The Rake to Redeem Her

by Julia Justiss

  There was no question of returning to Paris. The Ransleigh name might command the attention—and protection—of the Prime Minister and the respect of Prince Talleyrand, but Elodie Lefevre, her brother dead and his rising career with him, was no longer of any importance. Besides, sojourning in the same city that contained her son, but unable to be with him, would be a torment beyond enduring.

  So, London it must be. Unless … unless Will wanted her. They had been excellent comrades on the road and passionate lovers. Perhaps he would keep her as his mistress for a while, until he tired of her. Such a handsome, charismatic man would make any woman who set eyes on him try to entice him; it wouldn’t take Will Ransleigh long to find another lover to share his bed.

  As the door opened, she looked up, expecting to see Caro and her babe. Instead, the object of her imaginings walked in.

  ‘Will, you’re back!’ she cried, jumping up. Within the dull empty expanse of her chest, her moribund heart gave a small leap of gladness.

  She couldn’t seem to take her eyes from his face as he approached her, smiling faintly, his sheer physical allure striking her as forcefully as it had that first day.

  ‘Sewing again, I see,’ he said. ‘Just like when I found you in Vienna.’

  Was he thinking of their first meeting, too? ‘Although this time, you enter, quite boringly, by the door, rather than thrillingly through a window.’

  ‘I see I am failing in my duty as a rogue. I shall have to redeem myself.’

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world to walk into the arms he held out to her, to lift her face for his kiss.

  He took her mouth gently, but she met him ardently. With a stifled groan, he clutched her tighter, deepening the kiss. She moulded herself to him, her body fitting his like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

  After a moment, he broke the kiss, his turquoise eyes dark. ‘Does that mean you’ve missed me?’

  ‘I have. I feel …’ At home? At peace? As content as it was possible for her to be? ‘Safe when you’re near,’ she finished.

  His expression grew serious. ‘And I mean to keep you that way.’

  ‘Must we leave at once for London? I … I had promised Caro to make her a new gown.’

  ‘She has treated you well?’

  ‘Very well. We so very quickly became friends, I shall miss her when we leave for London.’

  ‘We’re not going to London.’

  ‘Not going?’ Elodie echoed, puzzled. ‘Is the Foreign Office allowing me to give a deposition here, rather than testifying in person?’

  ‘No deposition. No testimony at all. I don’t want to risk it.’

  She shook her head, more confused than ever. ‘But what of Monsieur Max? How is his name to be cleared, if I do not testify? What of his career?’

  ‘Max is quite happy with the career—and the family—he has at Denby Lodge. And if, in future, he has a longing to return to government, he means to go on his own merits, elected to Parliament by the men of this district, not relying on the prestige of his family or the patronage of some high official.’

  ‘This is truth? You are sure?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  She would not have to testify. After girding herself for that trial for so long, she could scarcely comprehend she would not be facing the looming spectre of prison or the noose. Dizzy and disoriented with relief, she stumbled to the sofa. ‘What is to become of me, then?’

  Will seated himself beside her, took her hands and tilted her chin up to face him, his gaze intent. Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘I want to take care of you, Elodie. I love you. I want you with me.’

  ‘My sweet Will,’ she whispered, freeing a hand to stroke his cheek. ‘I want you, too. For as long as you’ll have me, I am yours.’

  ‘I want you in my life always, Elodie. I want to marry you.’

  ‘Marry me?’ Never in her wildest imaginings had the possibility of marriage occurred to her. ‘But that is not at all sensible!’ she exclaimed, her practical French mind recoiling from a union of two persons of such dissimilar resources. ‘I bring you nothing, no dowry, no family, no influence. You don’t have to marry me, Will. I will stay with you as long as you wish.’

  ‘But you can’t be sure of that with a mistress. One night, she shows you the moon and the stars, gives you bliss beyond imagining. And the next morning, poof, she is gone, without a word of farewell.’

  Feeling a pang of guilt, Elodie looked at him reprovingly. ‘That was under very different circumstances, as you well know.’

  ‘What I know is that all my life, I’ve been missing something, here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘But in your arms that night outside Paris, I found what I didn’t even know I’d been searching for. I felt … complete. I don’t want to ever lose that again.’

  He stared at her intently, as if waiting for her to reply in kind. She felt a strong bond, something deeper than just the physical, but within her broken and battered heart all was confusion. Better to say nothing than to profess a love she wasn’t sure she felt, or wound him by admitting how uncertain she was.

  Instead, she shook her head. ‘You can have that. It is not necessary, this marriage.’

  He drew back a bit, and she knew she’d hurt him, much as she’d wanted to avoid it. ‘I know I’m only the illegitimate son of a rogue, while you are the daughter of French aristocracy—’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she interrupted him. ‘How can you believe I think myself above you? I am the daughter of French aristocrats, yes, but one who has no home, no title, no influential family, no wealth. It is you who are above me, a man linked to a rich and prominent family that still wields great power.’

