Falling for a Rake

by Pendle, Eve

  “Was there anything else, my lord? I would like to get dressed.” Her words were thousands of serrated ice crystals cutting into his chest.

  For an iota of time, he’d allowed himself to imagine they could be happy together. He had dreamed he would win her love by using their mutual attraction to bring them together.

  “I’ll give you some privacy.” This was his room and he couldn’t leave it quickly enough.

  He didn’t deserve her love. He’d given up all right to being loved. But for a wonderful moment, he’d forgotten he was damned.

  “Nothing else, my dear. Good day.” He rose as though this was of no significance. Only once he’d left the room and closed the door behind him did he close his eyes and allow the pain bubble through him.

  You couldn’t choose who you were. He’d believed secretly that the work he did now, fighting misogyny and bigotry from the inside out, was some amends for his past wrongdoings. He’d thought God would weigh his young, venal, greedy actions against his reparations once he recognized the harm he’d done.

  What he hadn’t counted on was himself. His best intentions had melted in the fire of lust.

  An impersonal marriage would be best for them both. And if he could pretend to be a callous lord, he could adore his faultless wife from the lonely side of an adjoining door. It was only what he deserved.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As she ate breakfast and read the Daily Letters, Emily told herself things hadn’t changed. Last night was an aberration. She’d made a mistake going to Oscar, but one fault didn’t make all her efforts for naught. Redoubling her exertion was necessary given her naive ideas yesterday and her shaming behavior later. Her cheeks heated at the memory.

  She tried to focus on the newspaper, which was mercifully free of any fern related articles. There was an announcement of her marriage though, a reality in black and white. It was properly done, with details of Markshall’s family and her own. He must have taken some care to ensure all the details were correct.

  She started when a footman cleared his throat and offered her a calling card. The delicate but clear script declared Matilda Tilling, Countess of Lakenham. She wracked her mind for some recollection of the name.

  Like a slap across the face, she remembered. Lord Markshall had mentioned Matilda when he’d told her his story when they’d been trapped together. He’d said he’d been infatuated with her.

  Emily schooled her expression. “Please invite Lady Lakenham in.”

  Lady Lakenham was a neatly and elegantly, but not richly, dressed lady about her age. She had a square line to her jaw and quick, pale blue eyes that took her in as soon as she entered.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” she said after the footman had introduced her.

  “Indeed, will you sit? It is kind of you to call. I don’t think many of my friends are yet in town.” Her self-restraint prevented her from asking why this lady who she didn’t know was calling on her. Especially when she was embroiled in a scandal.

  “I don’t know if it is a kindness.” Lady Lakenham didn’t smile, which was a mercy, as she would have been stunningly beautiful if she had.

  “Would you care to sit?” Emily said. “I have sent for tea.”

  They sat. Emily was just wondering how she ought to carry on the small talk–by asking about Lady Lakenham’s dress, or commenting on the suddenly cold spring weather–when Lady Lakenham solved the problem.

  “I read the announcement in the paper,” Lady Lakenham stated bluntly. “Tell me I am not too late?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Emily lied. Too late was the sum of everything. For James, for ferns, for Oscar.

  Lady Lakenham sighed heavily. “You married him without knowing who he really is.”

  “Indeed? Someone is writing to the newspaper trying to give a similar message.” Emily tilted her head thoughtfully. Markshall had said he thought he knew who might be writing about them and Lady Lakenham would have incentive.

  “I don’t do things that way.” Lady Lakenham waved away Emily’s implication with such indifference that Emily couldn’t help but be convinced. “That’s why I’m here. Do not be swayed by his golden looks or charming manner.” Lady Lakenham shook her head sadly. “Don’t deceive yourself. You ought not to trust him.”

  He'd told her that much himself. An uncomfortable weight settled into Emily’s belly. This woman was not Lady X–, maliciously writing in public, hiding behind a pseudonym.

