Romancing The Rake (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  He fell asleep to the vision of a life with Sophie. He would call on her the following day and begin his courtship in earnest.

  But his euphoric dream of Lady Sophie was shattered by a bucket of ice-cold water.

  Rafe spluttered awake, gasping for breath.

  Beadle, his father’s ever-loyal butler, stood beside Rafe’s bed, rimmed in the faint light of dawn.

  “His Grace would like a word with you,” Beadle intoned.

  Given that two burly grooms flanked Beadle—arms folded, eyes menacing—Rafe understood that the audience with his father was not a request.

  Hair dripping, hands shaking in fury, Rafe wrapped himself in a banyan and followed Beadle.

  “Are the rumors I am hearing true?” the Duke of Kendall demanded from behind his desk as soon as Beadle closed the door. “That you danced with Lady Sophronia Sorrow yesterday evening?” His father’s dark eyebrows were drawn down into a thunderous line. The weak sunlight left the duke’s face shadowy and menacing.

  This was it, Rafe realized. The moment he broke with his father forever.

  Good riddance!

  “Yes, Father.” He imbued his words with all the resolve in his breast.

  Rafe met his father’s dangerous gaze head on, biting back the anger bubbling in his throat. No matter how satisfying yelling at his father would be, it would only give the man ammunition. When dealing with the Duke of Kendall, it was paramount Rafe remained as cold as his sire.

  Silence was always the better option with Kendall.

  “I thought that I had made my stance on interactions with Mainfeld’s mongrel progeny clear.” Menace laced Kendall’s every word.

  “You had, Sir.”

  More weighty silence. Kendall was fond of them. Rafe, after all, had learned his silence from the master.

  Rafe knew better than to squirm. He met his father’s displeasure head-on.

  Kendall understood the import of Rafe’s silence.

  “Ah.” His father’s head went back, dark eyes ominous. “You foolish, idiotic cretin. You could have any woman in London, and yet you stupidly choose the one that I have expressly forbidden. Why do you thwart me like this?”

  Rafe refused to give an answer, though his chest heaved, and bitterness left a metallic tang in his mouth.

  He has no hold on you. Do not give in. Listen and then walk away.

  Rafe was his own man.

  His father leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. “I presume that you heard the news about your grandmother. Are your actions related to her demise? Do you consider yourself and your behavior independent of me now?”

  There was no way to answer that which didn’t give Kendall more power.

  Rafe held his tongue.

  “You are, and always will be, my son,” Kendall continued. “You will obey me in all things. I dislike being placed in a position where I must be cruel to you or those you care about, boy.” He seemed to ponder for a moment and then continued, laying down his words like precious cards, triumphant that he had won the table. “As you know, your mother’s moods are unpredictable. I worry her melancholy grows more . . . precarious. I would hate to have to intervene.”

  Rafe barely stifled a gasp.

  “Intervene?” He pushed the words past numb lips.

  The duke threatened Rafe’s mother?! His own duchess?

  And over Lady Sophie?

  Just when Rafe thought his hatred could not deepen—that the duke could not fall any lower in his estimation—the bastard revealed an entirely new country for Rafe to rage through.

  Was this the man’s intended way of controlling Rafe now that the threat of penury had been removed?

  “Yes.” The gleeful light in his father’s eye confirmed it. Kendall knew he had Rafe in his clutches. The duke feigned a mournful sigh. “Your mother’s mental state is so fragile. Her melancholy is most distressing to me. To be truthful, I have considered sending her to an asylum. I understand cold baths and purging are said to have a restorative effect.”

  Rafe’s breath literally stuck in his throat, memories assailing him.

  Years ago, a childhood friend had become mentally deranged, and his family, well-intentioned, had thought a lunatic asylum would help. But when Rafe visited, he found his friend in appalling conditions, chained to his bed and forced to endure brutal treatments more akin to prison torture than any true healing. Fortunately, the man’s family had removed him once they saw how conditions truly were. Kendall knew Rafe detested such places.