  That seemed to reassure him, for the pain in his eyes receded and he kissed her hands. ‘I want to marry you, Elodie de Montaigu-Clisson, whether you can ever love me or not. But don’t give me a final answer now. So much has changed since Vienna. You’ve lost the hope that sustained you for so long and must grieve for that. You need time to reflect, to heal and find consolation, before you can move forwards. I want you to take that time. Will you come with me, let me take care of you? I pledge to keep you safe, so safe that one day you’ll stop looking over your shoulder, worried about being followed or threatened. Come with no obligation but friendship. And when you feel ready to begin your life again … if I must, I’ll let you go. No force, no bargains.’

  Elodie felt tears prick her eyes. She couldn’t let him commit the idiocy of tying himself legally to a woman who brought him nothing in worldly advantage, but she would stay with him as long as he’d have her.

  ‘No force, no bargains,’ she agreed. ‘I go with you willingly and will stay as long as you want me.’

  ‘That would be for ever, then,’ Will said and bent to kiss her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  On a sunny morning a month later, Elodie strolled through the vast garden at Salmford House. Taking a seat on one of the conveniently located benches with a view of the rose parterre, where the potent, drifting scent of the Autumn Damask ‘Quatre Saisons’ never failed to soothe her, she smiled.

  Her enjoyment of it this morning was just as intense as it had been the afternoon Will first brought her to the property he’d purchased near Firle on the South Downs of Sussex, a lovely land of rolling hills and meadows. After touring her through the snug stone manor and introducing her to the staff, he’d led her out the French doors from the library into the first section of walled garden.

  Her reactions of surprise and delight had been repeated many times over as he strolled her through each garden ‘room’, from the topiary terrace adjoining the library with its precisely clipped boxwood and yew, to the white garden of iris, daisies, sweet alyssum, campanula and snapdragons, the multi-hued perennial border backed by red-leaved berberis, to the artfully arranged herb-and-vegetable knot garden adjoining the kitchen and finally to the central rose parterre, where the ‘Old Blush’ and damask roses were still blooming after the albas and gallicas had ended their early
summer show.

  As he’d coaxed her reluctantly to return to the house for an early dinner, saying he, for one, was famished, she’d thrown her arms around him and kissed him soundly. ‘What a magnificent garden!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘When I was considering where to bring you, I remembered the agent showing me this property. Is it as lovely as the garden of Lord Somerville?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and larger, too! Did you truly choose this house for me?’

  ‘You have had enough of sadness in your life, Elodie. I want you to be happy.’ He tapped her nose. ‘Clara made me promise.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, my sweet Will! Only one thing under heaven could make me happier.’

  But when she took his arm going back to the house and murmured in his ear that she could show him just how grateful she was, pressing herself against him suggestively, he eased her away from him and primly repeated what he’d told her on the drive to Salmford House; that here, they would be friends only, not lovers.

  She hadn’t believed him, of course, for the idea of refraining from enjoying the powerful passion they shared made no more sense to her than an English aristocrat from a prominent family marrying a penniless exile.

  She was not at all happy to discover he’d not been teasing. ‘Why, Will? I give myself freely, for your pleasure and mine. Why do you not want such a gift?’

  ‘Oh, I want you—with every breath. But when I make love to you again, I want it to be with you as my wife.’

  She sighed in exasperation. ‘Is it not the woman who is supposed to withhold her favours until the man succumbs to marriage?’

  ‘Usually, yes. But you see, I’m enamoured of a very stubborn, peculiar female—the French are often stubborn and peculiar, I find—and persuading her to marry me calls for desperate measures. Passion can be very persuasive, so why should I not dangle before her one of my most potent weapons in securing her consent?’ He sighed, too. ‘Though, in truth, this remedy is so desperate, it may kill me. But were we not true friends and companions on the road, without being lovers?’

  ‘Yes, but only at first, when our disguises prevented it. And we are not on the road now, but in a hôtel of the most fine, with, I am sure, beds of quite amazing comfort.’

  ‘You are distressed. I can always tell; your speech becomes more French.’

  ‘Of course I am distressed. This … this show of chastity is ridiculous!’

  ‘Well, as long as there’s a chance this “ridiculousness” might help convince you to become my wife, I am content to wait.’

  ‘It may convince me you are an imbécile. And I am not content to wait!’ she declared, stamping her foot, frustrated and furious with him, the surge of emotion seizing her the strongest she’d experienced since the loss of Philippe had paralysed all feeling.

  ‘Calm down, chérie!’ he soothed. ‘You need diversion.’

  ‘Yes, and I know just what sort,’ she flashed back.

  ‘So do I. A hand of cards after we’ve dined should do the trick.’

  She’d whacked his arm and stomped away, leaving him to follow her to the dining parlour, chuckling. But she couldn’t stay angry, as he coaxed her with fine ham, an assortment of fresh vegetables from the garden, aged cheese, rich wine, followed by strawberries and cream, which he fed her with his own hands, rubbing the ripe berries against her lips and then kissing the flavour from them, until she was certain he was going to relent.

  Instead of leading her to a bedchamber—by then she would have been quite content with a sofa or even a soft carpet—he handed her into the parlour and produced a deck of cards.

  At first, angry with him again, she’d refused to play. But he’d teased and dared, finally winning her grudging agreement by accusing her of avoiding a hand because she was afraid she’d lose.

