The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  Stella’s hazel eyes flared angrily before she smiled with dagger-edged sweetness. Slanting a glance at Alys, she cooed, “If you prefer, you can use some of the names you whispered the last time we were ... together.”

  Alys had no doubt about what “together” meant in this case. Perhaps she should feel flattered that this trollop seemed to consider Alys a rival, but fury was her predominant emotion. She was tempted to stalk away. A combination of embarrassment and morbid curiosity kept her rooted to the spot. Curiosity, plus the belief that Reggie was no more pleased at what was happening than Alys was.

  When Reggie ignored her last remarks, Stella said pettishly, “I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice, but George has taken a house nearby. Some dreary aunt of his is dying, and he visits her regularly so she won’t forget him in her will. It’s incredibly tedious, but he says we’ll go to Brighton soon.”

  “Where is George now?” Reggie asked, his expression bored.

  Stella shrugged, an action that almost unmoored her gown entirely. “Outside with the carriage. He’ll be along in a moment.”

  Her companions had drifted after her. One of the men moved forward and clapped Reggie on the shoulder. “’Lo, Davenport,” he said with alcoholic good humor. “Haven’t seen you in town lately.”

  “That’s because I haven’t been there, Wildon,” Reggie said with barely restrained impatience. Wildon was an acquaintance, not a friend, and Reggie disliked familiarity from a near-stranger. Was he himself equally oafish when in his cups? An unattractive thought. The sooner he got himself and Allie away, the better.

  Cursing the fate that had brought London acquaintances like Stella and her protector to Shaftesbury, he took Alys’s arm. “Good to see you all. Give my regards to Blakeford. Sorry I missed him, but we were just leaving.”

  Under his fingers he felt Alys’s muscles spasm. He couldn’t blame her for being upset. As if Stella’s rudeness wasn’t bad enough, by this time they were the objects of attention of a circle of curious Dorset gentry.

  Before Reggie could retreat, Stella made one last bid for attention. “Do settle a question for us, Reggie darling. On our way over, we were talking about whether chivalry is dead. Martin here”—she waved at the nearest foxed gentleman— “says that defending a lady’s honor is old-fashioned, utterly passé.”

  While Reggie tried to remember why he had been willing to fornicate with this coarse slut, even when he was roaring drunk, she fluttered her darkened lashes and undulated her bountiful curves. Then she continued huskily, “I say that Martin is wrong. You’re a gentleman. Wouldn’t you fight for my honor?”

  “Why should I?” Reggie said in a clear, carrying voice. “You never did.”

  The horrified silence that greeted his words had a gelid quality. Except for one weak gasp, the circle of Dorset gentry might have been carved from stone.

  Stella’s mouth went slack with shock as she absorbed what he had said. Then her face turned murderous, all her pouty prettiness gone.

  Having delivered his lightning bolt, Reggie was momentarily nonplussed. He had made his share of scenes in his life, but usually when he was so drunk that he hadn’t cared what happened next. Stone-cold sober was quite a different matter.

  Feeling a tremor in Allie’s arm, he gave her a swift glance. Her face was rigid, as if she was trying her hardest to suppress laughter or strong hysterics. Or more likely, both. He had to get her away.

  Seeing George Blakeford approach, Reggie said easily, as if he hadn’t just offered deadly insult to the man’s mistress, “Here comes George now. I have a hunter he might be interested in. Do you know if he’ll be riding with the Cottes-mere hunt this season?”

  As the drunken Wildon replied, the musicians began to play. The circle of onlookers dissolved as if the interlude had never taken place, though Reggie was sure they would be discussing his comment for years to come.

  Under cover of the renewed activity, Allie jerked her arm free of his grip and slipped away without a backward glance, cutting through the crowd to a side door. As her tall, slim figure disappeared, Reggie turned to follow, but before he could make his escape, Blakeford arrived. He seemed more sober than his companions, and his eyes had sharpened with interest at the sight of Reggie.

  Fairly caught, Reggie spent a few interminable minutes exchanging commonplaces as Stella glared daggers. As soon as he could, Reggie made his excuses and slid away to the exit Allie had used.

