The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 4 (The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Sets)

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  With a muttered oath he roused himself from his enchantment to try to find something to put on, and as he stepped away from the bed and towards the door, he ogled her rosy parted lips, lustrous eyes, ripe breasts, tiny waist...

  Blood-stained thighs, the spattered reddened sheets.

  What the deuce?

  He glanced down now at his condom-clad member and thighs, liberally daubed with red. His brows knit as he stalked into the adjoining bathroom, removed the protector from his body and threw it into the wastebasket.

  His heart lurched in his chest as though it were about to explode. Good Lord, she has been dubbed the Eternal Virgin, but surely no tart, high class or otherwise, would take the charade this far....

  Randall opened his mouth to demand of her, "Isolde, what on earth is all over the sheets--"

  Before she could answer, they heard a male voice bellow, "I know she's here! I insist on seeing your master right now!"

  Randall saw her face whiten. He was sure if she had not already been recumbent in the bed she would have fallen down.

  The bedroom door flew inwards, crashing into the plaster behind with such violence that it flaked down onto the navy blue carpet like snow.

  Isolde screamed and caught the top corner of the sheet up to her bosom, though not before her former fiance Chauncey Howell had glimpsed her stark naked in the bed.

  The blood-stained sheets were also not fully concealed, and the sultry smell of heated passion in the room indicated all too clearly what had been going on.

  Isolde was not ashamed. Howell had wanted to do this with her himself, but she would NEVER give in to him no matter what he offered her.

  Randall was not ashamed, but rather livid to see his distant cousin Chauncey Howell of all people in his room. He was nothing if not a hideous reminder of all of the past events he had been struggling so hard against only a few moments before. Howell had avidly pursued Randall's former fiancee Clarissa all those years before, and Randall had avoided him ever since.

  The latest on dit proclaimed him an inveterate gambler with the lowest tastes in Haymarket ware. Rumour also had it he was in damned low water, despite availing himself of only the cheapest whores and confining his gaming to cock fights and bear baiting.

  Randall held with none of the blood sports his cousin participated in, in bed or out. How Chauncey had ever been his quiet brother Francis' friend was beyond him.

  Randall did not even trouble to cover his bareness. His huge manhood jutting upwards in front of him rendered him similar in appearance to a giant Priapic statue.

  Isolde could feel her whole body clench with desire as she looked at him, even though the occasion was as grim as it could possibly be.

  "Well, Howell, what have you got to say for yourself? Can't you see you're interrupting?" he said in a menacing growl, almost looking forward to the prospect of throwing him out on his ear.

  Randall stared as a second interloper finally made his way down the hallway with his butler Hopkins.

  It was Howell's best friend Parkins, a rather dim sort, but good-natured. He lent Howell money and was easily impressionable, not quite so vice-laden, but still not someone Randall would ever want to spend time with. What on earth were they doing here at this time of night? And in his bedroom, no less?

  "I'm supposed to be your second, right, Chauncey?" Parkins asked, blinking owlishly.

  Howell shot him a look which even the simple Parkins could not fail to understand.

  "Why am I here?" he roared. "Because that, sir, is my fiancee," he said, pointing to Isolde.

  Her eyes widened, and then she KNEW. She could see it all in an instant, and opened her mouth to warn Randall.

  Randall's lapis eyes never altered. "Lucky you to be engaged to such a prodigiously talented whore. No wonder she's the talk of the Town. I've never had anyone quite like her. My best wishes for your future happiness."

  Isolde gasped and pulled the sheet up right over her ears, and began to weep.

  Howell roared like a bull and charged.

  Hopkins and Parkins moved as a man to stop him, heaving him backwards with all their might.

  Randall, still stark naked, looked as though the whole affair bored him in the extreme. Except that as Isolde peeped out from behind the bedclothes, she could see him shoot her an accusing look.

  She shook her head, dashing her tears away impatiently. "He's NOT my fiance. He threw me over. Everyone knows he's been sniffing around Fanny Clarence for her fortune. He wants me to be his mistress, but I've refused.

  "He was the one who tricked me into coming here, no doubt planning all along that I would be compromised in your company and he would be able to make trouble for us all. Please, don't say a word or do anything that could be used against you in any way. I'll just get my clothes and-"

  His brows knit. "Stay where you are, Miss, er-"

  "Drake," Hopkins supplied quietly.

  An outraged snort burst from Howell. "Didn't even bother to get your name before he futtered you, eh? You miserable whore!"

  "I would have been a whore if I'd given in to you for money, a home, all the other things you promised to do to help my poor family IF and only if I gave you my virginity," she hissed, her blue eyes darkening with ire.

  Randall spoke through tight lips, disgusted at what he was hearing, though not in the least surprised. "Hopkins, please escort our er, guests out of the house. Mr. Parkins, I shall have my second Matthew Dane call upon you tomorrow to get this matter settled one way or the other."

