A Rake's Redemption

by Donna Lea Simpson

  She had, he rather thought, saved his life, for in the school infirmary many boys had died of the fever that awful autumn. Had he ever thanked her? Was she still alive, perhaps? He didn’t think he had seen any of his family for an age, not even—did he not have a sister somewhere? He drifted off to sleep wondering about that, and yet soothed by a gentle hand smoothing back his hair and a low, sweet, off-tune voice singing a Scottish air.

  Chapter Five

  “So this is our houseguest,” Mr. Gillian said.

  “Yes, Papa. I think he is feeling a little better this morning. He passed a better night, anyway, and took more broth than he has been able to so far. Mrs. Lovett remarked on his improved color.” Phaedra smiled down at her patient. “Mr. Lawrence, this is my father, Mr. Phineas Gillian.”

  The rueful expression on her patient’s face made Phaedra smile. “Yes, we realize you cannot stand and shake hands,” she said, as if she understood him. “I will leave you two gentlemen alone, as I have a multitude of household chores to take care of and a lady ‘with child’ to visit.”

  Hardcastle watched her leave the room and then shifted his gaze to his pretty savior’s father. Her teasing had hit far from the mark. Rather than wishing he could stand and greet his host properly, he had in that moment realized that, now with his recovering senses, he really should correct her mistaken impression of his name. But he found himself not wanting to and that had puzzled him until he thought that perhaps, dependent on her as he was, he did not want her knowing his past just yet. That had to be the explanation, for it could not be that he truly cared how she felt.

  Mr. Gillian dragged a white-painted chair close to the bed and sat, sweeping the skirt of his outmoded frock coat out of the way. “Can you speak, young man?”

  “Some,” Hardcastle croaked, examining his inquisitor. Mr. Gillian’s face looked a little like a wax doll that had been put too close to a candle flame and had melted into soft, sagging folds. But his expression had an unexpected sweetness about it and his eyes were bright and focused. His eyes. He really did not resemble his daughter at all—she must have gotten her ethereal beauty from her mother—but her eyes were from her father. His were just the same sky blue, if a trifle bloodshot.

  “Good, good. Phaedra surmised that perhaps when the villains accosted you, they managed a hit to your throat, for there is a bruise there, and it could be that which impedes your speaking. By the by, our good neighbor Squire Daintry has been informed of the robbers’ villainous treatment of you. As has the constable, Mr. Hodgins. They both wish to speak to you when you are able.”

  “Was it—” Hardcastle tried to clear his throat, but found it would not clear. “Was it close to this house? How did it happen?”

  “Ah, yes, it did happen quite near our home. I cannot believe how bold these fellows are getting, but it must be explained by the copse of trees that encroaches the road near our cottage; it is the only sheltered spot for several miles and the robbers would have used it to hide from view. We are a little lonely here, apart from the village. You were lying unconscious on the road, which is how our maid found you, and she fetched Phaedra, who had the Simondson boys carry you in here. Is that what you are asking?”

  Hardcastle nodded and struggled to sit up against the pillows. He examined Phaedra’s father with interest; a retired cleric. There could not be a gentleman in the width and breadth of England with whom he had less in common. And yet there was something about Mr. Gillian— “I am grateful, sir,” Hardcastle croaked, not recognizing his own voice, so altered was it, “that you and Miss Gillian—” He could not speak more. It was getting too difficult.

  “Think nothing of it,” Mr. Gillian said airily, waving one hand in the air. “Made us the center of attention in our village. Not our intention, but there you have it; not much to talk about in Ainstoun. Quite a page from Luke, eh? I must say, my daughter does practice what I preach.” He chuckled at his own gentle witticism.

  Hardcastle had to concentrate fiercely before he remembered back to his youth and the story of the good Samaritan, from Luke. He supposed he should be ashamed it took him so long to remember the reference, but a blow to the head made an easy excuse.

  “So, sir, are you an Oxford or a Cambridge man?”

  “Oxford,” Hardcastle croaked.