  Moreover, the duchess was hardly so ill. Would Kendall subject his own wife to agony and horror in order to force Rafe’s obedience? Did the duke truly think to drag the family name through such a scandal?

  Oh, did you hear about the Duchess of Kendall? They say she was admitted to a lunatic asylum . . .

  Would Kendall really do it? Or was he bluffing?

  Because if Kendall wished to admit his wife to an asylum, there was nothing Rafe could do. Kendall’s rule over his wife was absolute. The duchess was not actually her own person under English law. Even Rafe’s uncle, the Scottish Earl of Ayr, could do nothing to help his sister in a situation such as this. If Kendall decreed that his wife needed to be admitted to an asylum, no one and nothing could stop him.

  Once again, Rafe had underestimated the true depth of his father’s depravity, of his abhorrence of Lord Mainfeld and everything tied to the Sorrowful Miscellany.

  “Of course, you can save your mother,” Kendall continued. “You will cease all contact with Lady Sophronia immediately. You will never associate with her again.”

  Rafe stilled as if Time itself had taken a breath . . .

  . . . and then everything rushed in on him, emotion surging in his chest.

  Give up Lady Sophie?

  Never speak with her again?

  Like. Hell.

  And Rafe knew in that moment—

  Kendall would never stop. He would forever find ways to force Rafe’s obedience.

  If Rafe wanted freedom, he would have to fight for it.

  This ended now.

  His mind reeled, scrambling to plan, to map out options. What could he do?

  First, he would call his father’s bluff. Then, if needed, he would spirit his mother out of the country, out of his father’s reach.

  Something of his steely determination must have shown on his face.

  His father sat back, fingers steepling. “If you do this—if you give up Lady Sophronia—in addition to allowing your mother her freedom, I will provide a way for you to accompany Andrew Mackenzie on this ludicrous voyage he is proposing.”

  Rafe’s knees threatened to buckle from the surprise.

  Now his father capitulated? And over Lady Sophronia?!

  Andrew left in less than two weeks. There was barely time to pack and race to Scotland, catching The Minerva before she left harbor. Rafe would be hard pressed to call upon Lady Sophie even one last time.

  He stared at Kendall.

  The bastard grinned, thinking he had backed Rafe into a corner.

  No!

  Never. Never again.

  Rafe had the money he needed. The duke had no claim on him.

  He would woo Lady Sophie and claim her as his bride. They would then join Andrew on his voyage regardless of his father’s decision. Rafe would finish this discussion and leave his father’s house today, never to return.

  Kendall was a monster, yes, but surely he was bluffing. Even the duke would not stoop to the scandal of committing his wife to an asylum unnecessarily.

  “My mother is hardly so ill,” Rafe said, voice measured. “And to send a healthy and whole woman to an asylum, why just imagine what the London gossips will say? It would be a black mark on your name.”

  Kendall met his gaze, seeing the determination there, likely reading Rafe’s thoughts. His sire had always had an uncanny ability to predict Rafe’s actions.

  “Perhaps. But her health is tenuous, you know.” Kendall nudged the inkwell on his des
k. “’Twould be terrible if something were to happen which worsened her moods.”

  Rafe could not hold back his gasp. Was Kendall threatening to hurt the duchess now? To deliberately invoke her melancholic spells?

  Rafe floundered. Think, man. There has to be a way out of this!

  Kendall was not done. “And the asylums . . . I seem to remember that you disliked how that friend of yours was treated in one. Tis such a pity, as I hear a lunatic asylum can be quite restorative.”

  Before Rafe could reply, the duke thumped a fist on his desk, startling Rafe.

  The door snicked open.

  Rafe turned to see Beadle and the same two burly grooms enter the room. Menace flowed with them. The grooms moved to flank Rafe, a hulking brute on each side of him. Where had Beadle dredged up these men? They both towered over Rafe’s own considerable height.

  Rafe swallowed.

  The meaning of this situation was not lost on him.