  She looked at him in alarm, and would have protested, but he was already pressing on, "Make no mistake about it, Howell, Miss Drake shall never be yours. Whether you choose to throw your life away as a result of this little charade is entirely up to you. If you choose to go ahead with it, it shall be swords at dawn, and I shall kill you where you stand. And with a smile on my face and a song in my heart."

  "Randall, no, think of the penalty of duelling," she protested.

  Howell tossed his head arrogantly. "I'm not afraid of you. In any event, it's up to the lady to decide what's to be done about her lapse of honour, not you. Isolde, come home with me at once. I shall return you to the safety of your mother-"

  "No!" Randall and Isolde both said at once.

  Their gazes flew to each other's in surprise.

  Randall bowed to her, permitting her to reply. She could not help admiring how magnificent he was as he stood there as though in complete control of the situation despite the shocks of the evening.

  "Thank you, my lord. I have little to say, other than that I have no intention of going anywhere with you, Mr. Howell. We may well be cousins, but the truth is that I never want to see you again. I shall help my family without recourse to your distasteful proposition and attempts at coercion."

  Randall nodded. "And I have said the lady is here under my protection."

  "Lady, indeed! Oh, she is, all right. But do you really not know who she is?" Howell said with a smirk of triumph.

  Randall raised his nose in the air. "No, but it matters not. I have said she's under my protection and--"

  "DRAKE, you swiving fool," he shouted, his eyes bulging in triumph.

  "I heard you the first time," Randall said, still standing with poised elegance as though at a soiree.

  "Isolde Drake, Viscount Linley's eldest daughter."

  That got a response at last, one that terrified her.

  Randall's eyes rivetted on her face once more, pinning her like a butterfly on a specimen sheet.

  "Is this true?" he snapped. "Are you really Isolde Drake?"

  Isolde nodded. "Y-y-yes. He was my father, God rest his soul. But what differ--"

  If she had said she were the Devil himself he could not have been more stunned.

  He stared at her, his lapis eyes turning almost black with suppressed passion.

  "Drake," he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. His gazed hard now, he demanded, "And your family fortunes, did they fail before or after he di
ed?"

  Again she stared at him in surprise, but replied quickly, "After."

  "I see," he said quietly, though his emotions were now in complete turmoil.

  He went over to get a navy silk robe from his wardrobe and put it on. He turned to Howell once more and said in a dismissive tone, "Do not make me repeat myself. My second Matthew Dane will call upon you tomorrow morning, sir. I bid you good night."

  Howell stuck his chin out belligerently. "I'm NOT leaving Miss Drake here---"

  "It appears you already did."

  "- -with the likes of you."

  "For God's sake, Chauncey, we've, well--" She swept her hand down the bed. "According to most people in the Ton, nothing worse can happen to me. Just go away and leave us in peace."

  "And have him exact revenge upon you? I would be no gentleman if I--"

  She glared at him coldly. "You were no gentleman when you threw me over and left me with no male protection other than my teenaged brother. And when you then went after Fanny Clarence, and tried to persuade me that once you had her money and I gave in and became your mistress, I would want for nothing. So thank you, but no assistance is required. Please leave."

  "But, Isolde."

  "You heard the lady, Howell. She and I have our own business to be getting on with. She's a welcome guest, and is staying." Randall looked to Isolde for confirmation.

  His eyes were now cold, impassive, but she gave a grateful little nod.

  "In which case, you are not invited, and neither of us want you here, so will you kindly depart."

  She nodded again, and gratefully accepted Randall's solictious attempts to tug the rest of the bedclothes back up towards her to keep her warm and shield her from any further embarrassment.

  "Please leave, Mr. Howell. There is nothing needed of you in this situation. Or indeed any other. Should we ever have the misfortune to meet again here in Town or elsewhere, kindly do me the courtesy of cutting me. Pretend we never knew each other."

  He glowered from under beetling brows. "You're going to pay for this, Isolde. No one treats me like-"

  "'ello, 'ello, anyone in 'ere?" a female voice now called down the hall with an unmistakable nasal twang which betokened a true Cockney.

  The most frowsy dark-haired woman Randall had ever laid eyes on short of the street corners outside Covent Garden now entered and perched one hand on her hip.

  "Well, this is wot Oi call a rum do. I come 'ere to swive you, and find you servicin' some other trollop!"

  Randall was not sure if the choking sound came from his throat or Isolde's. Probably both, he decided.

  "Oi come all this way for nothin', Oi 'ave! Though I 'ave ter say, she's a pretty l'il thing, and these two gents 'ere ain't half bad. All roight, I'll get inta bed with all of youse for only double more. Can't say fairer than that."

  Isolde rolled her eyes heavenward and cringed even further under the covers.