  His eyes wide, the vicar leaned over. “Balliol?”

  “Magdalen.”

  The elderly man shrugged. “Good enough, I suppose. At least you are Oxford.”

  Hardcastle frowned. What the hell did it matter—and then he saw the twinkle of laughter in the man’s eyes. There was some private joke there, some humor that he did not quite get.

  “I say, do you play chess?” Mr. Gillian asked, his sagging face still lit with a beatific smile.

  Hardcastle nodded. Of course he played chess. Every gentleman did.

  “Marvelous. I will bring in my board and we shall rig up a way for you to play. Phaedra beats me regularly, but she is so busy lately that we seldom have the opportunity to match our wits.”

  Phaedra was turning out to be quite the little Jill of all trades, it seemed. Hardcastle felt his eyes drift close and couldn’t seem to do anything about it. When next he opened them, Mr. Gillian was gone. And sleep beckoned.

  • • •

  Again, nighttime, and he was awake. Lord, but the nights were long when one slept through the day. The door to his room opened and the familiar figure of his pretty protectress was outlined by the dim light of the candle she carried.

  “I thought you might be awake,” she whispered.

  He watched her, an unexpected sentiment oddly like gratitude warming his heart. She was always there, just as he was bored or lonely or in pain; she seemed to know, and come to him. It was how his days and nights were broken up, with the visits and company of his angel.

  “I have brought you a tisane. Old Mary in the village sent this over. It is a mixture of herbs and is said to be good for the throat. Drink it.”

  She held it to his lips and he drank the repulsive mixture, palatable only because it was Phaedra who gave it to him. She set the empty cup aside with a pleased look on her pretty face. Her flaxen hair, lit into sparkling golden light by the candle, hung like a curtain as she bent over him, and he inhaled that faint lavender fragrance that clung to her.

  “Now, sir, it is imperative that when you are ready to move about, your muscles have not atrophied from lack of use. Mrs. Lovett says that massage is efficacious for that purpose, and so I will massage at least your shoulders, though I do not think—that is—”

  She trailed off in adorable abashment, and Hardcastle thought he had never seen a sight so sweet and lovely. He should find maidenly confusion revolting—no self-respecting rake would admit to finding it alluring—but instead found it entrancing. He gazed at her steadily, but she avoided his eyes at first, as she sat by his bedside, leaned over him and set her slender fingers to work manipulating his muscles.

  “This will improve the blood flow and that, apparently, is why it works,” she explained.

  Her face was growing pink from exertion. Or from something. He preferred to imagine the “or something.” Blood flow, eh? Astounded, he realized that the blood was definitely flowing through his body, for her touch was doing strange things to his nether regions. He gazed up at her and finally caught her eyes. Ah, so she felt it, too; he could see it in the pink of her cheeks and the wide startled look of her gorgeous blue eyes. The intimacy of her actions, and especially since they were alone and it was the middle of the night, was arousing him with an unexpected rush of desire. Unexpected, but not unwelcome, first as a sign of his body’s revivification, and then as an object for him to concentrate his mind on.

  He wanted her. Or at least his body wanted her. But no, it was not a purely physical response, for he found the idea of making love to the pretty vicar’s daughter appealing, as outrageous as it was. He was not one for virgins, nor for pretty but poor spinsters. But Phaedra Gillian, he suspected, was not i
n the usual run of vicars’ daughters. Or perhaps he had just never spent the time to get to know one.

  Dressed in her simple white night rail and wrap, smelling only of lavender water, she appealed to him as no woman in recent months had; odd, considering he was accustomed to women wrapped in ermine, their limbs scented by costly sandalwood, jewels clinging to their exquisite throats! He had been without a woman for some time, by choice. One society widow and a couple of birds-of-paradise were casting out their lures for him, but he had not, as yet, succumbed. Had it been boredom, the knowledge that the affaire would take on a certain numbing sameness? Perhaps.

  But Phaedra Gillian was deliciously different. Her small hands stopped, and she straightened. Still pink-cheeked, she said, “Th-that is enough.”

