The Spinster and the Rake

by Anne Stuart

  “Miss Redfern.” Did his sepulchral voice sound faintly relieved? She couldn’t be quite certain.

  All her well-thought-out excuses fled as she stepped inside the magnificent hallway. “Ah . . . er . . .”

  “Contessa Albini said we might expect you,” the man-servant broke in smoothly, covering her embarrassment.

  “She did, did she?” Gillian said wrathfully.

  “We were all hoping she was correct. We’ve been extremely worried about the master, Miss Redfern.”

  “Why?” she asked bluntly, surrendering her cape to his expert hands.

  “I’ve been with Master Ronan for most of his thirty-nine years, and I’ve never seen him laid so low. The sight of you would do wonders for him, I don’t doubt. If he could see.”

  “What do you mean, if he could see?” she demanded, an absurd panic filling her. “You don’t mean to say he’s blind?”

  “In a manner of speaking, miss. Shot the cat, he has, quite thoroughly.”

  “He what? Oh, I collect you mean he’s drunk.”

  “Exactly, miss. Hasn’t drawn a sober breath in the past three days. He’s sound asleep, and I don’t think anything short of Gabriel’s trumpet could wake him right now.”

  “He’s here? I had thought he would be at the gaming salon.”

  “Oh, no, miss. He gave that to Mr. Peacock.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?” She was growing more and more mystified.

  “He said it was a farewell present. Master Vivian has been hanging on his coattails for I don’t know how long, ever since they were boys together, and a nasty piece of goods he is. I tried to warn his lordship, but he’d hear none of it. He’s always been the loyal sort. I suppose he finally decided to heed my warnings.”

  “Could you . . . could you show me to his room?” There was no way she could request such an outrageous thing without blushing deeply, but the manservant was too well trained to indicate that he noticed. She searched her brain for his name and came up with it triumphantly after a moment. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Mr. Watkins?”

  A beam reflected his appreciation of her memory. “Just Watkins is good enough for the likes of me, miss. And I’d be honored to do so. If you’ll follow me.”

  Gillian wasn’t as surprised by the sparse nature of Marlowe’s sleeping chamber as her niece had been before her. Indeed, her attention was more caught up by the occupant of the large bed than the furnishings.

  He lay on his back, one arm flung out to one side, black hair rumpled across his high forehead. He was still dressed, although someone, presumably Watkins, had removed his coat and cravat and undone the snowy linen shirt. His boots were lying at the foot of the bed, and a thin blanket covered his powerful frame. She looked at him, and the one thing she wanted to do was strip off her clothes and curl up next to him. She stayed where she was, her face impassive.

  “He won’t wake up, miss,” Watkins said in a normal tone of voice. “He’s a three-bottle man, but it’s been closer to eight, and he sleeps like the dead until it wears off. I don’t expect to see any signs of life from him until morning.”

  “It’s just as well,” Gilly sighed, surveying the meager furniture scattered around the room. “Could you help me move that chair, Watkins?”

  “Where to, miss?”

  “Just to the side of the bed. And if you could perhaps find me a foot stool and a blanket. And then I should be quite comfortable.”

  Watkins’s impassivity deserted him. “Are you planning to stay, miss?” he asked, agog.

  “I am. That is, if you have no objections.”

  “None in the slightest, miss. His lordship couldn’t ask for a better lady. Nor you a finer gentleman, when all’s said and done,” he added staunchly.

  That remained to be seen. He’d said he’d loved her, and she hadn’t believed him. She was taking a desperate chance on the possibility that he really did, and if she was wrong—well, things couldn’t get much worse.

  She smiled her sweet, unaffected smile that had made more than one susceptible male her slave. “I know it,” she said gently, stealing a glance at her besotted love.

  Ten minutes later Gillian was comfortably ensconced, a stool under her feet, a lambswool blanket around her, a glass of excellent brandy in her hand. During all the bother Marlowe had scarcely stirred, only muttering an imprecation under his breath when they piled another blanket on top of his sleeping frame.

  “You’re sure you’ll be all right, miss?” Watkins asked anxiously on his way out the door. The fire was nicely built up, sending a warm glow through the room. “If you want, you need only ring. I could find you a bedroom if you’d just say the word.”

