of a pencil from his pocket and wrote down an IOU for an amount that would have made his dear wife faint dead away. But she worried more than she ought. It wasn’t really gambling if one had the cards. He couldn’t let this one get away. With barely a tremor in his hand, he shoved the paper across the slick tabletop toward Blackwood. “What do you say?”

  Blackwood lifted the paper and gave it heavy-lidded scrutiny for about ten heartbeats. “I don’t know, Kearsey. It runs against my nature to see a man bleed himself.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Kearsey said testily. He was already hemorrhaging badly. Winning this pot would stop the flow. “Do you believe in your hand or not?”

  “May as well. Since it’s just we two, let’s make it interesting.” Blackwood shrugged and pushed all his chips into the center of the table. “I haven’t done anything especially foolish lately. I suppose I’m due. Show your cards, sir.”

  Kearsey’s heart lifted. This pot would set him up for the next two years if he listened to his wife and abided by her frugal suggestions. It would certainly provide him more than enough with which to play for the duration of this house party. With more luck like this hand full of ladies, Kearsey would secure his family’s fortunes for the foreseeable future. He’d be able to pay off their creditors and provide a well-deserved dowry for his Rebecca. He’d find the doctor who could cure his dear wife’s persistent cough.

  He’d feel like a man again for the first time since he was forced to pawn her jewelry.

  Kearsey flipped over the queens with unconcealed glee. “Beat that.”

  Blackwood loosed a low whistle. “That’s a good hand, Kearsey. I understand why you risked so much for it.” He began to turn over his cards, revealing one ace after another until four of them lay side by side. “Unfortunately, it’s not quite good enough.”

  Kearsey’s stomach failed him and he rushed to the chamber pot set up behind a screen in a corner so the players wouldn’t have to leave the table for long. He heaved into the befouled porcelain until he was a dry husk.

  Finally, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and emerged from behind the screen.

  “You have ruined me,” he said woodenly.

  “Nonsense,” Blackwood said with disgusting cheerfulness as he scooped up all the chips. Before the men began playing, they had deposited a like amount of money into a strongbox which was then secreted away in Lord Somerset’s safe. At the end of the house party, the players would present their wooden markers to redeem their winnings. Now Kearsey would have no claim to any of the cash in the safe at all. “You ruined yourself. I simply happened to be in your path in your rush to do so. Now about your vowels—”

  “I cannot satisfy this debt,” Kearsey said. “Not right away. I shall have to petition the House of Lords to sell off a portion of the estate.”

  In truth, it would take the lion’s share of his land to satisfy a debt of this size. He would never recover. After centuries of Kearsey men husbanding the Sussex estate and defending it from harm, he’d be the one to fail utterly. The air in the room suddenly seemed as gelatinous as aspic. He had difficulty pushing it in and out of his lungs. His vision started to tunnel.

  Damn those queens. They had tempted him as surely as Odysseus was tempted by the sirens. Unfortunately, Kearsey had had no one to bind him to the mast.

  “I’m not an unreasonable man, Kearsey,” Blackwood said. “There’s no need to petition the Lords right away. I’m sure we can come to a…mutually beneficial agreement.”

  “That’s demmed decent of you.” The air thinned a bit, and Kearsey was able push back the gathering dark from the edges of his mind. Perhaps everything would come around right aft
er all.

  But then he met Lord Blackwood’s steely gaze.

  “You, sir, have a very comely daughter.”

  Twenty-two

  Every time one loves another person, one takes a risk. The result is either a lifelong bond or a cautionary tale. Both have their uses.

  —Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

  Rebecca tried to close her door, but John stopped it with a splay-fingered hand. He pushed into her chamber and locked the door behind himself.

  “Get out,” Rebecca said through clenched teeth. Her insides quivered like a plate of gelatin.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Then for pity’s sake, at least lower your voice. Or do you wish to disgrace me by being found here?”

