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

by Nichole Van

  Rafe was of the opinion that if Hawthorn perhaps spent less time carousing in London and more time with his wife, he might yet produce the much-needed heir. But Rafe knew better than to voice that thought.

  As for Cousin Frank, the heir after Hawthorn and Rafe . . . the man truly was a ninnyhammer. Frank would make a spectacularly-awful duke. Part of Rafe wished that Frank could inherit, just to watch his father’s head explode from the horror of it.

  But as satisfying as that would be, Rafe needed to focus all his mental strength on escaping his own matrimonial noose.

  Rafe knew he must marry at some point, and he did believe that when paired with the right person, marriage could be a blissful, happy thing. Just remembering the look in Andrew’s eyes as he wed his Jane the week previous was sufficient proof. He refused to allow the carnage of his parent’s marriage to sour him on the institution entirely.

  Unbidden, he thought of Lady Sophie’s darling nose as she waxed on about her beloved barn cats, her opinions darting right and left, always keeping Rafe in suspense as to where she would land next.

  She is a widow at the moment. Now might be your only chance.

  He batted the thought back with a practiced mental swipe, dismissing the burn in his chest.

  Lady Sophie was not for him. End of story.

  Rafe lifted his chin. “Naturally, I share your concern, Father, but I cannot think a hasty marriage, particularly to someone I scarcely know—”

  “I said enough, boy. I do not like having to repeat myself.” The menace in his father’s tone brooked no argument. “Lord Sykes will be hosting a house party the first week of November. We are, of course, invited to attend. You will make yourself amiable to Miss Sykes and begin an earnest courtship of her. I expect that you will request her hand in marriage before Christmas.”

  Rafe’s stomach knotted. The first week of November? That was barely six weeks away. Though he had known his father would increase pressure on him to marry, Rafe had not anticipated Kendall commanding the bride and timeline.

  Though knowing his sire’s love of control, Rafe should have anticipated this.

  Was there any way out of this mess? Fury and bile rose in his throat. He clenched his teeth, holding it back.

  His father’s gaze took in Rafe’s reaction. The bastard missed nothing.

  “The freedoms you enjoy come with a cost, boy,” the man continued, voice silky. “Do not force me to be cruel. You know how I dislike cruelty, but you often leave me with no other choice.”

  Rafe swallowed back the angry words that bubbled in his throat. Someday, somehow . . . he would be free of this man.

  “I am, as ever, deeply concerned for your mother’s health,” Kendall said.

  And there it was. So predictable.

  His father’s endless threat.

  He never referred to his duchess as ‘my wife’ or ‘my duchess.’

  No, she was only ever Rafe’s mother, as if Kendall needed to ram that point down his son’s throat.

  “You know that your mother’s health is my greatest worry. Why, just today, I fear Kate’s visit overset her. My grandchildren can be loud and boisterous. Perhaps such visits should be curtailed?” Kendall spoke the words with measured calm, his eyes never leaving Rafe.

  The man was a chillingly good liar.

  “I was speaking with Dr. White again about her condition,” the duke continued. “He is still of the firm opinion that his asylum is the best place for her.”

  No, Dr. White wished for the exorbitant fees his father would pay.

  And Kendall knew that Rafe would see his mother in a lunatic asylum only over his own cold, dead body. Moreover, Rafe would bow and scrape to Kendall’s whims to ensure Kate and her children were still welcome to visit the duchess.

  “You will attend Lord Syke’s house party. You will make yourself agreeable and do as I bid you.” His father turned away, confident in Rafe’s compliance.

  In years past, Rafe had fought against his father’s ironclad hold. But he had learned from sad experience that outright revolt only strengthened his father’s grip.

  In other words, thrashing against the knife that pinned him only hurt himself.

  Subtle rebellion and the appearance of acquiescence were much more effective weapons.

  And so Rafe bit back his angry words, swallowing the fury and hatred clogging his throat, and replied with practiced insouciance, “I shall think upon it, Father.”