  Rafe turned back to his father, seeing the truth in his father’s determined gaze.

  There would be no escape. Rafe could either submit or be forced to submit. The duke would harm his wife and condemn her to an asylum in order to ensure Rafe’s compliance. His blood chilled at the thought of his mother there, listening to the screams of the truly mad. Ice baths and chains would cure nothing and, from his point of view, only make the patient worse. She would go mad in truth.

  For the first time since entering the room, fear clawed at Rafe’s chest. Fear for his mother and sister. Fear for himself.

  A sinking sense of dread that his dream of Lady Sophie would remain just that—a dream.

  He had vastly underestimated Kendall’s need for vengeance, the depth of the duke’s callousness.

  A surge of virulent hatred seared through his blood, scouring his veins.

  Rafe would never underestimate Kendall again.

  The duke pressed his fingers together. “Allow me to be exquisitely clear, son. You will never again speak to nor have contact with Mainfeld’s mongrel daughter. You will accompany Mackenzie on this ridiculous voyage. It has been your fondest wish, has it not?” Mockery laced Kendall’s tone. “I understand you are already packed.”

  Rafe shot Beadle a glowering glance. Beadle, as befitted a butler of his station, remained impassive, but Rafe didn’t miss the taunting gleam in the older man’s eyes.

  Beadle had always been his father’s loyal lap dog.

  His sire was not finished. “When I said I would provide a way for you to go on this voyage, I meant it. My men here—” He waved a hand at the looming henchmen on either side of Rafe. “—will accompany you to Edinburgh to ensure that you arrive safely on your ship. This is non-negotiable. You will go to Edinburgh. You will get on that ship, one way or another. Your mother and sister will be well-looked after in your absence.”

  The men each took a step closer to Rafe; the air in the room nearly vibrated with suppressed violence. A meaty hand wrapped around Rafe’s upper arm.

  Never speak with Lady Sophie again?

  Leave immediately for . . . years?! Lady Sophie would be humiliated. The poor woman would be left to face the London gossips alone. She would think him the worst sort of cad.

  Rafe pulled on the hand that held him. The second brute grabbed his opposite arm, grinning ruthlessly.

  Kendall laughed, an unpleasant sound.

  Rafe stilled. The brutes were too strong, and both looked ready to do damage with their meaty fists.

  Kendall continued to smile, taking obvious pleasure in watching Rafe be forced to submit to his will.

  Rafe struggled to breathe through his anger, hands clenched at his side, eyes locked with his sire.

  Bloody bastard.

  The smug glint in Kendall’s eyes said that he knew he had won. Rafe had been out-maneuvered.

  “You are dismissed.” Kendall flicked his wrist. “Safe journey.”

  Like hell.

  But Rafe had no choice but to allow himself to be half dragged from the room, impotent rage scouring his veins.

  As the men led him across the first-floor landing, Rafe imagined wrenching his arms free from the brutes’ grasp, dropping over the railing to the entrance hall below, fighting his way out the front door, and racing for freedom. Leaving the controlling grasp of his father forever behind.

  But, if he did that, could he return for his mother and sister in time? What damage would his father inflict on them? Could he truly save them, too?

  Voices on the marble floor below caught his attention.

  “—we should be back in time to dress for dinner,” his sister said.

  His mother gave his sister a wan smile as they prepared to leave the house.

  Some motherly sense had the duchess turning to look up at Rafe, their gazes tangling. A memory flooded in, of him standing in this same place years ago.

  “Mama!” Rafe wrenched his arm from Nurse’s hold, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Mama was home. At last!

  “Lord Rafe!” the woman called behind him.

  But Rafe was already racing down the stairs to the smiling, beautiful woman below.

  He leapt from the final step.

  His mother was there to catch him.

  “My darling wee Rafe!” His mother clutched him tightly, her familiar scent of heather and lavender enfolding him. She pulled back, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “How I’ve missed my brave boy!”

  A flood of emotion washed him, for the woman who bore him and loved him unconditionally. Who had never once wavered in her devotion to him.

