The Rake

by Mary Jo Putney

  Hence it was a complete surprise when her office door opened, and she looked up to see Reggie’s unmistakable form outlined against the early afternoon sunlight. Her heart leaped with delight, then paused when there was no sign of welcome in his posture.

  When he entered, her gaze was so intent on him that she did not even see the man at his heels, not until Reggie said flatly, “You have a visitor.”

  Alys glanced over to the tall old man, and froze. Throat tight, she whispered, “Father?” not believing the message of her own eyes.

  His hair had become pure white, and there were new, harsh lines in his face, but his height and upright carriage had not changed. Eyes suspiciously bright, he said in a voice on the edge of breaking, “Isn’t it about time you came home, girl?”

  Then she believed. She stumbled to her feet, knocking over her chair in her haste, and hurled herself into her father’s embrace. She barely noticed when Reggie faded out of the office, giving father and daughter privacy for their reunion.

  Alys wept as her father held her, whispering, “I’m sorry, child, so sorry.” No more apology was needed, on either side.

  The next half hour was a jumble of confused impressions and babble, where pieces of the past were fitted together, until the duke said, “If we leave in the next hour, we can be in London tomorrow evening.”

  “London?” Alys repeated, not understanding.

  “I assume you prefer to visit there before returning to Carleon.” Her father’s gaze touched the plain gown she wore for a day in the office. “You’ll want a proper wardrobe, and I want to show my daughter off. A pity it’s summer—company in town will be rather thin. But we can come back later for the Little Season.”

  She stared at him. “But Strickland is my home. I have a position here, responsibilities.”

  “Good God, do you think work for hire is proper for the next Duchess of Durweston?” He waved his hand at her office. “If you want to run an estate, there’s all of Carleon to manage. I’ll not stand in your way or countermand your orders.” A slight smile hovered. “At least, I’ll try not to.”

  Alys would have laughed at his afterthought if her emotions were not in such turmoil. Leave Strickland and the life she had built for herself? Leave Reggie? “But there are the boys,” she faltered. “And I have a contract. I can’t just walk away.”

  “That’s all taken care of,” the duke said impatiently. “Naturally, your wards come with us. I understand there are only two boys now that you managed to catch Lord Markham’s heir for the girl. Quite a feat of generalship, girl. You’re wasted here. You need a wider field of endeavor.” He shook his head admiringly. “As for your contract, Davenport has already released you from all obligations.”

  Her father paused, then said grudgingly, “Hate to admit it, but I misjudged the man. When he came to Carleon, I thought he was running a rig, but he wouldn’t take a penny. He’s behaved just as he ought.”

  The duke stopped speaking abruptly. He had a lively suspicion that Davenport had not always behaved just as he ought to Lady Alyson Blakeford, but it was a topic best left alone. No matter what she had done in the last dozen years, no one in the ton would dare cut the heir to Durweston.

  Alys was still trying to assimilate her father’s words. “Reggie went to Carleon? That’s how you found me?” When her father nodded, she asked in bewilderment, “How did he discover who I was?”

  “I have no idea.” Durweston eyed her narrowly and decided to hurry her along. Though Davenport had behaved like a gentleman so far, the duke had a lively distrust of the man’s influence over his daughter. “Best get to your packing.”

  Alys stood. “I must talk to Reggie myself.”

  “Davenport thought you’d say that. He’s in the house.”

  Outside, Peter and William had been drawn by the sight of the magnificent Durweston traveling carriage. They stared at her as she crossed the yard. “Are you really the daughter of a duke?” Peter asked incredulously.

  The news certainly was spreading fast. “Yes.” Correctly interpreting the boys’ expressions, she said firmly, “I haven’t changed, you know. I’m still your guardian. You still have to do your lessons and”—a speaking glance at William—“wash behind your ears.”

  William grinned, reassured. He had less understanding of what it meant to be Lady Alyson Blakeford. But Peter knew. Face bleak, he said, “You’re leaving us.”