  “See that you do, boy.”

  10

  Sophie stared at the front stoop before her, the brass knocker gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  Out of habit, she glanced at the address in her hand, but the plaque beside the door clearly confirmed her location in scrolling letters:

  Dr. John Ross, Esquire

  Dr. Stuart Hartley, Esquire

  Swallowing, she squared her shoulders, lifted her pelisse and skirts with a gloved hand, and climbed the three stairs to the row house door.

  Aunt Margaret’s tantalizing hint—your natural father was present for your birth—had led Sophie on a bit of a hunt that landed her here. Questioning the older members of the household staff had yielded nothing. The few who were with her mother in Bath did not recall the presence of an outside gentleman. Or, perhaps, were fearful of reprisals if they disclosed what they did know.

  An elderly groom did remember fetching Dr. John Ross to attend her mother the night Sophie was born. If her natural father had been in the next room at the time, waiting for news of her birth, Dr. Ross certainly would have seen the man. More to the point, Dr. Ross would be unlikely to have any lingering loyalty to her mother and would think nothing of disclosing what he remembered, if anything.

  Sophie knew it was a slim clue—relying on a man’s memory of a night over twenty-six years past—but it was the only thing she had to go on.

  She would track down the man who had sired her. She would understand her own biological history and begin anew to reconstruct herself.

  Tucking the address back into her reticule, Sophie rapped the knocker, the sound echoing down the hallway beyond the door.

  She waited, mouth dry, hands clenched around her reticule.

  Coach wheels crunched along the road, drivers calling greetings to one another, horse hooves clopping.

  If the doctor remembered . . . she could be only moments away from learning the identity of her Pater veras. If her natural father resided in London, perhaps she could even finagle a way to meet him, unofficially of course.

  And if she did meet him . . . would the man be like her? Would she feel a sense of kinship?

  Now if Dr. Ross would only answer his door.

  She rapped again.

  A carriage rattled to a stop behind her. Sophie turned around just in time to see a tall, broad figure step out of a hackney coach. The brim of his hat hid his face as he turned to hand coins up to the driver.

  Was this Dr. Ross then?

  If so, he was younger and decidedly more dashing than she would have supposed. His greatcoat fell in elegant folds to his gleaming Hessian boots.

  The man turned around, locked eyes with her, and froze.

  All functional thoughts fled Sophie’s head.

  Oh.

  The gentleman was decidedly not Dr. Ross.

  Instead, Lord Rafe Gilbert’s astonished expression greeted her.

  Her heart lurched to attention, blood galloping in her veins.

  Of all the gentlemen in London—!

  Sophie tightened the grip on her reticule, knuckles surely white within her kid gloves.

  At least she had the satisfaction of watching Lord Rafe attempt to control his own surprise.

  His head reared back and his nostrils flared, eyes wide.

  A small fraught silence ensued. As if he, too, were struggling to realign himself. As if seeing her was just as momentous for him as for herself.

  And then, gravity reasserted itself, and Sophie remembered that this was Lord Rafe’s area of specialty—making
a woman feel as if she were treasured and important one day, and then utterly forgotten the next.

  Lord Rafe regained his equilibrium as well. A small smile tugged at his lips, dimples popping, as he tipped his hat in her direction.

  She, absurdly, dipped a small curtsy, as if they were in a ballroom and not a dusty London side-street.

  Really? After so many years? After everything that had transpired during their last encounter and its aftermath?

  This was what she did? Curtsied?!

  Sophie wanted to hate him for the chain of events his thoughtless actions had caused. She truly did.

  But . . . perhaps her heart was too battered for hate, the pieces still too scattered. Because standing here, facing him . . .

  . . . she only felt a great welling of anger-tinged hurt.

  Anger over Lord Rafe’s push-and-pull all those years ago, flirting and kissing her behind a curtain one night, and then abandoning her the following day, leaving the London gossips in a feeding frenzy.

  Hurt because for a few blissful hours, she had dreamed of something different, of a life where she was valued and wanted.

