A Rake's Redemption

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “I would expect as much.” Mr. Gillian frowned. “A rake, eh? I had thought there was too much intelligence in the lad for mindless sensuality.”

  Phaedra regretted her hasty words. Now there was another who would be looking at the earl through the lens of his supposed reputation. But she trusted her father’s good sense. Never had he let reputation or gossip change the way he treated a body. As a vicar he had shocked many a good churchgoing lady of the parish by going into the homes of a fallen woman or drunken man.

  She gazed at him with affection, then returned to his side and put her arms around his rotund waist. “I am going downstairs to start the bread. It has been proofing quite long enough.”

  “I’m going to stay here for a while, my dear. I shall set up the chess board and see if his lordship will play me a game when he awakens.”

  “I will leave you to it, then, and bring your luncheon up here.”

  “Do that, m’dear,” Mr. Gillian said absently. “Do that.”

  Chapter Ten

  Hardcastle awoke to the knowledge that he was not alone, and opened his eyes expecting to see Phaedra close by. That it was her father instead did not surprise him, for some reason.

  “Listen to this, Hardcastle,” Mr. Gillian said, without looking up. He peered down at a book on his lap through his elderly spectacles. “‘Where both deliberate, the love is slight; Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’”

  “Marlowe?”

  “Mhmm. Hero and Leander. Nice piece, that.”

  The ridiculous aspect of a plump, bespectacled Church of England vicar quoting love poetry from the rebellious and disturbing—to most prudish minds—Marlowe merely illustrated what Hardcastle had come to suspect: Mr. Phineas Gillian was no ordinary parson. Hardcastle pushed himself up in the bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Love at first sight, eh? Don’t believe in it, sir. Sorry.”

  “Don’t you, then? Too bad, that. I should think a rake of some renown would. Though on second thought, what has being a rake got to do with love, eh?”

  Hardcastle frowned but did not reply. The vicar, his eyes on the book again, was silent for a moment, but then looked up. “Offended you?” he asked, gazing over the top rim of his glasses with a gleam in his blue eyes.

  “No, of course not,” Hardcastle said. Was he offended? He wasn’t sure. No one had ever called him a rake to his face.

  “Sorry if I did. Not my intention, to be sure. No point in beating about the bush, though, is there? It is what I have heard of you, but if it is a lie, tell me so now. I shall believe you, you know. Frightfully naïve, I am. So you don’t believe in love at first sight. Do you believe in love at all?”

  Peevishly, Hardcastle looked around for something to drink, but there was nothing on the side table. His mouth was parched and tasted bad. But his host was waiting for a reply, and he focused on the older man for a moment and thought about it. “I don’t think I believe in the kind of love the poets would have us believe in, hearts and flowers and love everlasting, all that rot. So, no. I suppose that love exists, though I have had no experience of it, but if there is true love in the world poets know precious little about it.”

  Gillian leaned forward and gazed at Hardcastle seriously. “Where, then, do you think the poets got their inspiration from?”

  “Infatuation,” Hardcastle said. “The silly devils generally see some woman from afar and prefer to worship them with words without getting to know the real woman. When they do, they find out that women are every bit as fallible and corrupt as men.” Even to his own ears he sounded bitter and jaded, but the vicar seemed to ask his true opinion, so he would have it, unvarnished. If he was offended, so be it.

  “Right you are, young man,” the elderly vicar said, stabbing the air with his forefinger. “At least you are sensible. Glad to see it.”

  Of all the possible reactions, this was the one he would have least expected. Hardcastle gazed silently at the man who sat with one leg crossed over the other, a book of poetry cradled on his lap. Not the Bible, poetry. What a very odd parson!

  Gillian took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Young people—young gentlemen, especially—expect the ladies to be perfect. I often think how disturbing that must be for the feminine folk. What a burden, to be expected to be morally perfect, impeccably behaved, untainted, pure, with no thoughts that God Himself might not eavesdrop on.”

