The Rake (23 page)

Amelia instructed the hired hack to wait at the end of the block for her, and paid the driver an extra five shillings to keep this visit and her identity—if he should realize it—to himself. Pulling her hood up close around her face, she slipped down the street and up the short front drive of
Carroway
House. She'd only seen the house from the outside, and the idea that soon the grand place would be hers created
a shivering
warmth deep inside her.

Her parents' house was opulent, but it wasn't on Albemarle Street. Only the oldest blue blood families had homes in this, the loftiest section of Mayfair. And soon she would be part of that elite circle, the one place where even her father's money couldn't gain them entry.

At two hours before dawn, she'd expected the house to be dark and everyone asleep. As she slowly pushed open the front door, which thankfully was unlocked, it
seemed she was correct. The moon was full and would be late setting, and by its dim light through the windows she made her way to the stairs and ascended to the second floor.

Tristan had mentioned that the brothers had commandeered the bedchambers on the west side of the house, so she slipped down the hallway to that wing. This was going to be so
simple,
she wished she'd thought of it before. Lady Georgiana's plan didn't seem to be going at all well, so it was necessary to take matters—and anything else necessary—into her own hands. Amelia stifled a chuckle. The outcome would be to her benefit, certainly.

Behind the first closed door the room was dark and empty, and so closing it again softly, she proceeded to the next one. A dim heap of blankets took up the middle of the bed. Holding her breath, she crept farther into the room,
then
scowled. The face peeking out from the pile was too young and soft to be Tristan's—one of his younger brothers. He had far too many of them.

She recognized the sleeping occupant of the next room as Bradshaw, a naval officer of some kind. He was handsome enough but without a title, or even a real hope of one, unless Tristan died without heirs. And he wouldn't do that if she had any say in the matter, which she would.

The clock ticking faintly down the hallway reminded her that she had only a short time before the servants began stirring. She pushed open the next door and peered inside.

Ah, success.
She was glad it was Tristan stretched out on his back under the blankets and not the middle brother, Robert. On the one occasion she'd seen him, he'd made her uncomfortable and nervous, with his silence and his knowing eyes. He didn't look as though he ever slept, anyway.

Moving as quietly as she could, Amelia closed the door behind her and tiptoed toward the bed, shedding her cloak as she advanced. She couldn't hold back her smile. If Tristan was half the man his reputation claimed, tonight should be pleasant in more ways than one.

Tristan half opened one eye as delicate fingers trailed down his chest. At first he thought he was dreaming about Georgiana again, and, loath to wake, he sighed and closed his eye.

A tongue licked his ear, and the delicate fingers slipped below the blanket. He frowned. Even in his dreams, embracing Georgiana was scented faintly with lavender. Tonight, he smelled lemon.

Weight shifted and settled across his hips. Tristan opened both of his eyes.

"Hello, Tristan," Amelia Johns breathed, leaning forward, her dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders and bare breasts, to kiss him.

With an oath he shoved her off and scrambled out of bed. "What in damnation are you doing here?" he demanded, coming wide-awake.

She perched on the bed, her eyes luminous in the
dim moonlight. Her gaze traveled down the length of him and focused below his waist, less startled than he would have expected from an innocent debutante. Apparently she wasn't as innocent as he'd been led to believe.

"I want to reassure you that I welcome your suit," she cooed, running her tongue along her upper lip.

He grabbed a blanket from the back of a chair and pulled it around his hips. Before Georgiana's return to his bed, he would have welcomed a midnight visit from a pretty female, but things had changed. Besides, he knew a trap when one pounced on him. And this was a good one. Completely naked, all she would have to do was yell, and he would be a married man.

The wholly male part of him acknowledged that she was quite pretty, and desirable—and, of course, wealthy. Swallowing, he returned his gaze to her face.

"I'm not certain what you're talking about," he said in a low voice, hoping no one else in the household had heard his initial outburst, and rather surprised she hadn't already roused witnesses. She would; of that he was certain. "But we can better discuss this over luncheon tomorrow, don't you think?"

Amelia shook her head. "I can satisfy you, as well as any other woman."

He doubted that, but under the circumstances it didn't seem a good time to argue. "Amelia, I'll discuss anything you like tomorrow, but this just isn't
. ..
seemly
." Good God, he sounded like one of the women
he used to seduce. He hoped it would work better on her than it had on him.

She scowled. "I know it's not seemly, but it's not as though you've given me any choice. You've barely even noticed me, lately. And I know why."

That sounded ominous. Whatever might be brewing in her pretty head, he had to make certain it didn't pass any farther than these walls. "Tell me why, then, won't you?"

"Lady Georgiana Halley. She warned me that you would make a terrible husband."

"She did, did she?"
That little interfering busybody.
Actually, he'd expected as much.

"Oh, yes. She said awful things about you. And then she promised me that she would teach you a lesson that would make you more appreciative of me." She slid off the bed and glided toward him, her bare skin milk white in the dim room. "So you see
,
she's only trying to make you look foolish."