  Movement in the corner of his eye had Rafe swinging his head to the right. His father stood in the hallway outside his study, icy eyes glittering in the dim light. Kendall looked nearly primordial, a sinister presence from a lucid dream.

  His father darted a pointed look to the entryway below. Rafe followed his eyes to see two more large grooms following his mother and sister out the door.

  And in that single glance, Rafe knew.

  His father would lock his duchess away to keep Rafe from stealing her.

  And Rafe . . . he would not abandon his mother to his father’s cruelty.

  He could not.

  No matter the personal cost.

  A brute jerked on his arm.

  Someday, Rafe vowed.

  Someday he would stop being that fish, pinned in place, thrashing against the knife in his chest.

  6

  The day after Lady Wishart’s ball was one of trial for Sophie.

  Her mother scolded her for dancing with Lord Rafe—

  How can you not understand that Kendall is anathema to us? Have you no care for your reputation nor respect for Captain Fulstate’s clear regard? Kendall will see us pay for this!

  Her mother had one of her attacks over the entire affair—chest heaving, hands shaking, gasping for breath—every line of her body trembling in panic.

  Lady Mainfeld had to take to her room for the rest of the day.

  Sophie, for her part, could scarcely sit still, her own chest a buzzing hive of nerves and anticipation.

  Would Lord Mainfeld allow Rafe into their home? Despite her mother’s hysterics, Lord Mainfeld had never forbidden Sophie from associating with Kendall’s children.

  And if Lord Rafe were permitted to call upon her, what would he say when he came? Would he look at her with that same intensity, that deep regard that seemed to draw her very soul from her body?

  More to the point . . . was this thrumming excitement love? Or, at the least, the beginning of love?

  Sophie nearly resorted to wringing her hands, helpless against the emotions battering her.

  Wringing her hands!

  Over a gentleman!!

  And a rake at that!!!

  She wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity.

  And so . . . she waited in the drawing room. Well, she embroidered in the drawing room and presided over the tea tray as a string of visitors came and went. But as she was dressed in a pretty day go
wn of forest green that matched her eyes and flattered her figure . . . no one was deceived as to her true intentions.

  The house was inundated with friends and acquaintances, all eager to soak up the deliciousness of the situation. Lord Mainfeld’s daughter and the Duke of Kendall’s son . . . it had the potential to be something dramatic. A scandal? A farce? A tragedy? It scarcely mattered, as regardless it would be exciting.

  Only . . .

  . . . nothing happened.

  Despite his ardent kisses, despite his whispered promise . . .

  Lord Rafe did not appear.

  In her mind, Sophie made excuses for him—

  Lord Rafe had lost track of time.

  Or, he had taken ill.

  Maybe his mother had required his escort today.

  Perhaps an emergency had arisen.

  Mayhap the Duke of Kendall, in a fit of imperious pique, had forbidden Lord Rafe from ever seeing Sophie again, banishing him from the country—

  Sophie rolled her eyes at the last thought. How gothically melodramatic.

  They lived in 1815 not 1518, for heaven’s sake.

  Lord Rafe would have a good explanation when he called tomorrow.

  But he did not call the next day.

  Nor the next.

  Captain Fulstate was there every afternoon, of course. Polite and mannerly, solicitous of her welfare.

  On the fourth day after the ball, Mrs. Winters, a gossipy friend of her mother’s, gleefully leaned forward and said, “I have just had the most astonishing news. I had it from my maid who has a sister in service at Gilbert House that Lord Rafe has quit the city.”

  “Oh.” Lady Mainfeld’s eyebrows lifted to her hairline. “Is that so?”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Winters nearly tittered with the excitement of it all. “Apparently, Lord Rafe is off on some grand overseas adventure with a friend. They say he has had the trip planned for nearly a year now.”

  Lord Rafe on a trip with a friend? He had known for a year that he would be leaving?

  Sophie’s heart stuttered in her chest, her breathing abruptly labored.