  “B-but are not women more . . . innocent, do they not need to be protected?” Hardcastle, against his own intentions, was becoming intrigued with this original gentleman’s ideas. He did not necessarily believe the latest theory that women were more innocent and pure than men and needed to be sheltered, just as he did not accept the older notion that women were the bearers of the burden of original sin, but he thought he would just throw it out for discussion, so to speak.

  “Women, my lord, are every bit as strong, and perhaps stronger, than men. And they understand evil instinctively, not like men, who struggle against the knowledge.”

  “But that oversets common wisdom, sir, if you do not mind me saying so.”

  “I do not mind you saying anything you think, as long as it is honest.”

  Hardcastle shook his head to clear it. In such a short time they had traversed from love at first sight to the frailty, and then the strength, of women, and now to evil. “Are not women meant to redeem us morally wayward male creatures? Is that not their purpose? It seems to me lately that that is all anyone speaks of, in polite company, anyway. Men moan on and on about what angels their women are and how they simply have no desire to be wild any longer. How their lady wives have wrestled them onto the straight and narrow road to salvation.” He thought about Byron, and his marital woes. “Or they fail utterly at being redeemed and make their ladies and themselves miserable in the process.”

  Gillian snorted. “Don’t believe in redemption myself.”

  “What?” Hardcastle frowned. A vicar who did not believe in redemption?

  “Not in redemption prompted externally, I mean.” He frowned and pursed his lips. “I think the only redemption comes from within. No man changes unless he wants to, after all. And no woman can make him. He may want to change for her sake, but unless there is a true inner resolution, unless he really wants to change for his own reasons, it will not stick. It will fade along with his love for his wife.”

  The vicar was reading another poetry passage, and there was silence for a few minutes while Hardcastle digested the older man’s words. He supposed it made some sense. In that light Byron’s marital failure was a foregone conclusion, for the poet did not want truly to change his life. He had wanted both Annabella and his cronies and wayward ways. His mind went back to one of the first things the vicar had said to him. They had started the conversation by speaking of love. “You wondered out loud what a rake would know of love. I am not claiming the title yet, sir, but is not a rake a specialist in love?”

  Mr. Gillian tossed the book aside and knit his brow. “No, not at all. He is a specialist in seduction.” He drew the word out, pronouncing every syllable with ringing resonance.

  “Is that not the dance of love?”

  “No, it’s merely the mating dance. Every grouse in the field does that, putting on a display for his lady, drawing her in with his fine feathers and wonderful voice. Have you never seen a peacock’s display? All for the peahen, to bring her to his nest that night.”

  Grumpily, Hardcastle considered how ridiculous the elegant ballet of seduction seemed when reduced to a bird’s mating habits. “But it’s different for humans!”

  “Certainly, but only because we have been given the capacity to love. It is a unique and precious gift.”

  “Have you ever—” Hardcastle caught himself before asking. This was none of his business, after all.

  “Have I ever been in love?” Mr. Gillian’s smile became beatific. “Yes. I fell in love at first sight, just like Marlowe said.”

  “With—”

  “With Phaedr
a’s mother, to be sure.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember you telling me about her, about seeing her in a field.”

  Mr. Gillian nodded. “My Connie. But love at first sight, tricky thing, you know.”

  “How so?”

  The soft folds of Mr. Gillian’s face sagged even more, and his face set in a serious expression. He pulled off his spectacles and leaned forward. “Gets tricky when you find out the love of your life can be a bit of a shrew.” He sat back and laughed.

  Hardcastle blinked. “A-a shrew?”

  “Certainly! Women find men exasperating most of the time, don’t you know? And the first time my Connie told me to get my head out of the clouds and start living in the real world, we had a set-to, didn’t we just! We were wanting to get married by then, but we didn’t have enough money. As I told you, I was in a tricky position. The moment I married I lost my fellowship annuity. I had spouted some nonsense about living on love, and she told me only poets live on love, that humans must live on bread. ’Course, that did not sit well with me. I was a bit of a romantic in my youth.”