  Worse, it appeared her physical reaction to Lord Rafe had not changed. Her blood leaped and galloped in her veins, her palms perspired, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. How could the man’s mere presence elevate the surrounding ambient temperature by at least ten degrees?

  She found the entire experience incredibly annoying.

  Though Sophie’s naive, younger self had attributed her involuntary reaction to the mystique of the Rakus genus, she now recognized it for what it was—

  Basic human attraction.

  In other words, Lady Sophronia Fulstate found she had one thing in common with at least half the female population of London—

  Her treacherous body fancied Lord Rafe Gilbert.

  The thinking part of her found the entire situation nauseatingly ridiculous.

  Once a rake, always a rake, after all.

  Her involuntary physical attraction to Lord Rafe left her wanting to scream.

  It was just—

  He was so—

  Ugh!!

  Did the man have to be so very . . . virile? The very definition of a primus?

  And why must she, like many females of a species, be attracted to flagrant displays of masculinity?

  Why, body? WHY?!

  So even though she bitterly ordered her traitorous eyes to lookawaythisinstant!, they refused to listen, and instead, eagerly drank in the sight of him.

  The passing years had been excessively kind—more’s the pity—adding bulk to his broad shoulders and filling in the hollows of his cheeks. A white scar now traced his face, stretching from his right temple to the top of his cheekbone. How had that happened? Regardless, the scar did nothing to mar his overall dashing appearance. It was less a blemish and more an exclamation mark, as if to say, Attention, ladies! This man is irresistible!

  If Lord Rafe suspected the direction of her thoughts—staring dumbfounded at him as she was—he said nothing.

  Instead, she watched him glance down at a piece of paper he held in his hand and then look right and left, before settling his eyes on the plaque beside the door. She followed his gaze.

  Was he here to visit the good doctor, too?

  He did another visual sweep of the street.

  Trying to ascertain if there were other members of the ton about, was he? She could see the gears in his head practically calculating his odds of being able to speak with her unnoticed.

  Heaven forfend he be seen associating with her!

  She mentally rolled her eyes.

  Clearing his throat, Lord Rafe took to the stairs and lifted his head.

  Their eyes met once more.

  Another tense silence ensued.

  He had recognized her. She had recognized him. She had already curtsied, for goodness’ sake. Courtesy demanded he greet her first.

  The Sophie of four years ago would have waited patiently for him to greet her, and then if he did not, she would have swallowed her devastation.

  The Sophie of now was not interested in waiting for his begrudging notice.

  She shifted her feet, intent on pivoting away.

  Unfortunately, he chose that moment to smile, those devastating dimples popping again and effectively pinning her in place.

  Gracious heavens. His dimples still had the ability to send her heart lurching into her throat. She quite detested them.

  She would not be a slave to the pull of his demon dimples. Her will was stronger than mere biology.

  “We always meet in the most unconventional ways, Lady Sophie.” His rich voice wrapped around her.

  Ah. So she was to have charming Lord Rafe today. The Lord Rafe who chatted amiably and made her . . . feel things.

  But she was no longer that naive girl who had pined for him, who had built fairy castles out of the crumbs of attention he flicked her way.

  Marriage to Captain Jack Fulstate had cured her of romantic notions, even if she were still helpless to stem her body’s instinctual reactions.

  She smiled stiffly in return. “Yes, my lord—”

  Her words were abruptly silenced by the door opening behind her.

  Sophie turned to find a maid boldly surveying them. “How may I help you?”

  Lord Rafe shot Sophie an apologetic look.

  “I wish to speak with the good doctor, if he is in,” Rafe said, climbing the final stair to stand beside Sophie.

  Sophie said nothing, as she wished to see Dr. Ross, as well.

  “O’course. Please come in.” The maid motioned them inside.

  Lord Rafe stood aside, allowing Sophie to pass into the small entrance hall. The smell of herbs and vinegar greeted her senses. The maid directed them into a tidy parlor to the left of the door. A small fire burned in the grate, and a bench and several chairs dotted the edges of the room.

