The Rake Enraptured (11 page)

He found her hands and held them, squeezed them in his bare fingers. "Only give me the chance to prove you wrong, and I shall."

"No, thank you. An entire lifetime is too much to risk on such an uncertain chance. If and when I enter into matrimony, it will be with someone I admire and respect and-" she heard herself sound lecturing again, and could not bear it. "Oh, I have spoken of this to you already. You know my reasons. I do not need to go through them again."

"They have changed. Everything has changed. Surely you must see that now. You cannot experience
that
,"
his emphasis made his meaning clear, "and not know it is so."

"This is ironic, coming from you, Mr
Holbrook. But no, nothing has changed." She tried to withdraw her hands but he held her firmly, which she did not like. Her own voice was tart as she told him, "I suppose it is a question of priorities. You may be a man who sees physical pleasure as more compelling and important than any other consideration. Yet I am not. I value other things more highly-"

"Only because you lack experience," he exploded in exasperation. "Do you think every married couple finds pleasure in each other's arms? Of course they don't. I would not enjoy the lifestyle I have
if the women of the ton were satisfied in their husbands' beds."

"Delightful."

"Truth. You think you will find this- this-"

She wrested her hands suddenly from his grip. "Companionship."

"Fine. Companionship. You think you will find it and be happy for a lifetime, never knowing if your body will ever sing again as it just did. As I made it do."

"I acknowledge your rare skill," she said sardonically. "Yet I do not mistake that for a lifelong bond. It was very pleasant, and now it is done. It has not made yo
u the sort of man I would ever choose for a lifetime."

"Why the hell not?"

"Your morals, Mr Holbrook. Your lackadaisical morals. Your essential nature. We are no match for each other." She sidled around him, closer to the light, thought she could perhaps run for the door. But no, she was probably disheveled.

"If you are concerned with my history, do not give it another thought. Those women meant nothing significant to me. Certainly not in comparison to the regard I feel for you."

"What if our positions were reversed? What if I had enjoyed the beds of half the gentlemen of the ton? Could I tell you they meant nothing and have you agree?"

His nostrils flared, visible in the candlelight from the windows, as he had followed her nearer the door. His hands clenche
d into fists, his jaw thrust forward and he stared at her under lowered brows. "Firstly," he said, acidly, "it was not 'half the ladies of the ton.' Nowhere near that number. Not even I could hope to pleasure so many."

"What a relief," she interrupted sarc
astically.

"Secondly," he went on through gritted teeth, "no. You are quite right. If even one man had enjoyed your favor that way I should like to shove his teeth down his throat with my fist. Then shoot him. Then run him through a few times for good meas
ure."

"Very civilized of you," she loaded the words with scorn.

"Dammit, woman, how can you talk of civilization to me and raise the specter of another man possessing you in the same sentence? You are not rational."

"No, you are not rational."

"Fine, then, I am not rational. You drive me insane. First you say you will not have me without marriage and then you say you will not have me in marriage. How will you have me, then? What must I do to satisfy you?"

"Why nothing. You cannot satisfy me. For
I cannot trust you will be true to me without years of proof, and I will not marry you if I cannot trust you."

"Years of proof? Are you saying," he said with a heavy frown, "that I must be promised to you, and celibate, until you can trust me? For what .
. .
years
?"

"See," she said, her lip curling. "It is impossible, is it not? I cannot possibly marry you."

"But the cases are quite different." He shook his head, still frowning. "In marriage I should have
you
. Your body and yes, every other part of you, to delight me and keep me always constant. There would be no struggle there. It would be easy."

"Easy is it? I see. Tell me, my lord, to how many women have you remained constant, in your illustrious career? And for how long?"

"The question has never arisen," he said stiffly.

"So how long is it? Six months?" she mocked him. He said nothing. "Three months? No? How about one month, my lord? Have you been constant to a single woman for a whole month, ever? Even once?"

"I will not lie to you," he said softly.