  The door opened to a passage that led to the garden behind the King’s Head. By the light of a few scattered lanterns, he searched the flower-lined paths. He found her on a stone bench at the far end of the garden, head bowed and fingering a pale rose.

  She stiffened and raised her head when he sat down beside her. It was too dark to see her features clearly, but the moonlight gave a milky translucence to her fair skin and laid subtle highlights in her hair.

  In a stifled voice Allie said, “I was feeling a bit faint and wanted some fresh air.”

  At least she wasn’t throwing things at him. Mildly Reggie said, “You? Faint? The woman who can work twelve hours straight in high summer and never tire?”

  She eyed his dark outline warily, unsure why he had followed her outside. “Very well, I wasn’t faint. I was furious.”

  “That’s the Lady Alys I know,” Reggie said approvingly. “Are you going to favor me with a colorful description of my morals, manners, and ultimate fiery destination?”

  She had to smile. “I considered it, but try as I might, I can’t quite blame you for that, that ... bit of muslin’s behavior.”

  “Well, you could, but I would prefer that you didn’t.”

  The silence eased into comfort. He was only inches away, close enough for her to feel the radiant warmth from his body. “She was quite attractive, in a vulgar sort of way,” Alys observed. “Since men are at the mercy of their animal nature, I can see why you were interested in ... consorting with her, even if a bed was all you had in common.”

  “A bed never entered into it, actually,” Reggie said with wry humor in his voice. “Tell me, does anything shock you?”

  “Nowhere near enough. I should have been shocked at that appalling set-down you gave her. Instead I thought it quite possible that I would shatter into small pieces if I didn’t laugh.” Alys shook her head, bemused. “Honestly, Reggie, I know that she was behaving badly, but how could you say something like that in public?”

  “It was easy. Appalling insults are something of a specialty of mine. They’ve certainly gotten me into trouble often enough.” He sighed. “You must have noticed that Stella isn’t a particularly nice person. And I didn’t insult her until she had insulted you.”

  Alys toyed with the rose, its sweet, fragile fragrance scenting the night air. “I don’t understand women like that.”

  “I don’t, either.” After a lengthy silence, he said quietly, “I’m sorry that my evil past intruded tonight, Allie. I know quite a lot of rackety folk, but I didn’t expect any of them to turn up here.”

  It was a perfect opening. She asked, “I gather that the man you two were discussing, George Blakeford, is Stella’s protector. He’s a friend of yours?”

  “Not really. We’ve been acquainted for years, but not friends.” He chuckled ruefully. “And if we had been, we wouldn’t be after Stella tells him what I said.”

  “Might he call you out?” Alys asked with sudden alarm.

  “I doubt it,” Reggie said calmly. “The man is no fool. He might spread a little slander about me, but what’s another drop in an ocean?”

  Alys considered asking more about Blakeford, but knew that it would look odd. Besides, it was mere coincidence that George was in the area. The miracle was that no one else from her past had ever turned up to haunt her.

  Music and humming voices from the assembly sounded clearly in the night air. When the silence had lasted too long, Reggie asked, “Are you ready to go back in?”

  “No!” Alys said, sounding more abrupt than she had i
ntended. Well, he could ascribe her unwillingness to lingering cowardice. Better that than if he knew the truth. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had quite enough of crowds for one night. Do you think Merry and Julian could be persuaded to leave a little early?”

  “I’m sure they’ll cooperate. The dancing will be over soon anyhow.” Reggie got to his feet. “I’ll go collect them.” He took Alys’s hand to help her up.

  His courteous gesture helped restore the feeling of being delicately female that had been shattered by Stella. Glad that he had made the effort to soothe her injured feelings, she said, “While you extricate our companions, I’ll get the coach.”

  Amused, he said, “I can manage both. Since you’re very much a lady tonight, you must accept being treated like one.”

  Still holding Reggie’s hand, Alys looked up at him, trying to read his expression in the dim light. The air between them had weight and substance, a legacy of the melting sensuality of the waltz.