  “Your advice is very kind.” Emily said the words by instinctive rote, but there were others that rose right after them that she had to choke down. Perhaps I am not so trustworthy myself. And, I do trust him. A pang in her chest told her she was protecting Oscar irrationally.

  Lady Lakenham’s mouth tightened. “He ruined my sister.”

  The words were harsher in a drawing room than a black hole. Emily swallowed her gasp and darted her eyes around to check if anyone were within earshot. Nothing. They were alone.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you.” Lady Lakenham didn’t sound sorry at all. “I think you should know what sort of man your husband is. He deserted Lydia for years, not paying anything toward her keep.”

  He hadn’t told her that part. In some clever double-bluff, he’d made her think that he was a reformed character, playing the rogue for the greater good, a sort of Lord Robin Hood, taking power from the privileged to give to the weak. But he hadn’t even taken care of the weakest person in his sphere of influence – his own bastard daughter.

  “I note that his checks started arriving with Lydia at about the same time he started taking an interest in politics, though he has not given up his reputation as a degenerate.” Lady Lakenham’s curly blond hair bounced as she shook her head in emphasis.

  It was damning and if Emily was hearing it for the first time, she was certain that she would have been sick by now.

  “He courted me, then seduced Lydia.” Lady Lakenham’s words were tiny bullets. “If you think he’ll make you happy, you’re deluded.”

  “This was years ago.” Her skin felt bruised and punctured.

  “But do you believe that people change, Lady Emily? Sins and choices stay with us.”

  “I don’t know.” That was tantamount to a falsehood. Because she believed both.

  Lady Lakenham was watching her like a fox watched a rabbit. A frisson of concern went down went down Emily’s spine. There was more. Worse.

  “You should know that he seems to protect a young woman, living near where you were visiting recently. We believe she is another of Lord Markshall’s by-blows.”

  “He has two illegitimate children?” He hadn’t told her and that stung. Was a second child twice as bad? Perhaps he thought so since he hadn’t told her.

  “That we know of.” Lady Lakenham inferred with her tone there could be eighty more.

  “But he pays for the upkeep of the two we know about?” She held onto the idea of just two as some addle-brained sign of a limit to his vice.

  Lady Lakenham inclined her head in agreement, as though using actual words would be too much acknowledgement. “Is that really the sort of man you wish to share a bed with?” Lady Lakenham raised her eyebrows. “To bear his children, knowing there are others who will never be acknowledged?”

  No. She didn’t. He had told her not to trust him. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t owe him her heart or a place in her bed. But he owed her an explanation.

  * * *

  His heart jumped when Emily requested he accompany her on a ride. After this morning he hadn’t dared to hope she would want to spend time with him. With embarrassing haste, he told Jones to rearrange his appointments for the day and ordered horses to be saddled. He couldn’t wait to be out in the sunshine with his wife.

  “I had a visit from Lady Lakenham,” Emily announced as soon as they were out riding through Hyde Park.

  The blossom of his hope was ripped from a tree by the wind.

  “Really? I imagine that must have been enlighten
ing.” His mare snorted as he must have unintentionally gripped the reigns. Purposefully, he made his body relax.

  “She told me about the girl down in Devon.” Emily’s voice was completely impersonal.

  A look out of the corner of his eye revealed she had her face averted from him, as though he was too dreadful to regard straight on.

  “I didn’t know Lady Lakenham was aware.” But he ought to have known; women were vengeful and resourceful. He’d been spying on Lydia and Annie, and the Lakenhams had been spying on him in a state of mutual suspicion.

  This was the ideal way to finish off any chance of having Emily’s esteem. He could see the tension in her jaw. She was close to rejecting him as he deserved. His head welcomed it, even as his heart ached at the impending loss.

  “You must know men have their conquests, whores, and mistresses,” he replied. “One woman cannot be enough for a man.” The lie was cold fat in his mouth. Emily, this one good woman, was a surfeit for any man. She was more than he deserved. He looked away from her, taking in the yellow spring flowers waving merrily in amongst the grass. Buttercups, or cowslips, or something like that. Whatever they were, the incongruously bright-colored flowers were better than seeing disappointment in Emily’s pursed mouth. “My visiting her is something that you must accept.”

