Twice a Rake

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Twice a Rake

Copyright © 2011 by Catherine Gayle

Cover Design by Catherine Gayle

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means
—
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews
—
without written permission.

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Dedication

To Tyler, for all the hugs.

Chapter One

29 March, 1811

Oh, dear good Lord. Tonight will be another ball. While Father views it as another opportunity to find a gentleman who might make an acceptable match, I view it simply as a means to obtain the newest gossip. Rebecca promises she will have something worth my while when she arrives
—
something involving a reclusive, and potentially rakish, new gentleman. I can only hope he is something worth writing about. At present, the subjects for my journal entries are rather slim. Or boring. Or both.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

“I still maintain it is a shame that Lord Dodsworth did not live long enough to uphold his agreement,” Aurora Hyatt’s aunt, the Marchioness of Sedgewick said in her nasally voice. “Aurora ought to have been married and widowed years ago. There would be no need for this farcical hunt, wherein she finds every gentleman of good
ton
unworthy for some confounded reason or another.”

Neither her father nor her aunt could hold Aurora to task for Lord Dodsworth’s demise, however, despite the manner in which she had celebrated her freedom from impending marital doom. The earl had been stricken in years (to the point of being more than twice her age—even older than Father himself) when his face had landed squarely in his bowl of porridge. On that equally horrid and delightful morning only a fortnight before their planned wedding day, bits of gruel had spattered on both his balding head and the worn, royal blue superfine of his overcoat. How could a girl—for that is what Aurora must truly have been considered at the time, having not yet reached her majority—have been enamored of the prospect of a lifetime spent beside a man more akin in age and temperament to her father than to the beaux of her friends?

Regardless of the degree of sheer and utter relief she had felt over the untimely passing of her betrothed, Aurora had been absolved in the matter.

Various other matters, however…well, truth be told, a touch of blame may rest upon her shoulders from time to time. She preferred not to think on them overmuch. Certainly, the present did not provide an opportune moment for such reflection. As her father’s crested carriage drew before Southmont Manor, she bit the inside of her lower lip in order to refrain from telling her aunt just how fortunate it was that she had not married Dodsworth. Indeed, she would not have done, if given the choice. Thankfully, soon after his death, she reached her majority and earned the right to choose for herself.

The coachman came around and set down the steps, handing first her aunt and then Aurora down from the carriage. After making their way through the receiving line, Aurora slunk away from her aunt to find someone more pleasant with whom to converse. Just then, her dearest and most especial friend dashed to her side, skirting through the lines of dancers, pots of flowers, and tables filled with drink, all in their proper and precise places for this particular ball.

“They tell me,” said Rebecca, nodding across the way to a group of matronly gossips, her honey-gold ringlets bobbing over her head with a force only fresh
on-dit
could provide, “that Lord Quinton cuts a most dashing figure, though his appearance is more pirate-like than genteel.”

A pirate, now, was he? Aurora’s imagination took over without her full consent, painting an image in her head of a swashbuckling hero, with long black hair whipping about an unshaved jaw, black eyes with just a hint of a devilish gleam over a knowing smirk, and etched muscles of a perfectly sculpted frame threatening to burst free from the clothing that kept them confined.

Rebecca leaned in closer. “His hair is sun-kissed and almost as long as mine.”

And just like that, the image fizzled out from beneath her like the smatterings of fireworks at Vauxhall smoldering and settling from the sky. Sun-kissed hair? Surely he must be too—too—well, too
pretty
to fit her dream of a dark and dangerous pirate, swaggering his way to sweep her up onto his ship and away from the more lamentable reality of the marriage mart and the depressing conversation and the
beau monde
.

“It is odd, though,” Rebecca continued, glancing over her shoulder at her father, the Duke of Aylesbury, who stood well on the other side of the ballroom and completely out of earshot. His Grace would certainly not be pleased to discover his youngest daughter discussing the less-than-illustrious details related to a rakish-appearing newcomer to the London scene. “No one has ever seen the man wearing anything but black. Might he be in mourning? Or do you think, perhaps, he simply doesn’t realize how divine he would look in blues or greens?”