  Oddly intent, he raised his other hand and touched her face with gossamer lightness, his fingertips skimming her brow and cheek, then circling under her heavy hair to brush her sensitive nape. She caught her breath, vividly conscious of his nearness, of his irresistible masculinity. Weak with yearning, she prayed that he would kiss her again.

  But he was sober tonight, so of course he didn’t. He would have to be drunk to consider her worth the effort. She tried not to let the bitterness of that thought destroy memories of the simpler pleasures of the evening.

  His hand dropped, and he stepped back. “I’ll put you in the carriage before I find Merry and Julian.” His voice sounded unnaturally loud.

  Silently she accompanied him toward the garden gate. Since he didn’t want her, there was nothing else to do.

  On the ride back to the rented house, the other two couples were noisily engaged in preliminaries to the night’s final entertainment. However, George Blakeford was driving the carriage, so Stella was left alone to seethe in her fury.

  To think that she had actually been glad to see Reggie Davenport! She had hoped that he could help alleviate her boredom when George was off toadying to his aunt. She had not forgotten their prior encounter, and the thought of further explorations at greater length had been delightful.

  She tugged her shawl closer, as if she could shut out the memory of how he had publicly humiliated her. Davenport must be interested in that oversized rural creature, or he would never have insulted Stella the way he had. She would make him pay for that.

  Blakeford was a dangerous man, and properly directed, he would avenge her. All she need do was decide the best way to inflame her lover against Davenport. She thought about it for the rest of the journey back to their inn.

  George seemed abstracted, not falling on her ravenously as soon as they were alone, the way he usually did. Instead, as he ripped his cravat off, he said, “When I came into the assembly room, I saw a very tall woman in a gold dress with Davenport, but she was gone by the time I joined you.”

  Stella turned so that he could unfasten her gown, which was too expensive to allow a man to rip off. “Surely you didn’t think the creature was attractive?” she said crossly. “She was most peculiar, far too tall and with mismatched eyes. Lord only knows where Davenport found her. Perhaps he likes women with wooden legs as well.”

  George’s impatient hands paused in their unfastening for a moment. Resuming, he said casually, “There’s no accounting for tastes. Me, I find redheads irresistible.” He pushed the dress from her shoulders and slid his hands around to cup her breasts.

  Now was the time to put her plan into effect, while her lover was lustful and irrational. Stella said in a quavering voice, “It was dreadful finding Davenport there tonight. I hoped never to see him again, after ... after what he did the last time.”

  Blakeford spun her around and seized her shoulders, his lips a hard, narrow line. “What do you mean?”

  She widened her eyes, trying to look innocent and vulnerable. If she didn’t play this exactly right, George would be furious with her, dangerously so. “Remember that night you had the card party and you lost five hundred pounds to Davenport?”

  “I remember.” Blakeford’s mouth twisted nastily. “I also remember you wagging your tail at him.”

  “Georgie, darling, not at all!” she protested. “I was just being hospitable, since he was your guest. But ... but he misunderstood. You remember how drunk he was. And ... and when I chanced to meet him in the hallway ...” She bowed her head and shivered, as if unable to continue.

  Blakeford’s hands tightened bruisingly on her arms. “What happened?”

  Hurt by his grip, Stella was able to produce genuine tears. “He ... he forced himself on me, George. It was just awful. I tried to scream, but he had his hand over my mouth.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me about it then?”

  Stella said huskily, “I was afraid of what might happen. You know his reputation, how dangerous he is. I couldn’t bear to think that something might happen to you.” She began unbuttoning her lover’s shirt with expert hands. “I thought it best to forget the incident, but when I saw him tonight, I was frightened. He insulted me horribly, for no reason. And the way he looked at me!” She swallowed hard, then continued. “What if he comes after me again? He was so large. So strong.”

  Each of her words was chosen to imply subtly that Davenport was more of a man than Blakeford. Stronger, more virile, more dangerous. She understood her lover’s pride and possessiveness well enough to be sure that he would not let anything foolish like honor restrain him when he was enraged. If he wanted revenge, it was quite possible that Davenport would be found with a lead ball in his back, and no one would ever know who did it. Stella savored the thought.

