Nothing But a Rakehell (A Series of Unconventional Courtships Book 2)

by Deb Marlowe

She gave him what he asked for, surrendering bit by bit, until he swept her with his tongue and nudged her lips apart.

  Her eyes flew open again. Clearly, she hadn’t expected it, but she accepted the invasion and entered into the spirit of it, opening wide and moving her fingers up along his neck and into his hair.

  He deepened the kiss again, with bold strokes of his tongue and a tightening grip on her. Her bosom pressed into his chest. He raised a hand to stroke the side of her breast, entranced by her curves, frustrated by layers of linen and wool.

  She pressed against him, shifting her bottom as the growing ridge of his cock pushed back.

  God, but she was sweet. So warm in his arms while the cool wind blew from the water—

  He went still, remembered abruptly where they were. Open. Exposed. Vulnerable.

  In one smooth move he lifted her away, stood, rotated, and settled her down into the spot he’d just left. Breathing heavily, he turned and walked to the water’s edge, where he sucked in air like a bellows and waited for his cockstand to get the message that this was going no further.

  Gad, what was he—a green boy? Letting an innocent girl make him forget—their surroundings, her vulnerability, his extreme unsuitability?

  He whirled around, intent on making her understand, and found her still looking a little dazed, her breath coming quicker than normal.

  His agitation eased a little.

  “That didn’t feel proper at all,” she remarked.

  He couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and laughed. His anger dissipated, but not his alarm. She had no idea how dangerous she was.

  “That, Miss Critical, was exactly what it was—exactly what a kiss should be. And now you’ve had it. You’ve been kissed and have no need to worry further.”

  She started to speak but he held up a hand. “And no reason to discuss it further, either. We’ve already stretched the limits of our pact quite far enough.”

  She frowned. “Are there limits on friendship?”

  “Of course there are. Especially on this one.”

  She deflated. “Well, it does seem a shame. I enjoy your company.”

  He drew a deep breath. “As I enjoy yours. Tremendously.” More than he should. More than was safe. He didn’t want to hurt her. “I hate to be blunt about it, but I’ll be gone in a few days. As I’m a friend rather than a relation, we cannot correspond. It seems our friendship has its own end date.”

  “You mentioned going about . . . in London . . .”

  “Yes! If you come to London I will be happy to ride with you in the park and to take you to Astley’s just as we discussed. We might see each other about in Society. But there can be no more than that. I wouldn’t dream of subjecting you to more than that.”

  “Subjecting me to more? Is your regard so dire a thing?”

  “It often is,” he said wearily. “But I cannot say more.”

  “Because you cannot add another constant to your life?”

  Damnation, but she was quick and clever and she actually listened. He must tread carefully. “That is it, exactly.”

  She waited, a brow raised in expectation, but he’d be damned if he explained further. And he was done—had had more than enough in this lifetime—of wanting something he couldn’t have.

  “Fine, then.” She stood and made her way to her mare. “I thank you for indulging me. And for stretching the boundaries of our pact. I won’t ask again, as you’ve made my position clear—and I understand that it leaves me somewhere below the level of your boots.”

  He scowled, knowing he should protest, but she sent the horse over the lip of the bank and used the height of it to mount up herself. With a nod, and without another word, she rode back towards the bridge and the road back to the house.

  Cursing, but knowing it was better, safer, to bow to inevitability, he watched her go.

  * * *

  Hope’s salon had been opened up by means of a retracting wall. It looked lovely in the evening, with the walls aglow in the candlelight and the whole long room adorned with the swirling colors and sparkle of the entire contingent of guests gathered in their finest.

  Tonight the young ladies were going to provide the entertainment. Except for Glory, who acted as assistant to her sister, moving slowly from group to group, gauging tempers and the temperature of the hors d’oeuvres and levels of drinks. Everyone seemed sated and happy and content to show off his or her fine clothes and jewels. Even she felt pretty in her favorite gown of blue-green and a short string of pearls. The crowd allowed her to keep her steps short and her limp less pronounced.