"
Not even a whole month. My lord, your words are very pretty, and I have a woman's heart that would like to believe you. I would like it of all things. But I am no idiot and I am not made for such society marriages as you. When you marry it will be to a woman who will turn a blind eye to your habits." She kept her voice steady even as she felt a streak of pain run through her at the thought, unexpected and fierce. "To give myself to you would mean only heartbreak. I am not made for it, Mr Holbrook. I tell you again, no, and I hope you will believe me."

He strode away from her, his steps jerky, spun and came back.

"Then what will you do? You cannot be certain of another offer."

"Thank you for such flattery."

"I do not say it to be cruel. Indeed I count myself lucky beyond words others do not see all I do in you. Otherwise you might be happily married already, long since. But I . . . love, I cannot bear to see you mewed up in this place, caring for the children of another, no joy of your own, no tenderness or love. Please let me take you away from this."

"I do not need rescue," she said steadily. "I am not such a poor creature as you think me. I have been happy in my post, and once you cease plaguing me I shall be happy again. I love these children and I do yet h
ave hope I may meet a man who can match my ideals."

She watched his face twist at her words. He closed his eyes and then opened them again. She saw what looked like pain there and it made her question her conviction for a brief moment. Still, she was cert
ain she was right. No man could spend an entire life being only one way and then change in the space of a month and be ever afterward different. It was not possible.

She could never wed herself to one such as he. Let her body cry out for him as it would, s
he would not give way.

"Will you give me no hope at all, then?" he said quietly.

"Now it is my turn to say I do not wish to be cruel," she said gently. "You are not the man for me. You cannot make it so merely by wishing it. There is no hope. Leave me in peace."

He stood very still for a long time. One minute. Two. She waited, wondering if he would speak, trying to appear as calm and steadfast on the surface as she wished she was in her heart.

Finally he drew in a sharp breath. "If I must prove it to you, then I shall. You will see I don't speak lightly, nor take you lightly."

"You cannot prove it to me. There is no way," she said.

"I shall. Wait for me."

"I- What? I am to wait for you? No. No! There will be no waiting. Do you hear me? We can never be a mat
ch. It is foolishness to think it. Surely you see this."

But he merely listened to her in grim silence, and when she was done speaking he turned and walked away, his usual lithe grace gone from his stride, along the terrace to one of the doors that stood o
pen onto the night. He entered the house and passed from view.

Released from his presence, she too took a breath, and then a second one that broke in the middle and became a sob. Pressing her palm hard into her mouth to stifle any sound, she whirled and ra
n further into the garden, tripped on the path, caught herself before she fell, and fled beyond the ranks of trees and into the rose garden. She hid in the arbor, trying all the while to hold back her tears, and failing.

Why cry? Stupid. Such a fool she wa
s, to want a man like him, to feel she had just made a fatal error. Of course she had not. He would never be a faithful husband, never in a dozen lifetimes. He would break her heart over and over if she was idiot enough to trust in his empty words. He did not even know himself. Not as she knew him, faithless hedonist that he was.

But oh, when had he come to matter so much to her? She barely knew him
, far less admired him. Yes, he had a quick wit and he was charming enough, facile and good-humored. But that was the bait to his trap. She was only a passing fancy for him, a craze born of frustration to have what he was so seldom denied. Her refusal to succumb added a spice of the exotic to plain, sensible Julia Preston and he, reckless, heedlessly impulsive man, imagined it to be love.

Foolish she might be, but not as much as that. She shuddered at the horror of her own imagination: seeing him grow bored and discontent, turning aw
ay from her and back to his games of pursuit. Ignoring her for the delight of some fresh quarry, more beautiful, more exciting than his tedious wife . . .

No, she had not made a mistake.

"What are you crying for?" Mrs Trent's voice was harsh. Julia started up from the seat onto which she had folded. "What have you done? Have you let him ruin you?"

"Ruin me? I . . . Of course I haven't. What do you take me for!"

"I take you for exactly what you are: a frustrated spinster, with a young, handsome man sniffing about your skirts. Have you lifted them for him?"