  As her hands roved farther, Blakeford’s groan became more than just fury. Raggedly he said, “I’ll make him pay, Stella, for what he did to you, and to me.”

  He crushed his mouth down on hers. He was not entirely convinced that the slut had been unwilling when Davenport made his advance. But she was his slut, by God, and Davenport would pay for having trespassed.

  Damn Davenport to hell anyhow. First the man had taken Stella, and then he had saved “Alys Weston’s” life. If he hadn’t been around the night of the fire, she would be dead and none would be the wiser.

  It had been bitterly disappointing to learn that the bitch had survived. At the time he’d had no special interest in whether Davenport lived or died, but after Stella’s revelation, it was doubly infuriating to think how close the fire had come to removing both problems.

  Vengeance must wait a few days or weeks, until the time was right, but it would most assuredly come.

  He pulled his mistress to their bed, determined to ride her with such ferocity that he would completely obliterate her memories of being touched by another man—especially a man who was large, and strong, and dangerous.

  Chapter 17

  The first time Julian Markham saw Meredith Spenser in her clay-smudged dress, he’d thought that she was a remarkably pretty girl. A few hours later he saw her gowned for dinner and knew she was a stunner. By the time he had spent three days in her company, he had fallen quite thoroughly in love.

  Even in his besotted state, he knew it wasn’t only Merry’s golden beauty that he loved, but her intelligence, buoyant good nature, and calm good sense. Love was a novel and delicious sensation, and he kept it to himself, biding his time and saying nothing to Merry that might give offense. Luckily, in the country they were able to spend nearly every daylight hour together, walking, riding, and visiting local sights. Such companionship could never have occurred in London, and was a tribute to the confidence that Lady Alys had in her ward, and in Julian himself.

  The confidence was not misplaced. Nothing untoward or improper had been said between Julian and Merry, but as they laughed and talked of everything and nothing, the conviction grew in Julian that she returned his feelings. He decided to speak to her the day before he would
have to depart for a family engagement. While he was sure that Merry cared for him, he was not quite so confident that he wished to leave without assuring himself of her affections.

  The afternoon’s activity was a tour of the potbank. Julian would cheerfully go anywhere with Merry, but found it surprisingly interesting to see how clay was prepared and pottery was made. “It used to be that there were little local potteries all over Britain,” Merry explained as she showed him where slipware was cast. “But now that roads are so much improved, pottery can be shipped longer distances. The industry is becoming concentrated in places convenient to raw materials, like Staffordshire.”

  Julian studied her enchanting profile as she lifted a plaster of Paris mold from a shelf. “You know the most remarkable things,” he said admiringly.

  She chuckled. “Remarkable, unladylike things is what you mean.” She opened the mold for him. “See? The liquefied clay, which is called slip, is poured into the mold. The plaster pulls the water out, the clay deposits on the inside of the mold, and voila! We have a vase or cup or whatever. Very elaborate pieces can be made this way.”

  “Merry,” Julian said, laying one hand on hers where it held the mold, “one reason you are so special is precisely that you are un-missish.”

  She gave him a swift, uncertain glance, then pulled away to return the mold to the shelf. “Neither my aunt nor Lady Alys would ever permit me to be missish. Shall we go and look at the bottle oven so you can see how the pottery is fired?”

  He obligingly followed her outside to the oven, which was large enough for two dozen people to stand inside when it was empty. At the moment it was half-filled with earthenware waiting to be fired a second time. Merry pointed out objects of interest, including dainty teacups in their own protective firing container. “Those are some of my trial pieces. I’m working on designs for when we’re ready to add new lines.”

  His gaze on Merry’s face, Julian murmured, “Very pretty.”

  For a moment he thought he saw sadness in her deep blue eyes. Then she smiled mischievously. “An expert flirt can turn anything into a compliment.” Leading the way out of the oven, she went on, “It should be full enough to fire tomorrow. After this second firing, I’ll be able to decorate my samples. I’m pleased with how they’re turning out. The shapes are rather good.”