  After the first performance—Miss Ruddock was something of a prodigy on the violin—Glory felt her duty discharged and took a seat in an empty grouping in the corner. A seat far from the edge of the performance area, where Lord Keswick stood speaking with a group of guests.

  After a moment, Hope sank down beside her with a sigh. “Thank you for your help, Glory, dear. I am glad the ladies are carrying the heavy load this evening. I feel like I have barely seen you the last few days.” She followed the line of Glory’s gaze. “Why are you staring daggers at the back of Lord Keswick’s head?”

  “I am not! I am merely waiting for Miss Munroe to begin.” She shrugged. “If his head is in the way then it is likely because it’s been permanently swollen due to the fawning of all the young ladies.”

  “Well, I daresay he is the most fawn-worthy of all our gentleman guests.”

  “Hmmph,” was all the response Glory felt safe to offer.

  “What is it? I thought the pair of you were getting along?”

  She lifted a shoulder.

  “Well, I did see him make a point of introducing you to Mr. Sommers earlier. I thought he was being quite considerate of your interests, especially as the gentleman stands to inherit his father’s stud farm one day.”

  So very considerate of Lord Keswick, she thought sourly. One kiss and he was trying to fob her off on someone else. And ring the bell for a bonus—because he found one who likes horses!

  One kiss. One stunning kiss that began with light landings, here and there, like the flutterings of a butterfly, and ended with tongues tangled and her breast pressing into his hand and her hair and nipples raised and waiting . . . waiting . . . for what would come next.

  She longed to know what came next. She’d been floating around on a cloud of all-consuming lust, recalling that kiss and wishing for more. Dreaming, wondering, imagining what might come next.

  Only to find that, in Keswick’s mind, Mr. Sommers came next.

  “Glory?”

  She started. “Oh, yes. So considerate,” she said flatly. “But did you notice that Mr. Sommers was quite willing to discuss pedigrees and bloodstock with me, but it was Miss Munroe whose comfort he inquired after? And it was she, he invited to stroll to the punch bowl?”

  “Yes,” Hope sighed. “I noticed.” She reached over and squeezed Glory’s arm.

  “In any case, I believe it is Lord Keswick you should be concerned for.” Glory indicated the viscount with a nod of her head. He’d left his group and Lady Tresham had stepped into his path.

  “She does have a predatory gleam in her eye,” Hope conceded. “But I’m certain Keswick knows how to handle her sort.”

  “I’m certain he’s had plenty of practice. Handling her sort.”

  And now the baroness stepped closer still. And Keswick didn’t seem to mind subjecting her to more of him. He leaned in and said something low that had the lady’s eyes widening.

  “Don’t judge him too harshly, I beg you.” Hope’s expression had softened. “William won’t say much, but he has hinted that the viscount has faced more than a few difficulties in his past.”

  “In what way?” She shouldn’t ask, but she could not help herself.

  “I’m not sure. I have the impression that it has to do with his family.”

  Glory mulled that over as she watched him with the widow. Lady Tresham was making her interest plain. Keswick smiled a
nd chatted, but there was a brittle quality to his laugh. And there was no sign of lightness in his brilliant blue eyes.

  She stiffened as Lady Tresham laughed and reached out to touch his arm.

  His dark head still bent to hers, but a moment later he pulled his arm back and slipped away. Glory felt her shoulders descend—and thought she recognized a similar relief in him as he moved to join Lord Tensford, conversing with another gentleman near the window.

  “Glory, you are staring again,” Hope said gently.

  “Oh. I shouldn’t, I know. But have you noticed?” she asked. “Lord Keswick is all affable charm, but I think he wields it like a tool. Or a shield,” she mused.

  “He does tend to keep people at a distance,” Hope admitted.

  “He never seems to truly relax unless he’s with Tensford. Or Mr. Sterne.” Yes, she rather thought she could see from here that tension had left his expression and his stance looked looser.

  “They share a very close friendship,” Hope admitted. “They are more like brothers than friends, I believe, and the relationship extends to a couple of other school friends. They are all very close.” She straightened. “Oh, here we go, now. Miss Munroe is ready to begin.”