Her mouth dropped open and she flinched back. "Good heavens, you are crass beyond all expectation. Who are you to say such things to me?"

"I am your employer. You will not take such a tone with me. I do not tolerate scandal under my roof-"

At this Julia let forth a choked cry of scorn, the hypocrisy too much to bear from this adulterous woman. "No? Madam, you astound me." She could hear her own contempt, and the dread she felt was not enough to stop her ton
gue.

"What do you mean? What have you heard?"

"Not heard.
Seen
."

The two women faced each other, toe to toe in the dark, and Julia listened to the faint sound of her adversary's quickened breath.

"I do not . . . I don't know what you are talking about," Mrs Trent said.

"You know perfectly well."

"Will you . . . Don't tell . . ." There was another pause, and when Mrs Trent spoke again, her tone had changed, hardened and cold. "I do not believe we have a position available for you anymore, Miss Preston. Your conduct these past weeks has been extremely unbecoming, and if asked I could never give good report of you. You will leave immediately. If you are gone by this time tomorrow with no other word said, I will be gracious enough to remain silent about your wrongdoing. Do not try my leniency."

"You are abundantly clear, Madam. I do not mistake your meaning. I have done nothing I need be ashamed of-"

"Then you are more unprincipled than I can comprehend," Mrs Trent hissed.

Julia sucked in a sharp breath. "I have
done nothing-" She cut herself off. How could she prove it, if the woman was determined to judge Julia by her own standards of behavior? "I see you are determined not to believe me. I have never told you a lie, neither do I now. But yes, you have my silence, and I will go without troubling you further."

"And you will hold your tongue." The tone of command was tainted by uncertainty.

"I have too much dignity to gossip about the foibles of others. I trust you will cultivate the same self-control, whatever your false beliefs."

Julia heard Mrs Trent's indrawn breath at this, but after a moment the woman conceded: "It will be best for both of us if there is no scandal."

"That is true," Julia said steadily. For a moment she considered pushing the point and demanding the right to continue in her position. But no, Mrs Trent would be a nightmare to work under now she had a grudge to hold. She had it in her to be a cruel mistress. Julia was not so desperate as that. "I expect a glowing letter of reference, enumerating the many advances of your children under my tutelage. Once I have it in hand I will go."

"You will have it." The words were said grudgingly, but Julia knew a bargain had been struck, and felt it was the best to be expected of this sorry night's work. She
inclined her head and dipped into the ghost of a curtsy, then walked away, head held high, slippered feet crunching over the gravel path.

CHAPTER T
HIRTEEN

February 1818

Colin watched Timmins draw the curtains closed, shutting out the sight of snow flurries dashing against the window pane. "I've no taste for it, in truth."

"She's a delightful piece. I think she has an eye for you, if you're so inclined," said Lieutenant-Co
lonel Matthew Brinks, lounging askew in his chair, rakish chapeau dangling from a casual finger.

Colin raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Offering to share, are you?"

"If you'd be kind enough to take her off my hands, you would do me a favor."

"Ah. You've f
ound yourself another. I'm afraid you'll have to manage your own headaches. I'll not aid you."

"I can't see why not. She's a true athlete in the bedchamber, and you've been living like a monk these days. You could do with such a diversion
to welcome you back to town."

"Kind of you to think of me, but no, thank you. Thank you, Timmins. That will be all." The serving man nodded, finished the task of refilling Matthew's glass, set the decanter down on the sideboard and withdrew, closing the door of the study b
ehind him. The room was cozier now with the heavy velvet curtains drawn, candles blazing, and flames of the stoked fire leaping high in the grate.

"What's got into you?" Matthew asked idly. "I've never seen you pursue business with such fervor." He pointe
d his hat at the pile of open ledgers and sheaves of notes on the desk, then dropped it to take up his glass. "Determined to outstrip us all in wealth?"

"As if I could better your fortune. No, but I find I need something to occupy my mind."

"Do you? Reconsider the lady-"

"Not that sort of something."

"Why ever not?"