  “Is that so?”

  He looked up at her caustic tone and saw revulsion in her complicated green eyes.

  “Lady Lakenham said she was your by-blow. Your own daughter is your whore?” Her eyes were narrowed. “That really is horrible.”

  He’d tied himself into knots with lies. In silence, they circumnavigated the pond, covered with tiny gray waves from the wind skimming across its surface. He didn’t know whether he was an evil person anymore, but one thing was certain, he didn’t do anything to young girls. That was beyond the pale. He’d cultivated the impression that he had a mistress in Devon, but that gossip hadn’t made it safely to Lady Lakenham. He couldn’t allow Emily, or anyone else, to believe this mess of lie and truth. That left, what? A more complicated lie, or truth.

  Lies were so much work, a constant battle of memory and reputation. If he and Emily were going to spend time together, she needed to be at least as knowledgeable about him as his valet. Well, perhaps not quite that informed.

  The truth then. He sighed. “She’s not my daughter, or my lover, but she is important to me.”

  She pointed at the path that led off into trees, well away from the fashionable crush of well-dressed aristocrats. “Go on.”

  “I met her by chance. I was drunk, stumbling home late at night when a little girl approached me. Fanny. I felt bad for her.” It sounded so simple when he said it like that.

  With her bright blond hair, she’d been the picture of a miniature Lydia. In his alcohol befuddled state, he’d thought she might be his child. Nay, he’d believed she was his child, with the sudden certainty of the inebriated. It had been a tug at his navel, a visceral recognition of kin. He’d stopped and asked her name.

  Annie, she’d told him. He’d known his daughter’s name was Annie from Lady Lakenham letting it slip in her righteous fury at him, years before. He’d found his daughter, in a gutter.

  Horror had solidified in him. He’d been appalled. Contrite. And panicked to the point that he’d thrown up moments after she’d said her name. Falling to his knees, he’d bought all her matches with the coins from his coat pocket. With hindsight, possibly the reason he had fallen to his knees was that he’d been too drunk to stand. He’d asked about her mother and she’d clammed up. Then he’d told her that he was taking her home.

  She’d said no.

  “I told her to go to the nearby Doctor Barnardo’s home.” In a slurred voice, no doubt. It wasn’t a surprise that she’d refused to go with him. She’d probably thought he wanted the worst things from her. “That was the limit of my responsibility, I told himself. To direct her to a safe place.” It had been like some clichéd road to Damascus story, except with more Scotch, prostitutes on the nearby corner, and a sour looking little girl.

  Emily’s eyebrows twitched down in disapproval. They skirted around a blackthorn bush, cascades of white flowers shaking.

  “It wasn’t though. The encounter with Fanny woke some heretofore unsuspected conscience in me.” The next morning, his head pounding from his imbibition, he’d gone to Doctor Barnardo’s. They’d said no child by the name of Annie had arrived.

  He’d walked through the streets. For the first time in his then thirty years, he had looked at the street children. Not just to avoid them, but actually looked in their faces. He’d asked for Annie.

  Nothing. He’d handed out pennies and asked questions. And eventually, a black-eyed boy had slanted a scowl at him and muttered about Fanny from Plymouth, who had not been seen since the previous night.

  She’d been small for her age, he’d discovered later. Insufficient food, and not enough good food, did that. Aged eight, Fanny had looked no more than five. At the time, that had been the age of Annie.

  “I went back to Doctor Barnardo’s house for children. He was reluctant to allow me near her. It took a generous donation.” On the second visit, money and an explanation that he thought she might be the daughter of an old friend had opened the door. He saw immediately when Fanny had appeared, clean and in sober daylight, that she was neither Lydia’s daughter nor his. But he’d asked a few questions of her. He’d established that she had been in London trying to find her uncle. Her mother had been detained as a prostitute. Accused of having venereal disease and in a lock hospital, Fanny’s mother had had no way to leave until she was ‘clean’ for the sailors to indulge with again.