  “No, I think it would be better if I stayed right where I am. But thank you, Watkins. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable.”

  Half an hour later she wasn’t so sure. Despite the dulling effects of the brandy she was still wound up, and the hairpins were digging into her tender scalp, giving her a wretched headache. She took them out, shaking her tawny hair loose about her shoulders in an impatient gesture, when another sound came from Marlowe. A whisper, so quiet she couldn’t make it out, followed by another.

  Abandoning her blanket, she got to her stocking feet and edged closer to the bed. He was still sound asleep, albeit more restlessly so than before. He tossed and turned, muttering something over and over again. Tentatively she put one knee on the high bed, moving closer to catch his words. It was with a start that she recognized her own name coming from his dreaming lips, and in a tone of longing that sent tears to her eyes.

  He looked years younger and curiously vulnerable in sleep. She longed to reach out and smooth his brow. Even more, she longed to curl up on the soft mattress beside him and sleep. It was a big enough bed; surely he was too far gone to notice.

  He turned again, flinging an arm toward her, and reluctantly she climbed down off the bed. It would be the better part of valor to stay in her chair that night. Much as she regretted the necessity, it wouldn’t do to take advantage of the man.

  Almost as if he knew the fevered thoughts that passed through her mind, Marlowe muttered another oath, then turned and began to snore. Gilly laughed aloud, feeling cheered. There was something so homely and prosaic about snoring. Something so very wifely about hearing it. She settled back into her far from comfortable chair with a happy sigh.

  A quiet knock on the door awoke her. The first light of dawn was streaking in the windows, the fire was burned down to a few embers, and Marlowe was still in a state of advanced insensibility. She moved around the bed to the door and was assailed by the heavenly odor of coffee before she reached it. She opened it a crack and discovered Watkins, a tray in his hands.

  “Is he awake yet, miss?” he inquired in a whisper.

  “Not yet.”

  “He always wants his coffee when he does. I didn’t dare not bring it. Would you be caring for some tea?”

  “Coffee will be splendid. If you would bring another cup for his lordship.”

  “Yes, miss. Shall I build up the fire for you?”

  “I’ll take care of it. Tell me, is he . . . bad-tempered when he wakes up? I mean, after a night such as last night?”

  “Gloomy’s more like it. Then he gets his coffee and a huge breakfast and feels more the thing. Though he hasn’t the last few days. You’ve given him a nasty turn, miss, that you have.”

  Good, she thought. “Well, let us hope I can cheer him up.”

  He still hadn’t moved when she re-entered the bedroom. Setting the tray on the table beside her chair, she moved quietly to build up the fire. It was just after she had coaxed a tentative flame from the stubborn coals that she felt his eyes upon her narrow back. She fiddled with the wood a moment longer to give herself time to regain a modicum of self-possession, then rose a
nd moved gracefully back to her chair, meeting his astonished eyes with perfect calm.

  “Would you care for some coffee, my lord?” she inquired pleasantly, pouring a cup.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” he demanded by way of a greeting.

  She took a sip out of the steaming brew and smiled at him. “Drinking your coffee.”

  “Don’t be pert. How long have you been here?”

  “Since ten o’clock last night. And, I can’t help being pert. I feel pert this morning.”

  Marlowe shut his eyes and groaned. “Where did you sleep?”

  “In this chair. And I must say it was not terribly comfortable. Watkins offered to find me a bed, but I told him I would be better off here.”

  “Why?”

  Setting down the coffee, she climbed up onto the big bed and drew her legs underneath her aqua skirts, staring at him out of solemn eyes. “So that I can be well and truly compromised, of course,” she explained simply, as if to a child. “No one seems to realize I spent the night in your bed just a few days ago, so I thought I’d better make sure that this relatively innocent night doesn’t go unremarked.

  The dark eyes flew open to stare at her once more. “I spent a great deal of money to ensure your reputation was intact! Does your family know you’re here?” he demanded grimly.

  “They do by now. I shouldn’t doubt I’ve been cast off completely.” The prospect didn’t seem to daunt her.