Aurora frowned. “You’ve not seen the man. How could you possibly know that he would look divine in anything, let alone the particular hues?”

“Well, why should he not look anything short of spectacular in any color?”

Why, indeed? The more Aurora learned about this elusive Lord Quinton, the more she desired to know. And anyone who knew Aurora Hyatt remotely well at all could attest that if she desired something, she found it.

Even if only in her imagination.

Which, at the moment, was burning to be set free. Highly irritating, that.

She needed details. Ample details. “Since
they
seem to be so knowledgeable on the subject of this enigmatic Lord Quinton, what do they have to say about his sudden appearance?” In all the Seasons she had spent in Town, never once had Aurora ever heard mention of a Lord Quinton—not even in terms of his participation in the Lords. It was possible, she conceded, that he was merely heir to a greater title, so wouldn’t have taken up his seat in Parliament yet.

But Aurora needed to
know
. Her general need-to-know grew more insatiable with each suitor’s dismal attempt to woo her favor. It was pathetic, really. Her curiosity was like the cat that returned to chase the fish in a pond, even after having fallen in countless times.

Thankfully, Rebecca had ferreted out at least a smidgen of information to satisfy her burgeoning need. “Well, no one is quite certain who he is, though many seem to recall his name for some confounding reason. Lady Fitz-Henry is most unequivocally convinced he is a rakehell of unparalleled measure.”

“Is that so?” Aurora mused aloud. Despite Lady Fitz-Henry’s certainty, Aurora held tight to her doubts on that particular claim. The old marchioness was the busiest of all the dragons in the
ton
, and frankly was certain that nearly every gentleman she came across was a rakehell or worse. For that matter, nearly every young lady’s name she mentioned must clearly be a wanton, destined to become Haymarket ware if not, in some other manner, ruined beyond repair.

Except, of course, Lady Rebecca Grantham. Somehow, Rebecca had finagled herself into the position of favorite amongst virtually all of society’s matrons. They treated her almost as a pet. Which, at the moment, was proving to be most useful to Aurora.

“Yes, quite.” Rebecca lowered her voice as a group of debutantes drew within earshot. “And Lady Midwinter claimed that this Lord Quinton is the most shocking flirt to dare to take part in society in her memory. Why, he has all but stumbled over himself in his attempt to gain introductions.”

Of course, Aurora already knew more about
that
than Rebecca did. The man had reputedly requested (and had been indubitably denied) an introduction to no fewer than six debutantes at the Bythewood ball, in all their varying shades of pastels.

“No chaperone worth half a farthing would dare to grant such a request, of course,” Rebecca rushed on, “but no sooner had the last of those chaperones denied him than he turned to Lady Kislingbury and flirted with her most outrageously, in the plain hearing of twenty or more guests. The man was so bold as to compliment the countess on her décolletage.”

“Indeed!” Now
that
was new information if Aurora had ever heard it. And quite the scandalous bit of it, as well. He just might actually be the scoundrel the gossips of the
ton
would have all the unmarried innocents believe.

Scandalous enough, even, to set her mind to work. Oh, dear good Lord. She could feel the story brewing in her mind already, and she most certainly was not in an appropriate place for such an occurrence. The regrettable shade of Lord Quinton’s hair no longer mattered, since far more intriguing elements of his character had floated to the surface.

Quashing her imagination, at least until she returned home and could set quill to parchment, became of dire import.

Especially since she could feel herself flushing, imagining Lord Quinton making just such a statement about her own décolletage. That part would most emphatically have to be written. There was nothing else to be done for it.

“Aurora,” Rebecca said, with the tiniest hint of admonishment coloring her words. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? I can see it all over your face, with the way your eyes look like they’re staring at still water in Father’s pond.”

“Poppycock. Doing what?” Goodness, she couldn’t even convince herself with such a pitiful excuse for a denial. This story must have an even firmer hold on her than usual.

Clearly, Rebecca remained unconvinced as well. Her creased brow indicated she would suffer none of Aurora’s cheek.