  The door swung open at that minute and Phaedra came through holding a pile of linens. “Papa, you didn’t tell me Lord Hardcastle was awake. The poor man is probably parched with thirst! How could you not call me the moment he was awake?”

  Mr. Gillian winked at Hardcastle. “See what I mean? Bit of a shrew.”

  Phaedra laid the linens down and planted her fists on her hips. “What are you two chuckling about? You sound like a couple of gossipy hens. Never mind, I don’t want to know. I shall get you some water, my lord, and then bring our luncheon up.”

  Mr. Gillian stood and shook out the folds of his frock coat. “I have sincerely enjoyed our discussion, my lord, but work beckons. I’ve been working on a most fascinating theory on the biblical interpretations of the original Greek texts, and I must get back to it. I shall leave the book of poetry for you, my lord. Even if you don’t believe in poetical love.”

  And with that, he bowed and left.

  • • •

  The room had gotten darker as twilight descended. It was late, possibly even near midnight by now. Hardcastle was intolerably bored and feeling just a little sorry for himself, for Phaedra had been busy all day with her various chores and a trip to the village to help some old man who would allow no one else near him. She had taken luncheon with him, but had merely sent his dinner up with Sally as she had some errands to run, she said. Mrs. Lovett had been in to help change his bed, but left soon after, laughing gaily about some broad jokes she had made at his expense. After she went, Hardcastle made one experimental attempt to get out of bed. It was a little easier than the last time he had tried it, and he didn’t topple over this time, but he was still as weak as a day-old kitten.

  And so all evening he had been left with his thoughts. He thought seriously about his purpose in staying when he could easily leave. London bored him lately, even when well. If he went back in his current invalid shape he would be stuck in his town house with only his rakish friends for company. That did not seem a tolerable fate. Phaedra Gillian, on the other hand, was the tonic he needed. He liked her, he was attracted to her, but more than that, she was good for him.

  Only because he was injured, of course. When mended he would take his vengeance on the insufferable Baron Fossey and return to his home.

  But back to the problem at hand: the vulnerable Miss Gillian. She was twenty-seven and had little experience of men, if he was not mistaken. She exposed her preference for him in little ways, in the pinkening of her cheeks and the trembling of her hands, her breathlessness and wide-open gaze. Whether she knew it or not she was a ripe little plum ready for the plucking, and he had not sampled such a tasty, fresh morsel for an age. Seducing her would be a sweet reward for the hours of pain and necessary patience while his body mended.

  And yet—

  They had been so good to him. Would making love with Phaedra be a treachery? Or would the rewards he was willing to heap on her and her father—monetary rewards that would help them attain a better style of living—be worth it to her? She would only be giving him, after all, that which no other man had apparently sought.

  But how could he equate monetary rewards to the Gillians with the sweetness of herself, with the lovely gift of her innocence, if he should be so fortunate? It was a disturbing thought, and not one that he had ever had before. When giving a lady little gifts of jewelry or gold, tokens of his appreciation, he never ever felt like he was purchasing her favors. But he had the feeling Phaedra Gillian would not see things that way, and he would never want to shame her or hurt her. It would have to be delicately done.

  At that moment the object of his thoughts crept into the room, candle held high. She always seemed to know when he was awake and lonely. “Hello,” he whispered.

  “You’re awake.” She came into the room and set the candle on the side table. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” he said. He watched her move toward him, the curves of her body outlined by the soft white muslin of her night rail. She sat on the bed beside him and he was almost suffocated by his awareness of her, her scent, her warmth, her sweet breath fanning his face.

  “Tomorrow we shall have you up and about. There was no time today, what with one thing and another. We’ll wait until Mrs. Lovett comes before we attempt it. She’s stronger than I if you start to take a tumble.”

  Unwilling to confess that he had already tried that, he stayed silent. Without consciously willing it, his hand went up and he touched her hair. She sighed, and her lovely eyes glowed in the flickering candlelight. So sweet. What would making love with her be like? It would be her first time, he thought, and her untutored responses would be as fresh and lovely as she was.