  “And what put this clever idea into your brain?”

  “Felicity, of course. If she had enough bottom to secure the man she loved, then I could at least do my best. It would be extremely foolish to let missishness get in the way of our future happiness.”

  “Our future happiness?” he echoed hollowly, and Gilly felt a pang of dismay. His reaction so far had not been promising. “I gathered last time we met that you hated me.”

  “Well, to be perfectly frank, there are times that I do hate you. That wager was perfectly hateful of you, and well you know it.”

  “I told you I deeply regretted it . . .” He winced as his voice got louder.

  “I know you did. And I decided to take you at your word. You also told me that you loved me.”

  “Gilly.” He sat up and caught her hand in his. “I’m a divorced man. You haven’t thought it out clearly.”

  “Better a divorced man than a married one,” she observed with a charming practicality. “And I am a ruined woman. If you won’t have me, I suppose I could always set up housekeeping on my own. Though Felicity tells me she expects me to run her household and bring up her children when the time comes. I don’t know what Liam will say to that, but—”

  “No!”

  “Well, I rather think he’d say so, too,” she confided. “But then, Felicity has a way about her.”

  “I say no.” He pulled her closer. “You’ve spent far too much of your life taking care of other women’s families.”

  “Yes, I rather agree. I would like children of my own, please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Gilly . . .”

  “And you don’t even have to marry me. I don’t blame you for feeling cynical after marrying someone like Helene, and if you’d prefer to live in sin I would understand completely.”

  “There’s no comparison between you and Helene,” he said roughly.

  “No, she’s a great deal prettier,” Gilly said calmly.

  “She’s a heartless jade.”

  “And what am I, dear Ronan?” Gilly inquired, the light in his green eyes making her suddenly more sure of herself. She reached out and smoothed the tumbled lock of hair from his high forehead.

  He pulled her unresisting body into his arms, and she nestled comfortably against his broad chest. The warmth of him, the scent of him, the feel of him brought everything back, and she wanted nothing more than to strip off her clothes and crawl beneath him. “You, my dear, are an incorrigible minx.” She felt his lips on her cloud of hair, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief. His arms tightened around her possessively.

  After a long moment he spoke. “Is it to be Gretna Green or a special license?”

  She pulled herself out of his arms. “You don’t really have to marry me, you know,” she said earnestly.

  “I most certainly do. I intend to chain you to me through every stratagem known to man and law. You’ll marry me, my girl, whether you like it or not. There’ll be no more debauchery until we’re wed in the sight of God and man.”

  “I would like it very much, thank you.” Her voice was deceptively meek. “Which would be faster? I’d really like to be debauched again.”

  He laughed, cupping her face to kiss her. “I am owed a few favors. I could likely get a special license by this afternoon, and it would take us days to get to Scotland.” He pulled her back into the comforting haven of his arms. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer a formal wedding.”

  “With Derwent to give me away and Letty and the others as my attendants?” she inquired with a laugh. “The idea tempts me, but I feel I must decline. Unless, of course, you have a sudden longing for a horde of Redferns on your doorstep?”

  “Unless I get moving shortly, I am very likely to suffer that very fate.” He stayed right where he was, his arms tight around her slender body. “Do you mind very much if I turn over a new leaf?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “No gambling, or late hours, or city lights, or wenching.”

  She struggled to sit up. “What, no wenching?” she exclaimed. “But what about me?”

  “Only Gillian-wenching,” he promised. “And you must make similar promises.”

  “That is quite easy. I promise not to gamble or to go wenching either.”

  “No, my dear. You must wear your hair unbound, go without shoes, and be rude to all your family.”

  “That, dear Ronan, should be extraordinarily easy.” She sank gratefully back into his arms.

  The End

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  About the Author

  Anne Stuart recently celebrated her forty years as a published author. She has won every major award in the romance field, and appeared on the bestseller list of the NYTimes, Publisher’s Weekly, and USA Today, as well as being featured in Vogue, People Magazine, and Entertainment Tonight. Anne lives by a lake in the hills of Northern Vermont with her fabulous husband.

 

 

 
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