  Her heart twisted. The boys had lost too many people in their life. Peter was looking at her as if she was gone already. “Absolutely not.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know quite what is going to happen, but I promise that if I go, you and William go with me.”

  If I go ... But she didn’t want to leave! Swallowing hard, she continued, “You’ve always wanted to see London. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  Convinced that he was not going to be abandoned, a wide smile crossed Peter’s face. “That would be smashing!”

  William looked less convinced, but before he could speak, Alys said again, “I must speak with Reggie.” Her father had come up behind her, so she introduced him to the boys and escaped to the manor house while the males were sizing each other up.

  Mrs. Herald met her in the front hall, staring as if Alys had suddenly sprouted purple feathers. “Is it true, Lady Alys?” she asked, round-eyed. “That you really are Lady Alys, I mean?”

  “Yes, it’s true,” she said impatiently. “Where is Mr. Davenport?”

  “In the library, your ladyship.” It would be inaccurate to say that May Herald was awed—she was not a woman easily awed—but she was impressed. The daughter of a duke, and a female that would be a duchess in her own right! It was a story Strickland would never forget.

  To the housekeeper, Lady Alyson Blakeford was already history.

  Of course he would be in the library, scene of so many high and low points in their relationship. That is, if they had a relationship. Her face stiff, Alys entered to find Reggie sitting in his favorite chair, cleaning his pipe.

  He glanced up as Nemesis trotted over to greet Alys. The collie sniffed her cold hand, then gave it a sympathetic lick. Her fingers curled involuntarily.

  There was a long silence as they stared at each other. She searched his face for some sign that he wanted her, that he even remembered that night of shared loving, but his long face was expressionless.

  Tightly she asked, “How did you find out who I was?”

  “When you told me about your past, it jogged some things I had heard about Durweston’s missing heir.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.”

  So her own confidences had led to this. Passionately she wished that she had said nothing, no matter how much relief confession had given her.

  But if he really wanted to get rid of her, he could have found other ways. This just happened to be convenient. Though she tried to speak evenly, her voice broke as she asked, “Do you want me to go?”

  “You don’t belong here.” Neither his face nor his voice showed a shred of emotion.

  She couldn’t believe it, could not accept that what was between them had been purely physical. That since he’d had her once, he did not want her near him.

  But what did she know of such things? Her judgment about men in the past had been dreadful. It was right in keeping for her to couple with an avowed rake who went through women like a dandy used starched cravats, then be fool enough to dream of love.

  As she watched blindly, he stood and crossed to the French doors. With one hand on the knob, he turned to her, a tall, lean silhouette, his features invisible as he stood in front of the light. “Good-bye, Allie. Don’t ever be ashamed of what you are.”

  “Reggie!” It was a cry from the heart, but he was already gone. She stared at the glass doors in disbelief before numbly crossing to look after him. He stopped by the carriage and talked to the boys for a few moments before shaking Peter’s hand. Less inhibited, William gave him a fierce hug. Then Reggie walked away, and she could
see no more.

  You don’t belong here. If he didn’t want her, there was no point in staying, no way she could stay. But how could she leave when the very thought sent a knife thrust of anguish through her? Alys gulped for breath, fighting the grief that threatened to break in wrenching, uncontrollable sobs.

  The pride that had kept her going through long, lonely years came to her rescue. She was Lady Alyson Blakeford. Someday she would be the fifth Duchess of Durweston. She would not stay where she was not wanted, nor would she cry. She would not cry.

  Outside the library she met Mrs. Herald and gave crisp orders to pack everything belonging to her, Merry, and the boys. Then she went outside and informed Peter and William that they were leaving for London immediately.

  It was frighteningly simple to pack up a whole life. In the weeks since the fire, there had been no time to accumulate belongings. She considered going to her office, where account books were still lying open on her desk, but dismissed the thought. Reggie said he didn’t need her, so he could damn well sort everything out on his own.

