Redeeming the Roguish Rake

by Liz Tyner

  She felt the sunshine he talked about. The warmth that grew with each movement he made to lessen the distance between them.

  He picked her up, lifting her in the same method of lifting a bundle of flowers randomly gathered and not wanting to damage a single petal. Then he put her on the bed just as gently.

  He moved, holding himself over her on his elbows.

  ‘I was wrong.’ His breath touched her lips. All she could see was his eyes and he closed them, moving closer. ‘Before. That was not a kiss. This is a kiss.’

  Lips touched hers, but she didn’t feel them because she felt so much more. Her senses captured every place his body rested against hers.

  He lingered, his movements soft, delicate.

  When he rolled to his side, he pulled her even closer, guiding her in the movements of helping remove his shirt.

  Each touch of her fingertips against his skin released a sensation that closed away more and more of the world, until all that was left that she could see or feel was where their bodies joined or her eyes took him in.

  Time changed when he removed her clothing. She could feel the garments being pulled away, but it was as if each stirring of air against her was from his breath and each cloth that slid away was imprinted with his hand.

  When he held her breasts and the curves of her body, her fingers trailed his skin. She didn’t have to tell herself what to do, or wonder if she did the right thing. Every movement brought them closer with the same unseen guidance that blooms used to grow closer to the sky.

  His hands encircled her hips and he positioned his body even closer, running a hand over her leg and wrapping it around him, taking even more time to kiss and caress and give her an awareness of him.

  Then his face was again above hers and his lips parted, and he somehow guided her with his eyes, making her aware of his movements, attentive to every nuance of her.

  His lips brushed her face while he pulled her close for a moment and then moved back, watching her responses.

  Her hands clenched at his back, pulling her against him tight—tighter than she would have believed possible.

  When he rolled aside, she lay very still, trying to pull the pieces of her body back into herself.

  Covers floated over her and she realised he’d stepped from the bed and gathered them from the floor. Then he slipped back into bed beside her and the room got very, very quiet.

  He felt her slide just a bit from him. She pulled the covers tight against her body and didn’t settle back against him. No part of her touched him.

  The quiet in the air sounded different. Much like the first moments when waking in the middle of the morning in a strange room. Or when waking after thunder shook the house and not quite having a knowledge of what had just happened.

  Fox rubbed the back of his neck, then rested his head in his hand. A marriage alone. Just as he expected.

  Then the covers at his side rustled and a pinch nipped into his arm.

  He turned on his side and she pulled back into herself, snugged the covers close at her neck and looked at him.

  ‘You just pinched me.’

  She nodded, eyes wide. ‘Yes. To wake you.’

  ‘I was not asleep.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Berryfield told me that it’s natural for a man to fall asleep after the act and it is dangerous for his heart and can cause an apoplexy. She said a husband should be pinched awake after such an event to keep the blood flowing or it pools in his head and causes damage. She said it is advice all the women of the village give their daughters.’

  ‘Any other advice I might need to watch for?’ He propped himself on one elbow and put the other hand at her waist. The grip on the covers tightened.

  ‘If a pinch doesn’t work, I have the pin cushion to be kept at the bedside. She said to blame the pain on a spider bite when needed, but I couldn’t do that—blame a spider. She said a man needs to hear the little love words.’

  ‘Oh.’ He leaned closer, brushing his nose briefly against hers. She even smelled like a home should smell. Maybe a bit of perfume, a bit of baking and a hint of husband.

  ‘What little love words?’ he asked.

  ‘They didn’t tell me what you would say.’

  ‘Me?’ He pulled his head back.

  ‘Yes. She said a man has to say love words afterwards so he hears them from his lips. If he falls asleep afterwards without saying them, he forgets it is not all about himself. And then there is the risk of apoplexy to worry about.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She said that is why some men die so young. They did not learn how to behave properly after the marriage act.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, she said it was important that men believe it.’ She pulled the covers close. ‘All the other women seemed to think she was right. I suppose there is some truth to it.’

  He bent to kiss her again, and she scooted away.

  ‘I would like to hear some love words.’

  ‘I’m not good with speech after tender moments.’

  ‘Do the best you can. They told me I might have to work with you on that.’

  ‘Rebecca.’ He chuckled and reached to pull her into his arms.

  She tightened and averted her face.

  He burrowed his face into the warmth of her neck, rotating a bit so he could feel more of her against his skin. ‘You feel like happiness. Like fairy tales are true. Like being bathed in sunshine.’

  He pulled back. ‘And how do I feel to you?’

  ‘Hairy.’

  He grunted. ‘Oh, Miss Rebecca. That does not work. You will not fall asleep without some love words to offer on your own.’

  ‘I like hairy.’ She loosened her grip on the covers enough to touch his cheek, sliding her hand back. ‘It feels strong—even without the prickly whiskers growing. And then the hair on your head, soft, silken, straight. And then the bit on your chest, curling.’

  ‘I think I shall have to work with you on love words as well.’

  ‘Very well. You may begin.’

  He moved, lips touching the side of hers, breathing his words against hers. ‘The best are whispered against the skin.’