  “Thank you,” he croaked. In the normal run of things it would be anathema to be beholden to someone, especially a woman, but this was different. He owed her, quite possibly, his life, and yet the burden did not weigh heavily. An obligation was there and he would find some way to make it up to her, but it could wait. As his eyes drifted closed he felt her small hand caress his cheek and he turned his head so that his lips brushed her palm.

  • • •

  “Damn and blast,” he muttered. “When the devil did they start putting sleeves in such awkward places?”

  “I see you are feeling better.” Phaedra stifled the smile that came to her lips as she caught her patient in the act of trying to pull on a robe that would be much too small, since it was her father’s. She had brought it in and laid it on the bed while her patient was still asleep, but only with the idea of getting some notion of his size and whether it could accommodate his larger frame.

  He had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.

  “It’s all right. Even my father—a vicar and generally the most patient of men—has been known to use the same words when recovering from a bad bout of the gout that plagues him. I find it interesting that gentlemen always get testier as they get better rather than more ill.”

  “It is the curse of men to be impatient. The ladies are much more serene.”

  “Your voice is sounding better too. The tisane I gave you in the night is said to have restorative qualities for the larynx. As for your comment, I believe that women are just as impatient, but we have learned that impatience is a waste of energy.”

  “How philosophical,” he replied.

  Ignoring his bad humor, she said, “I truly am delighted to see you feeling better. Mrs. Lovett says you barked at her twice while she was shaving you.”

  “Damned woman doesn’t know how to handle a razor. Only men should be entrusted with that task.”

  “Which brings me, circuitously, to my next point. Now that you are feeling better, I must ask who I may contact? There must be people looking for you, alarmed for you. Family? Friends? Even servants? I assume the man who usually shaves you is your valet.”

  Hardcastle shifted uneasily under her bright stare. This was a point concerning which he could not feel comfortable. He abhorred any kind of subterfuge or underhandedness, and yet he was engaged in deceiving this young lady, and for no good reason other than . . . well, other than the fact that he did not want to see her warm blue eyes turn glacial when she learned his true name and the reputation that went with it.

  It was a new and unwelcome feeling, this regret over his past, but it was just that even a village spinster like Phaedra Gillian would have heard of the infamous Earl of Hardcastle, for he had drunk, gambled and womanized his way across England and half of Europe. When she found out who he was, and remembered all the stories she must have heard, she’d abhor him. Or was he being conceited? Maybe she had never heard of anything outside of her village.

  He watched her rearrange his side table, her small, neat figure tidy in an old blue sprigged muslin. Recalling the new sensation that had coursed through him at the gentle touch of her hands as she massaged his shoulders the night before, he thought again that spontaneous arousal from the merest touch of a female had not happened to him for some time. It usually took some skill and concerted effort for his light o’ loves to ready him for lovemaking—an effort they willingly expended given his generosity—and yet Phaedra’s lightest touch had sent his temperature up into the fevered range, and caused him to have erotic dreams of making love to her in a field of lavender.

  However, the moment she learned of his true identity her sweet expression would freeze into disdain and he would be treated with frigid courtesy from then on, if he was not thrown from the Gillians’ home as an unworthy tenant. It was a strange feeling to regret portions of his life, but he would give much if he could erase some of his blackest moments, his darkest dissipation. It would certainly ease the road to seduction if she did not hold him in contempt. Did he really mean to seduce her? He was mightily tempted, but if that was his aim, it would have to be approached with utmost discretion and surpassing skill. She must never discern his intentions.

  And none of this woolgathering solved his current dilemma, how to avoid telling her his identity without causing her to become suspicious of him. She stood eyeing him with barely concealed impatience, waiting for him to name some family member or friend she could contact with the news of his whereabouts. But there truly was no one, besides his household staff, who should be told. And they knew not to expect him for some time, for he had gone off before on a whim, occasionally with some new light o’ love, to disappear for weeks at a time.