  Glory listened politely as her friend sang. She had a nice voice, with just a hint of a fuzzy edge that had all the males paying attention. But Glory was thinking about what Hope had just said. A close group of friends must be a blessing, a good thing. So why was Tensford open to adding a marriage and true closeness with Hope to his life, but Keswick appeared to be closed to the idea of growing emotionally intimate with anyone else? Trying to be discreet, she glanced over to see if the viscount was as enthralled with Miss Munroe’s performance as so many of the other gentlemen.

  Apparently not. He was frowning and gazing around the room, as if he were looking for something. Or someone.

  Glory joined in the applause as her friend’s song ended. Mr. Sterne stood to escort her from the open stage area. He brought her over to their corner and they both took seats.

  “That was lovely, my dear,” Hope said.

  Glory echoed her compliments. “You should sing us a Scots ballad next time,” she encouraged. “One of the ones your grandmother taught you.” She smiled at the others. “I’ve heard a few of her songs and they are lovely.”

  “I wasn’t sure they would be well received in such company,” Miss Munroe glanced at Hope.

  “I don’t see why not. You can sing anything you choose, my dear, and we’ll all be enthralled.”

  “Have you traveled to Scotland?” Mr. Sterne asked.

  “Oh, aye,” she replied with a smile. “Have ye?”

  He looked charmed. “No, but I would like to. I am interested in conducting research on some of the plants local to the northern areas.”

  Hope looked over at Glory, slightly worried. Glory shrugged. It was not the usual drawing room conversation, but Miss Munroe seemed to find this a perfectly rational reason to travel. In moments, they were off in a discussion about the use of heather to cure digestive ailments and its superiority as a stuffing in mattresses.

  Hope watched them, bemused, but Glory merely raised her brows. “Who is entertaining us next?”

  “It looks to be Miss Parscate. I believe she is to play the pianoforte.”

  Any response Glory meant to make died away as Keswick suddenly appeared before them, a gentleman in tow. Suddenly her brain ceased working and her lungs labored to draw in the air that had turned effervescent with sparkling potential—until she remembered that all of the potential was for discouragement and dismissal.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” her sister said. “Lord Keswick, have you tried the hors d’oeuvres? The salmon mousse cups have been well received.”

  “They are delicious, my lady,” he said with a twinkle. “Although they are not, of course, colcannon and brown bread.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps at our next gathering.”

  “Lady Tensford,” he said in a scolding tone. “Sir Blackwell has not yet been introduced to your sister.”

  “Well, that will not do. Glory, if I may present Sir Blackwell? Sir, my sister, Lady Glory Brightley.”

  She managed a nod. “How do you do?”

  Sir Blackwell was a man approaching middle age. He had contrived to find a suit of clothing that exactly matched the brown shade of his thinning hair and bushy brows. Everything was of fine quality but with his slender build, the overall effect reminded one of a walking stick. He gave a perfectly correct bow, but his eyes—also brown—darted toward her skirts as he rose. The relief on his face at not seeing any direct evidence of her . . . deformity . . . was plain.

  Keswick saw it too, if the tightening of his magnificent jaw was any indication.

  “Your home is near Castleton, is it not, Sir Blackwell?” Hope tried to smooth the moment over.

  “It is, madam.”

  “Sir Blackwell enjoys a friendship with the Prince Regent.” Keswick said, clearly trying to recover from that glance.

  Sir Blackwell grimaced. “Perhaps friendship is too strong a word,” he hedged.

  “He knighted you for your friendship and service? Did I not hear you say as much to the squire?”

  “Fascinating. What sort of service do you provide for the Prince?” Hope sounded genuinely interested.

  Glory was interested in the color rising in Sir Blackwell’s face—and the puzzlement in Keswick’s.

  “Well, I . . .” The gentleman sighed in defeat. “The Prince Regent brought a party to our area. They spent some time enjoying the scenery and the air and the local ale and uh, other attractions. It seemed he ran up quite a number of large expenses, but found it was not so easy to make restitution, away from London and his banks . . . In any case, I helped him out of the situation.”