  “Has anyone ever told you how lovely you are?”

  Mutely, she shook her head.

  “Has any man ever kissed you?” he whispered. In the almost-dark of the room, he found the outrageous things he wanted to say came naturally.

  She nodded.

  “And did you like it?”

  “No,” she whispered. “He was young and so was I, and he—it was wet and—”

  He didn’t need to hear any more. He put his hand behind her head and pulled her down until she was hovering over his mouth, her lips just inches from his. Her blue eyes were closing, closing, closing; her lashes fanned down and touched her cheek. She was waiting, not pulling away, not moving forward, just waiting.

  A first real kiss. When was the last time he had ever given a woman her first real kiss? Their lips touched and he was lost in the velvet darkness, lost to thought or sense. Instinct taught him not to push too hard, not to take her breath away. He paused, let her regain her equilibrium, and then took her lips again in a kiss, moist but not wet, soft, not hard; he felt her surrender to feeling, felt her muscles relax and her body sag against him on the bed.

  His fingers itched with longing to touch her, to explore her lithe, lovely body, but she was not ready, not yet. He released her and she sat upright again and raised one hand to her lips. That simple, innocent gesture fed his hunger for her, but he battled his physical lust and won, though the intensity of his desire surprised and alarmed him.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  He shrugged. He could not let her see how affected he was. It might frighten or worry her, and the last thing he wanted to do was give her any hint of his intentions. “Every girl should experience a real kiss at least once,” he said, keeping his tone neutral and his manner nonchalant.

  “Oh.” She blinked and straightened. “Well, is there anything you want, my lord?”

  Only you, my sweeting. He shook his head, not trusting his mouth to form a negative response.

  “I should go back to bed then,” she said.

  “And where is your bed?” he said.

  “I’m sleeping with Sally right now. I should get back before she misses me.”

  It suddenly occurred to him that this was a very
small cottage. “Please tell me, Miss Gillian, that this is not your room I have been taking up.”

  She shrugged and smiled. “It does not matter, sir.”

  “But it does! You should have told me.”

  “No,” she said earnestly, placing her hand on his chest as he raised himself up. “No, my lord, please! Don’t trouble yourself. I still feel that you were sent here for a purpose. Do you know, my father rarely comes out of his library voluntarily? And yet thrice he has come up to visit you with no reminder from me. Even if there was no other reason, the difference you have made to my father would be enough. He has so little intelligent male companionship. He finds you interesting, I think,” she finished, with her head cocked to one side exactly like her father.

  He let out a roar of laughter, and then stifled it. “If I am of some service to you, Miss Gillian—may I call you Phaedra? Please?”

  Shyly, she nodded.

  “If I am of some service to you, Phaedra, then I will learn to be glad I was assaulted and robbed by roadside bandits.” He gazed up at her in the dim candlelight. She was not some London siren casting out her lures for him, neither was she a lusty widow, nor a voluptuous courtesan, and yet she piqued his curiosity and sharpened his appetite as no woman in a year had. Even if Fossey was long gone by the time he made his way to the estate, he would be glad of this interruption. Without it, he would never have met Phaedra.

  “I must leave you now, sir. But I will be back at first light with tea.”

  As she left, taking the light with her, Hardcastle turned onto his side, noting that there was definitely less discomfort than even that morning, and drifted to sleep with the memory of that first delicate taste of Phaedra. He must have her, but it would take a subtle seduction indeed to win her with no reservations on her side.

  But it would be worth it.

  Chapter Eleven

  She must be wicked. Or was she? The most amazing sensations had raced through her the night before when Hardcastle took her in his arms and kissed her. To him it might have been in the nature of a light relief from boredom, but to her it was a revelation. Never had she experienced a longing to just lay herself down next to a man and be swallowed up in his arms. But then, never had she been kissed since she was ten and young Albert Deaville, the doctor’s son, had told her he knew a secret and she would have to kiss him to learn it. His secret had turned out to be that he knew a way to get girls to kiss him.