He sidestepped her approach, wanting to have as much distance between them as possible if one of his family members or servants should discover them together. "I might say the same thing about you, Amelia."

She shook her head, full breasts peeking through the long waves of her brunette hair as she moved. "I don't want to make you look foolish," she breathed. "I want you to marry me."

Thank God Georgiana had been honest with him about her little lesson in behavior, or he might have been tempted to use Amelia to erase the feel of her against his skin. "That's very interesting," he returned, bending down to pick up her dress as they circled the floor, she stalking, he assessing. "Why don't you put this back on?"

"I don't want to."

"Nevertheless, it's very late, and if your parents awake to find you gone from their household, they'll be frantic."

Whether it was true or not, she slowed as she considered his words. Taking the opportunity, he held open the dress for her.

"If you please," he pressed, "
you .
..
distract
me far too much, Amelia." He'd never worked this damned hard to escape sex before. "A discussion this important needs to take place in a more proper setting."

"No, it doesn't. I'm getting impatient, Tristan. You've been courting me for weeks, now. I think you should take me to bed, and—"

"There's always time for that later," he interrupted. His trousers hung over the back of a chair, and he dropped her gown and grabbed for them. "I'm actually very tired tonight."

"I could scream and wake everyone up," she said in her honeyed voice.

Tristan narrowed his eyes.
Bloody hell.
"And then you'll have to explain why you're in
my
bedchamber, and I'm not in yours. They'll say you're forward."

She pouted. "How can I be forward, or anything less
than patient, when I've waited the entire Season for you to declare yourself?"

Amelia reached for his blanket. Tristan saw the move coming and grabbed her hand, holding her away from him. "If you make me angry," he said in a firm voice, "I won't marry you regardless of who gets ruined. My reputation would survive this."

"But your pocketbook wouldn't, because no one would want to marry you after the shameful way you've treated me."

"I'll risk it." As long as he could bluff her into believing that, he might make it until dawn as a single gentleman.

"Humph." Stomping her foot, she picked up the dress he'd dropped at her feet. "You know what I think? I think you're in love with Lady Georgiana, and when you declare yourself to her, she's only going to laugh at you. And then you'll have to beg me to marry you. And I
will
make you beg."

Turning half-away, he shrugged into his trousers and dropped the blanket. "I told you, we can discuss this over luncheon tomorrow. We'll both be calmer and more rested."
And more dressed.

"Oh, very well."

"Where are your shoes?"

She pointed. "Over there, by my cloak."

He went to get them and light a lamp, while
Amelia,
annoyed and more than a little unsatisfied after seeing his fine form, yanked her gown up over her shoulders.

As the lamplight
flickered
yellow into the room, she saw the toe of a woman's stocking hanging out of his
bedstand
drawer. Tristan was still occupied with gathering the rest of her clothes, so she stepped over and pulled it free. A note came out with it, and she opened it, reading it quickly.

No wonder the viscount was reluctant to give up Georgiana Halley. She'd been sharing his bed.
And leaving him stockings as mementos.
Glancing at his bare, broad back, she took the second stocking out of its quaint little box and stuffed both of them and the note into her pocket.

So much for Lady Georgiana teaching Dare a lesson. That whore had planned to steal Tristan all along, and she was using the lesson as a ruse to keep her rivals from becoming suspicious. Well, she was in for a surprise now.

"All right, put on your shoes and cloak, and let's go," he growled.

For a moment she considered her original plan of rousing the household and forcing Dare into marriage. Her friends might laugh at her for being so desperate, though, after she'd spent weeks telling them how confident she was about his suit.

"I'm not very happy about this," she muttered for effect, stepping into her shoes.

"Neither am I." He didn't help her on with her cloak, but handed it to her from as far away as he could reach. "Do you have a coach?" he asked as he shrugged into his coat.

"I have a hack waiting around the corner."

"I'll walk you, then."

He was only worried that she would try something devious. She had his letter and the stockings, however. Holding one hand over her pocket to be certain nothing fell
out,
she preceded him down the stairs and out the front door.

"Remember, you are meeting me for luncheon tomorrow," she said as they neared her hack. "I expect you to call on me at my parents' home."

"I will." Abruptly he took a step closer. "I'm not pleased with this, Amelia. I don't like tricks.
Or traps."

"I'm only thinking of both of us," she returned, taking a half step away from him. She hadn't seen this side of him before. She found it rather arousing. "I want a title, and you want my money. But I do have other offers this Season, Tristan. Consider that tomorrow, too."

"I'll call on you at one o'clock."

She stepped up into the hack. "I'll be waiting."

Tristan slipped back inside the house and shut the front door. With a long exhalation, he leaned back against the sturdy oak and threw the bolt. That had been too damned close.

But Amelia's sudden appearance had answered a question that had been knocking about in his skull. She was still the logical choice for a wife; young, compliant—though not as compliant as he'd originally thought—and wealthy. And he absolutely didn't want to marry her.

With a slight smile, he pushed upright and headed
for the stairs. He wondered what Georgiana would say if he simply proposed tomorrow. After she regained
consciousness, that
was.