  Depressingly, she knew that he would have no problems, apart from having less time for his horses. Her records were always ordered, and by this time he knew almost as much about Strickland as she did. The bailiff was reliable for supervising the field hands. Even the pottery was running smoothly and starting to show a profit.

  She only said one good-bye, and that was to Jamie Palmer. She found him in the barn, repairing harness. Unsurprised, he glanced up. “So you’re going home, Lady Alys. It’s time.”

  She looked at him, so solid and kind, and wanted to climb in his lap and cry. He was the one friend she had always been able to count on. “Do you want to go back to Carleon, Jamie?”

  He shook his head. “Annie wouldn’t like it. Her family is here, and now it’s my home, too. You don’t need me anymore.”

  She almost did cry then, but didn’t, since it would have distressed Jamie no end. He had never seen her cry. “Thank you, Jamie, from the bottom of my heart. For everything. I’ll never have a better friend.” She offered her hand. “You’ll keep an eye on the pottery and let me know if there are any problems?”

  “Aye.” He bobbed his head gravely before shaking her hand. “You’ll not be coming back for a visit?”

  Her mouth tightened to a thin line. “I don’t think so.”

  Half an hour later they left in a rumble of wheels and hooves while a hastily gathered crowd bid her good-bye. As they headed north toward the Shaftesbury road, she did not look back.

  He posted himself in a clump of beeches on a hill overlooking the long drive. In no time at all, the splendid carriage was rattling down the tree-lined road, raising a cloud of dust in the dry afternoon. William’s pony and Alys’s mare trotted behind on their tethers. He stared at the carriage avidly, wishing he could see her just once more, and knowing what a stupid, futile wish it was.

  The carriage curved around the bend and out of sight, and suddenly he was running down the hill, crashing through the underbrush, racing at full speed until he reached a place where he could see the next loop of road. He made it barely in time, his limbs trembling with fatigue and his breath burning in his lungs. The gleaming black carriage was visible for one last instant before disappearing around the bend.

  She was gone.

  Numbly he turned and began walking in no particular direction, unready to return to the empty house. She was gone, and it was entirely his choice. He could have stayed silent and kept her if he’d wanted to. All it would have meant was separating her from her heritage, her father, and her fortune.

  Why the hell did sobriety have to make him so damned noble?

  It was after dark when he wearily returned to the manor house. Attila was in the front hall, prowling back and forth in agitation. Mrs. Herald heard Reggie enter and came to greet him. “Attila was nowhere to be found when they left. Lady Alys asked that you make sure he’s cared for.”

  “Of course,” Reggie said woodenly.

  As he went upstairs to change, Attila darted past in a flash of fur, then came to a halt outside the room that had been Alys’s. Reggie opened the door. The cat went in, whiskers and nose twitching as he sniffed about looking for some sign of his vanished mistress. Finally he jumped on the bare bed and yowled plaintively.

  “I know exactly how you feel, old boy,” Reggie muttered. Then he headed toward his own room. He would simply have to learn to live without her.

  Surely there must be a way.

  Chapter 25

  Lady Alyson Blakeford could do no wrong. Head high and all banners flying, she did not flinch from being noticed. Alys found a certain ironic amusement in her change in status. In Dorset, she had been respected. In London, she was very nearly worshipped.

  Town was quiet, with most of the beau monde in Brighton or other fashionable resorts. The arrival of the long-secluded Duke of Durweston and his prodigal daughter caught the attention of everyone who was left. In fact some members of the ton, scenting excitement, hastened back to London. Intimate little gatherings were held to reintroduce her ladyship to People Who Mattered.

  A lavish new wardrobe was ordered and delivered almost overnight since the modiste wasn’t busy at this season. Duty calls were paid on ancient Durweston connections, who greeted Alys and professed themselves delighted to see the gel again. She could almost hear the sounds of mental wheels spinning as they examined her and speculated on possible marriage partners. Despite her advanced years, she was still—again—the greatest heiress in England.