  Howell licked his lips salaciously. Parkins gaped.

  Randall burst out laughing, long and loud. "Let me guess," he wheezed. "Tubby sent you?"

  "Aye, that 'e did. Says my act is the best 'e's ever seen."

  "Go back to the club and tell him to pay up. You can keep the money for your trouble."

  "That's right kind of you, but I really don't mind-" she said, taking two steps forward.

  "No, really, thank you. I have my hands quite full enough as it is," he said drily.

  "I'll never believe YOU go both ways, sir. And the girl looks like she could use some help with all three of you. Though I 'ave ter say, these two look fairly bent-"

  She stared at Howell and Parkins, who both glared back.

  Suddenly she stiffened. "Hey, I know you," she said, pointing her finger at Howell. "You're the one who damn near killed my mate Molly last month. You filthy bastard-"

  She swung her fist full force at him then, hitting him square in the mouth and felling the off-guard Howell like an ox.

  Randall raised his brows. "Well, Howell, if even a woman can best you in a mill, you'd definitely better rethink your intention to duel me on the morrow."

  But there was no reply, for the prostitute was uttering a string of execrations against Howell which had even Randall blushing.

  Isolde flinched every so often, indicating her familiarity with at least some of the appalling words and phrases.

  By now Randall had had quite enough of seeing the poor girl tormented, no matter who she was.

  "Please, Hopkins, let them take this disgusting display outside. I'm going now to make sure my mother has not been distressed by this appalling caterwauling. You, Miss Drake, please put this on when they've gone, and join me in the drawing room downstairs when you feel up to it."

  He draped a rich burgundy velvet dressing gown over her trembling shoulders with unsteady fingers, his mind swirling with all he had learned, but forcing himself to appear in control of the situation.

  He waited with folded arms as the woman beat Howell down the hall. Really, it was better than any play he'd ever seen in the theatre, except that this farce was his real life. And what had happened was certainly no joke for any of them, but a night that was bound to have consequences one way or the other...

  His shocked butler Hopkins stood there staring.

  Parkins gave one more long look at Isolde and Randall. "You see, I told him. Sirens." He shook his head, then gave a lopsided grin. "Lucky devils."

  Hopkins grabbed Parkins and dragged him from the room, swinging the door shut behind him with a slam.

  The woman harried Howell right out into the street by the sounds of it as the noise gradually receded, and then Randall heaved a sigh of relief, looked at Isolde inscrutably, and then hurried down the hall to see how his mother was faring amid all the commotion, leaving Isolde staring after him feeling as though she had had the most lovely dream, only to awaken to the most horrendous nightmare.

  Chapter Seven

  Randall hurried into his mother's room after the huge scene in his chamber with Chauncey Howell, and saw her eyes were open. Open, and alert.

  "I want to see her," she said in a tone which carried some of its former strength.

  It was the most lucid sentence she had uttered in weeks. For a moment Randall momentarily taken aback. "See whom, Mother?" he asked at last.

  "There's a girl here. Lovely red hair."

  "Oh, no, there's no one, Mother," he lied. "Pray calm yourself."

  "I know there's a woman here. I heard voices, Randall."

  "It was just one of the maids talking loudly," he tried to insist.

  "Bring her to me."

  He shook his head. "But Mother-"

  "I know what I heard, son. Bring her, Randall, now."

  Randall sighed. He knew THAT tone only too well by now. He had been confronting it every day since Father had died. No. Now. Like a small, petulant child. "Very well," he said with a sigh. "I'll be back in a moment."

  He went down the hall to his blue and gold bedroom, and saw Isolde emerging from the bathing chamber, clad in the dressing gown and already stooping to pick up her clothes. His heart lurched at the sight of her preparing to leave.

  On the other hand, he reminded himself, thinking of all he had just discovered, he had every reason not to wish to see her again as long as they both lived.

  His voice remained neutral as he said, "My mother wants to see you at once. Please come."

  She looked astonished for a moment, but only drew the robe tightly around her throat and pulled the heavy fall of hair back from her face. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to do her best to make herself presentable by looping it around itself into a coil at the nape of her neck.

  He indicated for her to follow him. She soon found herself in a pleasant set of chambers decorated in forest green and gold. The woman in the bed had to be about fifty, but she looked seventy, weary and careworn.

  She was undoubtedly Randall's mother. She was an exceptionally handsome woman with the same unusual eyes. It was evident she
had once been robust, but now the skin hung from her throat and face in folds like the wattles of a turkey.

  "The Earl tells me you wish to see me, Lady Hazelmere," she said gently, though with her chin held high, as though she were not clad in naught but a man's dressing gown. "How can I be of help?"

  "You came to see me, did you not?" the older woman asked.

  Isolded nodded. "Well, yes, both of you," she said quietly. "I answered your son's advertisement in the paper for a paid companion to nurse a family member."