  Within a few minutes, tantalising her with his skill, he’d drawn her into the game. She’d watched him play enough to know he was not trying to let her win, but challenging her to exercise all her skill, which made her redouble her concentration. Interspersed with the hands, he set her to laughing with outrageous observations about the people and events they’d encountered on their travels. When the clock struck midnight and he gathered up the cards, she was surprised to find the hour so late.

  It was the most carefree evening she’d spent in years. And she hadn’t thought once of her loss.

  The yearning returned as he walked her to a bedchamber. She clung to him, trying to entice him to remain with her.

  ‘Marry me,’ he’d whispered against her hair as he held her close. ‘Marry me, mon ange, and be mine for ever.’

  When she’d tremulously replied that she couldn’t, he’d sighed and gently set her away from him. And then bid her goodnight.

  That same frustrating routine had recurred each night of their stay here.

  Though he’d laughed at her anger, teased her, given her deep, thrilling kisses as if he meant to relent, he had not. To her extreme irritation and regret, they continued to live as chastely as brother and sister.

  She’d thought about slipping into his chamber and into his bed, pleasuring him with her hands and mouth, when, groggy with sleep and tempted by arousal, he would surely yield to her. For the first few nights, she talked herself out of it, worried about embarrassing herself if she were wrong and he refused her still, even in his bed.

  By the time they’d been at the manor for a week, she’d grown too desperate to worry about embarrassment. In the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep, she’d crept through the silent house to his chamber—and found the door locked against her.

  The following morning, grumpy from sleeplessness and frustration, she’d sulkily enquired if he thought she were dangerous, that he must lock himself away from her. He’d replied that he was not so much of a fool as to subject himself to a temptation he knew he’d never be able to resist, a reply which mollified her somewhat, though it did nothing to relieve the frustration.

  But for that one—and very major—fault, Will had been a perfect companion. He had encouraged her to take him on walks through her beloved garden, telling him the names of all the plants—and later making her laugh by deliberately bungling them. Noticing how she loved to linger in the rose parterre, breathing in the potent scent of the autumn damasks, he had bouquets of the spicy blooms put in every room.

  As she gradually began to emerge from the cocoon of grief into which she’d spun herself, it was impossible not to notice his cherishing care of her. Some might have found it suffocating, but Elodie, who had experienced precious little cherishing in her tumultuous life, drank up the attention and concern.

  Sitting here now, she recalled all the ways he’d seen to her comfort. Foods she mentioned liking would appear regularly on the table. When she thanked him for a new gown in blue or azure or gold, several more of similar style and hue appeared in her wardrobe.

  He even found her, heaven knows where, a little French girl to be her lady’s maid. Chatting with the homesick lass in their native French tongue helped ease the sadness within her at the loss of her home and language.

  Whatever activity he engaged with her in, whether cards or riding or billiards, he roused her from her recurrent bouts of melancholy by teasing her or cheating her back to attention—or indignation. Sometimes, in the evenings, he read to her, surprising her with the wide-ranging breadth of his knowledge and interests. He talked about his friend, Hal Waterman, and the fascinating new technologies they were investing in that would, he told her, eventually change the way people heated their homes, cooked their food and travelled.

  Methodically, slow day by slow day, he was drawing her out of the greyness of grief and death back into the light of his life. Letting her bask in the brilliant warmth of his love.

  She hadn’t earned such devotion, probably didn’t deserve it, but he gave it freely anyway. Wanting, in return, only her happiness.

  For the first time in a long time, anticipation stirred in her. What was wrong with her, moping about as if her li
fe were over? Yes, she’d lost her child, a tragedy whose pain would never fully leave her. But along the way, she’d found a matchless lover, who was trying by every means he could devise to woo her and win her love in return.

  Almost every day, he repeated his request that she marry him and share his life. And then, praise heaven, his bed!

  Will being normally an intense, restless man, she was astounded that he had managed to content himself staying placidly here, doing nothing more exciting than riding in the countryside and playing cards with her. Surely he was ready to go off exploring new places, investigating new projects. He’d said he longed for her to come with him and share the excitement, companions on the road again.

  A sense of wonder and enthusiasm filled her. Salmford House’s gardens and Will’s tender care had worked their magic. She was, she decided in that moment, now ready to put her losses behind her and start living again—with Will.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to see him.

  Picking up her skirts, she rushed back into the manor, hurrying from room to room until she found him in the library.

  He looked up as she entered, his handsome face lighting in a smile, and her healing heart leapt. How could she not flourish in the brightness of that smile? In such tenderness, as she leaned down for his kiss and he caressed her cheek with one gentle finger?

  She’d been a fool, not for the first time. It was time to be foolish no longer.

  ‘Are you ready for luncheon, chérie?’ she said. ‘I’m famished.’

  Smiling up at Elodie, Will twisted in his hands the letter he’d received in the morning’s post. The position he’d discussed with his friend Hal Waterman had been arranged; in the letter was his authorisation to go to Paris and enter discussions with the French Ministry of the Interior about the possibilities of developing railway lines in France.