  His lips lingered, feathering, whispering with movement, giving her the words silently, letting them flow between them through the brushes of touch.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Foxworthy didn’t leave her bed in the night. No reason to traipse across the way to the master’s chambers.

  His jaw ached. He’d been trying to take such care in lovemaking that he’d almost injured himself holding back.

  He propped himself on one elbow, watching her sleep. He reached out and with a thumb and forefinger circled her wrist. Perhaps too slender. But soon he’d have someone assembling a staff. Someone to hire a cook who could tempt her to enjoy the meals.

  He slid back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. She’d not have to clean or do any duties but pamper herself. He was thankful he’d not been born a female. That would be such a boring life. Hair being curled into ringlets. Layers of clothing. Choosing meals and trying to pick out just the right cloth for the new dress and nattering on with the servants about this and that and then teas with friends and then more of the same.

  What a pitiful way to spend the day. It sounded much like drinking the same wine, singing the same song, visiting the same clubs, and repeating the same story appearing in the same newsprint.

  He was fortunate. He knew it. Extremely.

  And extremely boring. True, he could make people laugh and sing, and that was a skill of sorts. A good work, if you will. But even as everyone around him laughed at his humour, he bored himself. Perhaps that was why he married.

  It was and it wasn’t.

  That irritation that she and her father felt he wasn’t good enough had festered during that three weeks. Even his own father had muttered that perhaps Fox should reconsider as Rebecca was a decent sort and the earl did not like feeling that he’d… And then he’d stopped g
rumbling and left the room.

  Fox knew—to be told he couldn’t have something only made him determined to have it. Perhaps that had more to do with those other proposals than he realised. The women were married, and he liked the half-second look in their eyes that told him more than they dared say aloud.

  He rolled to look again at his sleeping bride. The innocent.

  The vicar had once confided to the earl that Rebecca had awoken crying, upset she was not good enough to be the daughter of her parents. She’d dreamed that they had tossed her in a rubbish heap because she had been playing with her doll instead of giving the toy to a little girl who didn’t have one.

  Oh, he had reserved a front-row seat in hell. He only wished he had not brought her along with him.

  Her hand lay sprawled on the covers, the gold ring on her finger invisible in the darkness. Already he felt it choking him.

  *

  Rebecca woke and stared up at the ceiling, trying to place it. It was the first time in her life she’d awoken not in her house.

  She dressed in her second-best dress, but even the curtains mocked her clothing. The fleur-de-lis woven into the fabric seemed shaped like laughing faces.

  Then she walked into the main sitting room.

  ‘If you like this house, let me know and I will make an offer on it.’ Foxworthy stood at the sofa, a pen in his hand and the ink open on the small table in front. Five pages lay scattered about. Words lined them. The chair was beside the table and looked more as if it had been kicked aside, rather than moved.

  His shirt was on and buttoned and so was his waistcoat.

  ‘I did not expect you to be an early riser,’ Rebecca said.

  ‘I am not.’

  The charmer was gone. His unshaven face. His hollowed eyes. He reminded her of the person she’d found face down, only this time his hair was mussed.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I’m about to call it a night and go to bed. But I had to finish these first.’ He pointed the pen nib at the papers.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Notes for the instructions I believe will need to be carried out to make this place comfortable within the next few days. Andrew said that only the barest of staff is here, but that is a beginning. I’ve listed the results I wish and have written instructions as I see fit. Do you have any suggestions before I give it to the butler?’

  A butler. To have a maid of all work would be grand, but that was only one person. What did one do with only the barest staff?

  He folded one page and put it in the pocket of his waistcoat. Then he handed her four pages. She saw meals listed in a handwriting more scrambled than legible. She could make out: Brandy. Wine. His valet to be relocated. A list of items to be brought from his former home.

  ‘If you would rather live at the family town house we can do so. It doesn’t matter to me. But our rooms will be a distance apart. You will be sharing a sitting room with my mother. And while I believe she will learn to get on well with you, she’s always expressed the deepest concerns about any woman I might marry.’ He gave a silent chuckle and turned his back. ‘She had reservations about my finding someone good enough for me.’

  She didn’t hold a lot of hope for getting along with her mother-in-law. The earl was a peaceable man and if he could not tolerate his wife, then it was likely Rebecca couldn’t please her. Particularly as Rebecca had quickly wed the only child. But even if the woman hated her, Rebecca would give her the respect due.

  ‘I care for my mother,’ Foxworthy said, turning back. ‘I know she sees me better sometimes than perhaps she should. If she expresses concern for my marriage, it has nothing to do with you.’ Fox dropped the pen on to the table. ‘It is just the way she talks.’

  ‘I have heard the women in the village talk about how a mother often has trouble accepting the woman her son marries.’

  ‘She will love you, of course. But it has been an eventful few months and she wasn’t expecting my marriage.’

  ‘What is on the paper you kept?’ she asked.

  He patted his pocket. ‘I’m putting another man on the task of asking about the man who has the gold buttons on his coat. Someone will remember seeing it. I will have my revenge.’

  Her jaw dropped. He had been almost killed and now he wished to prod the villain into more action.