Colin hesitated, contemplated telling the whole story, and decided against it. "Truth be told," he said, settling on a lesser factor in his decision to switch courses, "I'd let things get into a
shambles. Can't allow such a fine inheritance to go to waste. Not every man is granted as much."

"It can be hard to receive, when it comes in such a way," said Matthew, and Colin ducked his head against the sympathy in his friend's voice.

"Yes."

"It's goo
d you pay it some heed. Sebastien loved the land, and he loved you too. He would never have grudged it to you, save that you dissipate it."

"True, true, though I'm not such a wastrel as all that. But yes, he did love it and I haven't given it all it deserv
es. I'm doing my best to rectify the neglect. It will all come right soon enough."

"Such a waste," said Matthew, and Colin knew he was not speaking of land management.

"Yes," he said again.

Matthew stared sightlessly into the fire. "Sometimes I think of how it would be if they were still here. Sebastien. David. Mad, laughing Harry. Harry would have taken that jade off my hands before I even gave him permission."

"He would, and taunted you she was much better serviced at his hand."

"He would. By God, he would." For a long moment they were silent.

"That charge. That last charge, when I saw him go down-"

"I know," Matthew said, soft, interrupting Colin before he could break their unspoken pact no
t to talk of Waterloo or the horrors there.

But Colin was in the mood for catharsis. "You cannot imagine what it is to watch a brother fall and not be able to go to him, to turn your horse and go back."

"He was like a brother to me too, though not of blood. But it was a knee-to-knee charge. You could not swerve. If you'd faltered we would have been spitted."

Colin saw again that moment, bright-edged and etched in memory, the froth on the horses mouths as they heeded rein and spur, as they stretched mighty
hearts to the utmost to answer their masters and went into the smoke of the cannons. Ah, they showed the French how cavalry were not yet useless on the field of battle, how a horse rearing up to crush a man's skull could still make him yell with terror and break formation rather than hold firm and take the charge. They had broken through, taken the position, slaughtered the gunners.

The 71st
cavalry, the fine froth of nobleman's sons and their horses, smeared bravely across the field of battle, and gone.

"
I know. I know," he said almost dreamily. "Yet it seems the greatest betrayal, when I look back. Did he see it? Did he see me go on and leave him behind? Did he feel abandoned? Is there truly anything more important than brotherhood, in this world or the next?"

"Dark thoughts."

"I am sick of it all, you know. I thought I could lose myself in the pleasure of life, celebrate what I still had, that they have not. It's hollow though. It's all hollow. Someone . . . something made me see it's just . . . I didn't want it anymore. There's been enough waste."

"You think too much, my friend." Matthew drained his glass to the dregs in long swallows.

"Not enough. And maybe too late. Still, I am trying."

"Trying for what?" Matthew set the glass down and smiled his crooke
d smile, still boyish despite the darkness in his eyes. "Are you to be a noble, parfit knight? Or are you turning monk in truth? What is your recipe for redemption?"

"And that is it, isn't it? We almost need redemption. How close did we come? How close did
I come? I have a soul, still, for all I treated it lightly."

"God, man, a little debauchery never did any man harm."

"Did it not?" Colin stared at his friend, not seeing him. "I beg to differ."

"What, then? A life of solemn rectitude? No more bed sports,
no more frivolity? Are you to be a noble country squire then, doughty and staid?"

"I hope to be something of the sort," said Colin steadily, meeting the mocking tone with seriousness.

"What? Good gad, man, never say it." Matthew abandoned his languid pose and sat up, frowning in consternation.

"It's the truth."   

"No. Really. I am deeply offended. The world has gone awry. You were never made for sobriety."

"I meant to try. And I find it fits me better than I had imagined."

"Blasphemy."

Colin snorted a fa
int laugh despite himself. "It's not such a tragedy as that. Don't be a ham."

"Six months in the countryside and you've come to this. We've missed you while you've rusticated, of course, but I never imagined you had fallen so far from sanity."

"It's you who is the Bedlamite."

"Leader of our revels. Say it's not so."

"King among fools, more like."