  Keswick looked disgusted.

  Hope was trying not to laugh. “How kind of you.”

  Mr. Sterne suddenly looked over from his conversation with Miss Munroe. “He knighted you for that? It must have been quite a debt.”

  Sir Blackwell cleared his throat. “I understand it was quite a party.”

  “You didn’t even get to attend?” Glory asked, indignant for him. “What a shame.”

  “Sir Blackwell’s estate is in the Peak District,” Keswick announced. “His properties encompass some of the most beautiful scenic views in England.” He glanced significantly at her. “Lady Glory also enjoys beautiful scenery.”

  Hope blinked. “Do you, Glory?”

  “Of course I do,” she answered. “Who does not?”

  Sir Blackwell cleared his throat. “Perhaps I can make up for the missed revelries during the next Season in London. Lord Keswick has extolled the virtues of spending spring in Town. It’s such a busy time of year on the estate, but the rewards of investing a few months might last a lifetime.”

  “Lady Tensford intends to introduce Lady Glory in Town next year,” Keswick interjected helpfully.

  Glory wanted to sink into the floor. Was he a notorious rakehell or a matchmaking mama at Almack’s?

  “What a treat for you,” Sir Blackwell told her warmly. “Your sister is very kind.” He glanced across the room to where the young ladies were gathered. “Lady Tensford, would you know if Miss Ruddock spent the spring in London this year?”

  “I don’t believe she did, sir.”

  “Do you know if her family intends to present her next year?”

  Hope blinked. “I’m sure I do not, but her mother is just over there, should you like to inquire.”

  “Yes. It might be the thing, to make my interest known early.” Pursing his lips, he nodded. “Would you be willing to favor me with an introduction to the family, my lady?”

  “Oh!” Hope looked startled, but she rose from her seat. “Yes, of course.”

  Sir Blackwell bowed. “Lovely to meet you, Lady Glory.” He gave Keswick a nod. “Sir.”

  They departed and Mr. Sterne turned back to enticing Miss Munroe with talk of the glowworms th
at thrived in nearby Gorsty Knoll. Glory looked over at Keswick’s astonished expression—and burst out laughing.

  Because honestly, it was better to laugh than to cry.

  Keswick sank down into a chair.

  “What in the name of every patroness of Almack’s are you doing?” she hissed at him. “Next you’ll be passing out tepid lemonade and extolling the virtues of my family tree.”

  “I’m trying to prove my point!”

  “I rather think you are proving mine, instead. You will cease this matchmaking at once,” she ordered ferociously. “You are making me look ridiculous.”

  “It’s not you, it’s them!” He slumped back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at her. “Isn’t it? Perhaps you should open your countenance a bit? Speak up a bit more? Show them who you really are? I know they will be entranced.”

  She glared. “I tried that route already. It was a spectacular failure.”

  “Truly? With who?”

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Oh.” He sank back into his chair. “You cannot count me. I’m not like all of these other fellows.”

  Exactly. Wasn’t that why she liked him? But she could never say so, not now.

  He sighed. “Have you ever played with a ball made of Indian rubber?”

  Frowning at the change of subject, she shook her head.

  “They are marvelous. Full of spring and bounce. You toss it as hard as you can and it flies so high—high above your head. That used to be me. I could take a hit, a loss, and bounce right back. But no longer. I’ve grown hard and brittle.” He shrugged. “No bounce left.”

  Her heart twisted as she realized it was pain as much as people that vaunted charm protected him against. She felt a wave of protectiveness—

  “No.” His tone was pointed and urgent. “Whatever it is that has your eyes widening like a doe’s—forget it. I don’t need anything,” he said, suddenly harsh. “Not from you or anyone else.”

  She opened her mouth to argue—but Hope returned at that moment and took the seat next to Keswick.

  “Well, that might have actually worked in Sir Blackwell’s favor,” she said briskly. “Now, what are we discussing over here?”