  Again, Lord Rafe stood politely back, waiting for Sophie to enter first. Her skirts brushed his great coat as she passed, sending a waft of sandalwood to her nose.

  Naturally, the man still smelled divine. Blast him.

  The maid spoke behind them. “You and your lady can have a seat while I inform the doctor you’re here.”

  That caused Sophie to whirl around.

  “Oh no, you misunderstand. I am not with this gentleman.” She motioned toward Lord Rafe. “We merely happened to arrive at the same time. I have come to see the doctor on another matter.”

  The maid raised both eyebrows, her expression clearly stating this wasn’t the first time she had heard such a claim from prospective clients.

  “We’re souls of discretion here, we are. You needn’t fear that the doctor or any of his staff will gossip about you.”

  The maid left the room before Sophie could stammer out a reply.

  She turned to face Lord Rafe, horrified to find reflexive words of apology on her lips.

  Heavens, what did she have to apologize for?! She had arrived first. The situation was hardly of her own creation.

  She pinched her mouth shut.

  He shot her a brief smile and turned, removing his top hat and brushing a hand around its brim. He stood for a moment, gazing out the front window, rimmed in light. His caped greatcoat fell in elegant folds; his polished Hessian boots reflected the room in elongated shapes. She caught a glimpse of a silver-embroidered violet waistcoat under a more sedate dark-gray tailcoat. Lord Rafe had always had an unerring fashion sense.

  How could anyone assume that Sophie and Lord Rafe were a couple of any sort? Lord Rafe was a glittering aristocrat from the highest echelons of society. Sophie belonged to the same set, she supposed, but she was not so much glittery as faintly burnished.

  Lord Rafe wore his status with flair and verve, whereas she wore hers with last-year’s bonnet fashions and eccentric conversation.

  In short, they were not quite a matched set.

  And yet . . . a hesitance lingered in the stillness of his shoul
ders. As if he, too, struggled to calibrate to her presence.

  Finally, Lord Rafe turned back to her.

  “I trust you are well, Lady Sophronia?” he asked, an intense earnestness on his face.

  His eyes sought hers, open and questioning, as if he genuinely cared about her answer.

  She refused to allow her stupid heart to dance and pitter-patter in her chest. This man specialized in making women feel noticed and important. She sternly pushed back the memory of what it had felt like to be held in his arms, the consuming wonder of that kiss—

  Do you hear that, Heart? You are forbidden to like the inconstant rake.

  Forbidden!

  She steeled her spine and kept her tone frosty. “Yes, my lord, quite well, thank you.” She paused and then forced herself to be polite, “And yourself?”

  “Quite well.”

  Silence hung. The brief banalities having exhausted the reservoir of her conversation with this man.

  Unbidden, her eyes drifted to that scar on his face. What had happened to him? Was the scar a memento from some angry lover? Or a duel with a ruling sultan during his travels abroad?

  Or perhaps the result of a poetry accident, slashed by his own quill in a fit of artistic distress?

  Heavens, but her thoughts were maudlin today.

  Why was that? Why was her entire body—heart, lungs, and mind—fixated on Lord Rafe, vividly remembering their time together? Her scientific brain analyzed the puzzle.

  With Jack, she had forgotten her affection for him well before his death. Her mind remembered caring for him once, but the actual feeling was long gone, burned to ash in the flame of his betrayal and indifference.

  So why, then, did her heart ache and her lungs constrict when in Lord Rafe’s presence? Why did her body instantly remember his kiss—the press of his much-larger body, the hunger in his lips—as if it had happened last week and not four years past?

  Why did Jack fade and disappear? And yet, Lord Rafe burned brighter?

  The door creaked open, startling her.

  A middle-aged man entered.

  “I am Doctor Hartley,” he said, extending a hand to Lord Rafe before shooting Sophie a smile. “How may I assist you and your lady today?”