  ‘Revenge is not for us to take.’ She pulled the fabric of her skirt wide. ‘And I gave away my mourning dress. Black is a very unhappy colour for me to wear.’

  The edges of his lips moved upwards. His hand reached towards her. It was as if he directed her attention away from himself. ‘You will look fetching in any colour. But don’t expect to wear black any time soon.’

  ‘Your spirit will be the one that pays for the revenge.’

  ‘A price I am willing to be responsible for. And should you need new mourning dresses, please do not hesitate to select several. You may spare no expense. Have a grand time with it.’

  ‘This is not something to laugh at.’

  ‘I’m very serious.’ He picked up the pen, grabbed another sheet of paper and wrote again. ‘I’m instructing that you should have all the dresses you wish in the year following my death. I wouldn’t want you to be limited in colour, though. Feel free to push the boundaries of good taste. It would be expected of my widow.’

  She shuddered. ‘I don’t feel like a wife. Pushing me into widowhood is unkind. It makes me wonder if you are trying to find a way to get out of the marriage.’

  His head moved back and his eyes opened a bit wider, but the rest of him stilled.

  ‘You don’t have to worry.’ His voice flowed silken. He finished writing, put the cap on the ink and dropped the pen to the blotter again.

  ‘I would like not to.’

  His eyes caught hers with the strength of a vise. ‘You had three weeks to change your mind.’ His eyes held hers too long. ‘It’s a little late now.’

  ‘Are you talking to me, or to yourself?’

  ‘Both of us.’

  ‘You were good. You were good when…’

  ‘When I could not move and talk. That helped a lot.’

  This time her fist rested against her chest. She opened her mouth, but no words would come. Her stomach flattened against itself on the inside, squeezing into a ball.

  He stared at her. ‘Even my mother understands discretion.’

  ‘Your discretion?’

  ‘Her own.’

  He went to his room and shut the door. She did not have the courage to follow, but knew it would only make things worse.

  *

  That afternoon, a maid brought her a ball of wool and knitting needles. The wool didn’t pull over the knitting needles as easily as she would have liked, but the window light in her room was so much better than at the vicarage.

  She disliked knitting, but there would always be a new baby needing new blanket, or another woman whose gnarled fingers couldn’t knit herself a new shawl. And since she didn’t enjoy it, it definitely counted as a good work.

  Rustling noises from the other side of the sitting-room door alerted her that he woke. She even heard the low rumble of his voice and another person speaking, which let her know his room had the same design as hers. A dressing chamber attached and beyond it lay a narrow stairway for a maid or valet to ascend and descend.

  She moved to a window facing the street. A carriage rumbled by, lanterns bobbing.

  An hour after his room quietened, she went to it and knocked. When no one answered, she opened the door to a deserted room. He’d left down the servants’ stairs.

  A maid had even been in and straightened, she supposed. Each item lay exactly where it should and had nothing to tie it to the owner.

  She walked into his dressing room. The scent of leather wafted and she noticed three pair of boots by a bootjack. Several hats rested on hatstands. A shaving kit lay in precise perfection.

  A wardrobe stood in the corner. She opened it. Various folded waistcoats greeted her. She pulled one fr
om the top, marvelling at the feel of silk. Threads, dyed the colour of the blue cloth, swirled at edges of the garment. Even the cloth-covered buttons had tiny, nonsensical designs on them. She lay the clothing aside and picked up another waistcoat and saw buttons with blue stones in the centre. She didn’t know if the centre was glass, or true sapphires or some other kind of jewel.

  Carefully, she folded them back, making them match the precise way the others were arranged. She trespassed into this man’s world.

  She was alone. Alone at a time when she should be with someone.

  She wouldn’t be able to live this way.

  She rang for assistance, because she knew she would need it. She was on the wrong side of the pull.

  *

  Fox walked into Boodle’s, the most likely place to find Peabody, even though he would have recognised the man had he attacked him. But Fox had heard Peabody’s name and he wasn’t certain he’d not hired the culprits. If he had, he’d pay.

  His blasted head felt like it had been kicked by a horse. It had never ached so before the attack. He’d wanted to see the man who’d caused this.

  He saw Lord Havisham sitting at a table, brandy in front of him. Havisham waved him over. ‘You’ve been gone for a while. Hiding from a husband?’

  ‘No. Found someone’s.’ He touched the crook of his nose.

  The laughter swirled. Havisham stood, thumped Fox’s back and put a drink in his hand.

  ‘Well, it’s not been the same since you’ve been gone,’ Havisham said, sitting.

  Dawson Davis put his club-sized hands interlaced at the back of his head. ‘When you sent my wife the flowers before, I had the butler remove your note and replace it with one of my own. By the way, you got my wife’s given name confused with her sister’s.’

  Fox turned to the reddish-faced man. ‘Didn’t I propose to your wife once?’

  ‘That’s what the paper said. She claimed you didn’t, but she preened a bit. Now she thinks herself more beautiful than any siren and expects me to put her on one of them chair, chariot-type things and walk her from room to room.’ He shut his eyes and shook his head. ‘Even the children have to speak nicely to her now.’