  “You know better than that.” He matched her whisper. “But I’m not leaving until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

  “That’s not necessary.” She backed away from him until her spine bumped into the wall next to the banked fireplace. “I understand you perfectly.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  He closed the distance between them and rested his palms on the wall on either side of her. A whiff of his scent—leather and spicy bergamot and all things male—made it hard for her to remember that she was furious with him. Her insides stopped shaking and went pliable as a reed by the river.

  She couldn’t continue meeting his intense gaze, so hers slipped down his face. His mouth was wide, his lips full, slightly parted, and firm. Just looking at them made her remember the feel of those lips on her and the way he’d trailed them over her intimate places. His shirt was undone, revealing a deep V of skin. Her palms began to itch; she longed to tug his shirt from his trousers and run her hands over his ribs.

  Her gaze flicked downward.

  His trousers. Botheration! Had she actually looked at that hard male bulge? Her cheeks burned, and she could only hope he wouldn’t notice the accompanying blush in the dimness of her chamber.

  She reminded herself that he’d spent the entire evening pretending she didn’t exist. The rage she’d suppressed earlier rose up and threatened to boil over.

  “Your station has gone to your head if you think you can force your way in here without my consent,” she hissed.

  “Scream if you like, and I’ll go away. It’s the only thing that will convince me you don’t want me here.” He leaned closer, his chest near enough that her breasts brushed against it. Her traitorous nipples started to ache again.

  “We both know how that would end.” She ducked under his arm to get away from him. “Ruin for me and a round of celebratory drinks with your friends for you.”

  He followed close behind as she tried to put some distance between them. “Then don’t scream. Listen.”

  She covered her ears with her hands. “No, I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will.” John grasped her wrists and pulled her hands away from her ears. “I need you to know what’s happening.”

  “Anyone with eyes can see that, my lord. You think you’re in a bakery shop and that you can help yourself to a scone here and a butter biscuit there and no one can say you nay.” She yanked her hands away from him and fisted them at her waist. “Well, this is one little biscuit that isn’t going to stay on your plate.”

  “A biscuit, eh?” A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he grappled with her till she was back against the wall, her arms pinned above her head. “I like that. You’re sweet as one, and I should know.”

  He was reminding her that he’d tasted her all over. Warmth gathered between her legs, as if her intimate parts were blushing. She yanked one wrist free, balled her fist, and pummeled his chest.

  “How dare you speak about—”

  He stopped her by claiming her mouth with a kiss. It wasn’t at all gentle. Her lips would likely bruise.

  It felt wonderful. Primitive.

  It called to a deep place inside her, and she responded.

  No one ever told her a woman might feel such need. Such fierce hunger.

  Such total lack of self-respect.

  She wedged both hands between them and shoved against his chest with all her might. After a moment’s struggle, he released her.

  “No,” she said with vehemence. “You are not going to use me.”

  “Use you? Nothing could be farther from my mind.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “You are gravely mistaken if you think I care to follow your Lady Chloe.”

  “You don’t understand. She’s not my lady.”

  “So she rejected you. Good for her. Contrary to her reputation, it shows her to be a lady of taste and refinement. But now you think to come to your poor second. I will not be—”

  “You are second to no one, Rebecca. Not to me.” He pulled her close again, but she held her body tense, refusing the urge to melt into his heat. “Lady Chloe is my friend, nothing more.”

  Rebecca relaxed by the smallest of degrees. She rested her palm on his chest, marginally comforted by the way his heart beat steadily but slowly. Surely, if he were lying, it would have been pounding like a coach and six. “That’s not how it appeared.”

  “I know. That was by design. The truth is, Chloe is making it possible for you and me to be together.”

  “Now I know you think me a fool.”

  “Never that.” He reached up and ran his thumb along the curve of her cheek. Shimmers of pleasure trailed his touch. “I could never deserve you, Rebecca.” The words came out haltingly. “But I mean to have you in any case. And if I’m going to saddle you with someone like me, the least I can do is make the process easier for you.”