  When Fanny had been led away, Oscar had explained that she was indeed the daughter of a friend and that in return for keeping him informed of her progress, he would be happy to make a regular and substantial donation to the good work Barnardo was doing. Barnardo had agreed.

  On the way home, he’d stopped by the office of a gentleman of keen penetration, a Mr. Pollaky, who worked as a private investigator. He’d instructed him to find Fanny’s family. And his daughter, Annie.

  “I still take an interest in Fanny’s progress. She’s thirteen years old now and is apprenticed to a corset maker in Totnes. I like to check up on her every now and again. Since she has no family.” Her mother had died in the prison-like lock hospital the state incarcerated women in under The Contagious Diseases Act. The uncle Fanny had been looking for had turned out to be a feckless, gin-addled idiot even more useless than Oscar himself. Oscar wasn’t her family, but Fanny didn’t have anyone else.

  “Platonic?” Emily’s brows were still low on her forehead.

  “Purely charitable.” He couldn’t blame her for suspicion. He’d cultivated it. “Genuinely, I don’t do that sort of thing.”

  “Hmm. Be careful, Oscar, or I might begin to think well of you.” She increased her speed to a trot, pulling ahead of him. She rode exceptionally well, he noted. Sidesaddle, her skirts elegantly over her legs, she looked utterly natural, rising and falling in smooth coordination with her bay horse.

  He nudged his black gelding forward into a canter to catch her up. “Do you follow the hunt, back in Cumbria?” He couldn’t talk about himself any longer. They both slowed their horses to a walk once he was level. “We have a popular hunt near my home in Northamptonshire. I’m sure you’d enjoy hunting.” He could imagine her, leaned over the neck of her horse and taking a daring jump over a dangerous hedge, her hat flying off and her hair coming loose from its pins. Beautiful.

  “I don’t hunt.” She looked straight ahead. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “It would suit you.” She would be perfect for the hunt and it would be good for her, allowing her to let go a little. “You should try. It’s a lot of fun.”

  “I have hunted.” Her jaw tightened. “It isn’t for me.”

  The hunting accident that killed her fiancé. Of course. “What happened?”

  “Lord Mark
shall.” Emily turned and smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You don’t want to hear my woes. I’m just a simple woman. I was persuaded that more ladylike occupations would be more correct. I took up fern gathering for that reason.”

  “It was only quite recently that you began collecting ferns?” That was interesting. He was beginning to think that she was anything but simple. Was that subsequent to her betrothed’s death? It seemed likely.

  “It seems like I’ve been searching for the affy fern for my whole life.” Her self-deprecatory chuckle didn’t hold much humor. “It would be the crowning glory of my collection. In the meantime, I will make some drawings. My Wardian cases will be delivered from Cumbria in the next few days. They’re rather like my children. I miss them.”

  “I’ve dragged you away from your love then.” He hadn’t known he’d spoiled her plans. “I’m sorry.” As ever, the sentiment was inadequate.

  “There will be time for me to find my ferns.” Behind the casualness, there was resignation in her voice.

  Yes. There would. He would ensure that. He could do more though. “You can keep your ferns in the glasshouse at my country estate. It’s quite large. The head gardener, Mr. Barker, would be keen to help, I’m sure. He can never gather any substantial interest from me. He’d like having someone enthusiastic. There’s also–”

  “Lord Markshall,” she cut in gently. “I already have glasshouses full at my father’s estate.” Her tone was honeyed, as though she was correcting a child. “Please don’t misunderstand our relationship.”

  The fern grotto he’d just been imagining crumbled. He kept failing to recall that she didn’t want or need him. He and his lustful appetites disgusted her. Their marriage was hollow.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She ought to be tired. Emily lay in her soft bed, unable to sleep. This was the end of her first full day of married life. Everything was a haphazard pile of sticks, brittle and unorderly.