"And now you're to be a squire? I'll not have it!"

"You can't shame me. Call me king of turnips and monarch of cabbages. In truth it's satisfied me to set myself to do something worthwhile."

"Presiding over the squabbles of farmers?"

"There has been some squabbling. There's a world of innovation out there, and the hidebound dig in their heels when I try to drag them into the nineteenth century. My tenants are a curmudgeonly bunch. I plan to set up a model farm to demonstrate the results that are possible-"

"Are you even the same man? What have you done with Colin, you false creature?"

"It must be in the blood. I find I have a head for it. Astonishing, after all these years frittered away in leisure as the pampered and useless younger son."

"Don't think you'll convert me to your strange religion."

"I don't imagine it for one second."

"But you're happy, eh? You don't seem as cheerful as usual."

"Determined, would be the word. I have an endpoint in mind. A goal, if you will. Until I've achieved it I- Well, I shan't speak of it until it comes about."

"I wish you luck, whatever it is. But do tell me you'll be at the prize fight between Regan and Peterson. It's this
Tuesday. You must have heard about it, even knee-deep in parsnips."

"The Agricultural Society are receiving accounts of the best ways to preserve root vegetables that same day. I thought I might attend to receive the very latest in methods-" but Matthew'
s look of incredulity was too much to allow Colin to keep a straight face. "Yes. Yes, I'll go to the fight. I'm not so changed as that."

"And Lady Ketteridge's Ball? You must have received an invitation. That woman has a nose like a bloodhound. I'm sure sh
e sniffed the scent of you the instant you set foot in the city."

"Possibly. I haven't read my invitations." He waved a careless hand at the salver on one corner of the desk, and Matthew got up and went to rummage through the neglected pile.

"Here it is," he said, flourished it triumphantly and then opened it.

"Don't stand on ceremony, will you?" said Colin, a little sour. He had grown out of practice with the casual abrasiveness of his gentleman-soldier friends. Six months of calm civility on
his estates had altered him more than he realized.

"Never. It's
to be the first of March. Are you fixed in town now for the season? Surely your root vegetables and curmudgeonly farmers can do without you through the depths of winter."

"I should prepare for the spring
planting-" he said, enjoyed Matthew's exaggerated roll of eyes, then went on more seriously, "In truth there's one other matter - rather important - to which I must attend before I decide my schedule."

"What's that?"

"A question. An important question that must be answered. Then I will have a better idea of my plans."

"So is this before or after the ball?"

"Soon. I haven't settled on an exact time or date, but soon."

"Well do get on with it then. And come to the ball. I hear it is to be the most lavish affa
ir of the season."

"Well of course. Bridget never does things by halves."

"No. Of course.
Bridget
is an extremist." Matthew smiled an insinuating smile.

"Lady Kettering, I should say."

"So you should, o ye new-minted monk."

"Out with you, scapegrace."

"Ejecting me?"

"Yes. Go to your card party, or soiree, or whatever you have planned for the evening. Leave me to my accounts."

"It is dinner with the Hammonds. You should come. You know they never stand on ceremony. They'll be delighted to see you. I'll wait for you to change."

"Honestly, no, I'd rather not.
" The Hammonds gatherings were the penultimate sort of debauchery, little short of an orgy to be found in various rooms of their house while others held more sedate pursuits such as cards and conversation. A representation of society in microcosm. "I'll avoid the temptations. Old haunts, old habits. You know how it is."

Matthew cocked a dubious eyebrow, standing with his feet widespread and thumbs cocked in his waistband like the pirate he was at heart. "Not
really, but I'll take your word for it."

"Give my regards to the Hammonds. Tell them I'll ride with them in the park any morning they choose, only send me word."

"You're safe there. They never rise before noon."

"I know."

"Ah. Well then, I shall depart." Matthew picked up his hat, and walked to the door. There he paused and inspected a sleeve minutely. "
Are
you happy, Colin?" he asked without looking up.

Colin considered the question carefully. "I will be." He nodded. "I will be." 

"Good. Good. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Matthew went out.