  The magnificent pile known as Durweston House was opened for the first time in a decade. It looked exactly as it had a dozen years earlier when Alys had her Season; apparently nothing so plebian as dust was allowed within those august precincts.

  But she had changed. Lord, how she had changed! She no longer cared what a lot of fashionable fribbles thought of her. When she swept confidently into a room, splendidly gowned and the tallest woman present, she held every eye.

  It was all monstrously dull.

  The only real pleasure came in expeditions with the boys to the Tower, Astley’s Circus, and other such vulgar amusements. To everyone’s surprise, the duke accompanied them and showed every evidence of enjoyment.

  With a faint pang of unworthy jealousy, Alys watched her father’s growing friendships with Peter and William. The duke had always wanted a son. She had never managed to be that, though heaven knew she had tried.

  But there was no question that her father was overjoyed to be reunited with his daughter. They cautiously began to reestablish much of their old closeness. As they did, an ache that had been part of Alys for so long that she no longer consciously noticed it finally went away.

  Not even that was worth the loss of Reggie.

  Strickland was staggeringly empty, ten times as empty as it had been when Reggie had first returned. Amazing how quickly he had become used to having other people there. He missed the young Spensers and their laughter and occasional squabbles, but mostly he missed Allie.

  Fortunately the harvest had begun. That kept him busy, even though the excellent bailiff supervised routine work. There were invitations from the local gentry who wanted to hear firsthand of Alys’s ascension to a higher place. It was all rather biblical.

  Reggie accepted some invitations, mostly to fill up empty hours of the evenings when he missed her most sharply. Once those hours would have been filled with liquor, but he was determined not to go back to that, no matter how desperately lonely he was.

  Much of his evening time was spent playing the pianoforte. He regained his youthful skill and went beyond, which was a source of great satisfaction. And the concentration needed acted as a kind of drug for forgetting.

  Attila and Nemesis had taken to sleeping on Reggie’s bed. He supposed that his acquiescence was a sign of his declining standards. Irritable at Alys’s continuing absence, Attila would occasionally pick a fight with Nemesis by biting the collie’s tail or sinking a pawful of claws into h
er tender nose. Nemesis would yelp reproachfully and go to sleep again.

  Even when irritable, Attila knew better than to bite Reggie.

  A week after their arrival in London, the duke took the boys to Tattersall’s. Females were not welcome within the holy sanctuary of horse selling, so Alys took the opportunity to write letters.

  She was puzzled when the butler entered her sitting room with an engraved card on a silver salver. It was too early in the day for formal calls. She glanced at the card. Lord Randolph Lennox.

  A tidal wave of panic and insecurity swept over her. She had known that sooner or later their paths would cross, since Lord Randolph and her father were friends. But not this soon. She wasn’t ready yet!

  She would never be ready to face Randolph again. For a moment she considered refusing to see him. Then she squared her shoulders. Hadn’t she decided that his rejection no longer had the power to hurt her? She was no longer so sure, but it was essential to face him.

  Nervously she checked her appearance in a pier glass. She wore a rich, terra-cotta–colored morning gown that flattered her figure with demure provocation. The severe coronet was gone, replaced by a fashionable tumble of curls and waves. After a critical appraisal, Alys decided that she was creditably attractive. But not beautiful. Only once, the morning after she had made love with Reggie, had she been beautiful.

  Randolph was waiting in the gold parlor. She paused in the doorway and they studied each other, neither of them speaking.

  Her former fiancé stood an inch or so taller than Alys, with hair like dark burnished gold and the beautifully proportioned face and figure found in classical sculpture. He was impeccably dressed, and the years had only improved his looks, adding maturity to the handsomeness he’d had a dozen years earlier.

  With a small shock, Alys realized that he had been only twenty-one when they were betrothed, just a boy. She had never thought of him as young.