  “There is no one,” he said, and watched pity sadden her eyes.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “No family?”

  He shook his head mutely.

  “Well then, what about staff? You must have servants, someone—”

  He shook his head again. “They knew I was leaving for some time. To tell them my situation would only distress them. But if I am become burdensome to you—” He tried to move to get up, but she quickly put out a staying hand, just as he knew she would.

  “No, Mr. Lawrence, no. You are no trouble, I assure you. If there is no one worrying over you, then my mind is at ease and you may rest and recover here as long as you need to.”

  He relaxed back. Ah, yes, just the invitation he sought. Why did he feel uneasy rather than complacent, then? He should tell her his real name. Never before had he engaged in subterfuge or misled anyone. It went against his character and made him uncomfortable.

  On an entirely different track, it occurred to him to wonder what would he be thinking if he were a different man? He was in bed, tended intimately by a lovely young lady who attracted him as no woman lately had done. She was so many good things: lovely, intelligent, compassionate, good-humored. He had lately been wondering what it was that caused a man—a sensible man—to fall in “love,” whatever that vague word really meant. He had watched an acquaintance, the now-infamous Lord Byron, court and eventually win a girl much like Miss Gillian. The former Annabella Milbanke, now Lady Byron, was pretty, good, and intelligent—at least so he had been told—but she was also unrelievedly humorless. And yet Byron had gone to some lengths to woo and win her, her first rejection of him only spurring him on to greater attempts to win her love.

  What made a man of Byron’s brilliance and disposition as a rake and a gambler fall in love with a woman of Annabella’s character? And why had he, Hardcastle, never been similarly tempted?

  Of course, it was a misalliance from the start and had ended badly. She had attempted to “redeem” Byron, which just drove him to greater lengths and deeper depths. Redemption, it seemed, was a treacherous path impeded with bumps, ruts and cavernous pits. Just a month before Hardcastle had seen Byron off, accompanied by a party of his friends, to Dover, from which the author and bon vivant took a boat to the Continent. He was escaping the encroaching gossip and soul-destroying rumors that haunted him, justified or not, Hardcastle was not willing to judge. A fatal and ill-conceived desire to be “redeemed” had destroyed the man’s life. He was no longer welcome in polite society, when once he had been reve
red and lionized. It was a depressing, wearisome business, and Hardcastle turned his thoughts away from Byron and toward Miss Phaedra Gillian.

  As he watched her, she finished her tidying and bent over the end of his bed, tucking in the covers more securely. He admired the curve of her bosom and the arch of her neck as any connoisseur of feminine beauty would. Would another man in his position—a man of less rakish leanings, perhaps—instead of just admiring her form and thinking of seduction be falling in love with Miss Phaedra Gillian? She was the spinster daughter of a retired vicar; a marital alliance between them would be outrageous to many in society, but not outside the pale. She was undoubtedly cultured and of good family; her father was poor, but intelligent and well-educated. A man could do worse in a father-in-law.

  “—and Old Mary, in the village, she is a real character. Some of the children are frightened of her, and I have always wondered—”

  She bustled around, talking to him as she brought some books to within his reach. She was trying, he could tell, to distract him from his “lonely” life by telling him of some of the village characters. Her idle chatter left his mind free for these unusual musings.

  What would it feel like to fall in love with her? He had no idea, and yet better, wiser men than he had fancied themselves in love. He drew back from the idea as from a scorching fire. He did not intend to marry, not even for the succession. But he would like to make love to her just once. It would be like sampling a wine one had never tasted before, a country wine distilled in a private cellar. Even as he considered it, he acknowledged that his palate was likely too jaded to enjoy her.

  Still, he did relish the thought of that one taste. He followed her progress as she chatted and tidied and made everything neat. She was attracted to him, he thought, remembering her blush the night before, and a certain softness when she gazed at him. He would use that, play upon it. But it must be the most delicate dance of seduction he had ever embarked upon. One false move, one misstep, and she would comprehend his intentions and the dance would be over.