  “John Fitzhugh Barrett!” All the tender feelings he’d just stoked in her were suddenly smothered by indignation. “Of all the stupid, ill-considered… How in heaven is it easier for me to see you dancing attendance on another woman?”

  “You’ve heard the talk. The family expects me to marry well. Not necessarily for money, though they wouldn’t reject a fat dowry, but for power and connections. It’s no accident that the young ladies here are all the daughters of earls at the least.”

  She looked away. “Except for me.”

  “Except for you, my little biscuit.” He slipped his fingertips under her chin and tipped her face back so she had to meet his gaze. “Not that it matters one jot to me. I was a nameless bastard only a few months ago. I’m the last person to be a respecter of title and prestige.”

  “But your family does.”

  “Exactly, and if my true feelings for you were known, they would be deucedly hard on you and would try to separate us.”

  His true feelings? John had feelings for her. He hadn’t named them yet, but simply admitting he had them was important. Hope surged in her chest.

  “Remember what they did to my mother when she wasn’t considered up to the mark,” he said. “If they think I’m serious about Lady Chloe, whom they wouldn’t accept even though she possesses the rank they crave, they’ll be so relieved when I present you to them as my real choice, they’ll accept you with open arms. And they’ll be grateful for you.”

  All that stood out in her mind from his explanation was that she was his real choice. Hope rushed through her entire body like a bracing tonic. “Are you afraid the dowager will try to buy me off?”

  “I know she would. But what I’m really afraid of is that you’d take it.” When she stiffened in his arms, he was quick to amend his words. “Not that you’re the mercenary type. I don’t mean that, but I know your father has debts and your mother’s illness frets you.”

  “My family is in need of funds, I’ll not deny it. But you don’t know me at all if you think I can be bought or sold.” Freddie would remind her that a lady waits for the gentleman to make the first declaration, but if she tried to contain the words, she feared she’d burst. “I love you, John. And that means with my heart and
my soul and my body. My family’s purse doesn’t enter into it at all.”

  His face was a study in wonderment and joy. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled his head down, so she could kiss him on the mouth. Hard.

  “And I love you only for you. Do you think I’d care two figs if you weren’t Lord Hartley?” she asked when she finally pulled back from him.

  “Well, I didn’t think plain John Fitzhugh had much chance when I first approached you in the museum.”

  “Plain John Fitzhugh had every chance. At least, he would have if Freddie hadn’t been there to drag me away.”

  “So you do love me for me,” he said, as if it were a miracle on par with the loaves and the fishes. “And I love you for your sweet self. For your heart as much as your beauty. For the way your hair shimmers like chestnut rain. And the way your eyes dance when you’re planning some devilment.” He cocked his head at her with a sidelong glance. “As they are now. What are you about, Rebecca?”

  “This,” she said as she tugged at his shirt, pulling it from the waist of his trousers. He loves me, her heart sang. She was determined to show him her love. She slid her hands under the hem and ran her fingertips up his ribs and across his chest, just as she’d imagined doing. Standing on tiptoe, she nuzzled his neck and along the firm ridge of his jawline. Then she dropped a row of feathery kisses down the V of his open-neck shirt. His skin was warm and tasted lightly of salt.

  Utterly delicious.

  “And this.” Rebecca undid the one button over his breastbone that was still fastened on his shirt. She nipped and licked at his newly exposed skin. His breath sucked in harshly over his teeth. She hadn’t troubled to braid her hair before bed, and his fingers tangled in her hair, smoothing the long locks down her back.

  “And this too.” She tugged at the heavy pewter buttons at his waist. Sneaking a glance up at him from under her lashes, she knew from his dazed expression he was hers to do with as she pleased. She pulled his shirt over his head and ran her palms over his chest, grazing the hard nubs of his nipples.