Redeeming the Roguish Rake

by Liz Tyner

  She had a choice, whether to live in the world with her head up or down. She lifted her chin.

  Ringing the bell to summon a servant for help, she began the task of readying herself for the day and for the rest of her life.

  In moments, a different maid entered and Rebecca dressed to go shopping with her mother-in-law.

  *

  Fox’s mother chatted constantly when they both sat in the vehicle and rode to the seamstress’s shop.

  The older woman’s chatter was only interrupted by an occasional cough. ‘The honey mixture my cook makes works wonders for soothing me, but I didn’t take any this morning because I thought I was completely well,’ she muttered. ‘I do beg your pardon. I wouldn’t have visited you this morning if I’d known I was ill.’

  Rebecca reassured her mother-in-law that she’d often assisted with all sorts of illnesses in the village and was only sorry for the other woman’s suffering.

  Then the talk continued with mentions of what kind of dress Rebecca might like. Apparently the seamstress did not visit her customers often because she had small children she watched while she worked and her husband was a tailor who worked in an adjoining side of the shop.

  *

  After Rebecca and her mother-in-law had selected several fabrics for new dresses, she noticed another woman entering the shop. The husband stood at her side.

  ‘Countess,’ he greeted her with a tip of his hat and a bow.

  Her mother-in-law turned. In moments she had introduced the older couple and her new daughter-in-law.

  Both the man and woman’s jaws dropped.

  ‘Married?’ the man, Mr Smothers, asked Rebecca. But the one word had many newspaper pages behind it.

  She nodded.

  ‘We would love to have the three of you to the soirée we’re having tomorrow,’ Mr Smothers said to the countess. ‘I know you declined due to ill health, but you appear to be so much better now and we would be happy to share your joy.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t answer for my son,’ the countess sputtered the words out. ‘I believe he is quite busy setting up his household. We are shopping for furnishings now.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ he asked.

  The countess reached into her reticule. She pulled out a folded paper. ‘My list. For fabrics. Yes. We’ve so much to do.’

  He raised a brow.

  ‘Their house is severely in need of curtains,’ the countess inserted, putting the paper back into the reticule. ‘Severely.’

  ‘And how long have you known Foxworthy?’ Mr Smothers asked Rebecca. She’d seen a serpent with a more friendly face, even though the man did smile. But it leaked a bit at the side.

  ‘Long enough to wed him,’ Rebecca answered.

  ‘That could only be a day from what I’ve seen of Foxworthy. He wastes no time asking a woman to the altar.’

  She stared at him with the same look she’d given Mrs Oldman’s bottom. She could do no better.

  ‘True. The first day I met him, he was at my feet.’ She paused, looking upwards and telling herself it was not true deception because he did propose rather quickly, but her conscience made her admit a bit more. ‘Almost the first words he spoke to me were a proposal.’

  ‘I wish you the best of luck.’ The man chewed the words carefully and did all but use a fingernail to rake the last syllable from his teeth. ‘Please do attend our soirée. We’d love to have you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her mother-in-law clutched Rebecca’s arm. ‘We must be going. We’ve many fabrics to select elsewhere.’

  He lost the last of the sincerity in his smile, nodded to them and left.

  ‘My dear,’ the countess said. ‘I believe my son may have proposed to Mr Smothers’s wife.’ She shook her head. ‘Before he met you, of course. And always in jest. His proposals were all in jest.’ Her eyes wavered when she realised what she’d said. ‘Before you, of course. Before you. I’m sure he did just as I did and took one look at you and knew you’d be perfect for him.’

  ‘I will just assume every woman I meet has been proposed to.’

  ‘That isn’t safe either. Some haven’t and I’ve heard they felt left out.’ She patted her reticule. ‘The paper I have… Last night, I tried to make a list for you…but it was hard to separate the true proposals from the rumours. And I realised they were meaningless.’

  ‘I’m sure they were meaningless.’ Truth should have felt better and not so much like a bit of poison going deep.

  ‘Well, you must have dinner with me tonight. No reason for us not to spend some time together.’ The countess smiled, head moving forward in encouragement. ‘I’m married to a man who likes to spend quiet evenings at home and I know what a pall that can be. My son is not one to sit at home and read.’

  ‘He’s more likely to be read about.’

  ‘Yes.’ The countess beamed. ‘He’s quite famous. And now the two of you can share that.’

  *

  A rosy glow illuminated the sky when Rebecca stepped inside her house. The butler opened the door for her. What did one say to a butler who seemed to have no inclination to speak but the barest syllables?

  She walked into the sitting room. Foxworthy stood, an elbow on the mantel and lips in a grim line. She didn’t think he knew she was in the room. This time, pages of newsprint littered the floor at his feet. He held one rolled sheaf in the hand at his side.

  ‘Why do you drop things to the floor so easily?’

  His head moved up quickly and he looked at her, then at his feet. He took a step away from the fireplace. ‘I just wanted to tell you,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve been through it many, many times. You get used to it.’

  ‘What was said?’

  ‘Just the usual wedding nonsense.’ He slapped the end of the paper against the mantel, but the lines at the edges of his mouth had fallen away. ‘It does mention the mix-up with the vows, only it declares that was done at your request.’

  ‘I would never have thought of it.’

  ‘And the paper suggests I must have thought you were married or I would not have proposed.’

  ‘I suppose you should save the clipping for your mother.’ Rebecca walked forward and took the paper. ‘For her memory book.’

  Rebecca spread the print to read it. Her head moved forward when she saw the picture. The groom did have a shackle at his leg and the bride held the other end of the chain. And the bride did look like her and the groom like Foxworthy.

  Foxworthy looked over her shoulder. ‘They did not do you justice at all. I will speak to him about that.’

  She turned. ‘No need.’ His eyes didn’t have a care.

  With his left hand, Fox snatched the paper from her fingers, wadded it and tossed it into the fireplace. The embers caught the paper alight and it blazed up before turning into ash.

  ‘I wonder what he would make of the fact that Mr Smothers invited us to his house and that you have proposed to Mrs Smothers,’ Rebecca said.

  Foxworthy didn’t speak, just examined her face.

  ‘I saw him as we were visiting the seamstress,’ she said. ‘He invited us for a soirée, but the countess thought it best to decline.’

  He still didn’t speak, but now his face had returned to the expression he’d had when he didn’t know she watched him, only darker.

  She took a step back. ‘You did start it, you know.’

  Fox’s smile returned. His face softened. He might have just stepped from the calming waters at Bath.

  She gathered the papers where he’d stood and wadded them. He had one boot on a page. She glanced at it and then at his face.

  He reached down, picked it up and hurled the page to the fire.

  ‘The paper has to sell copies. No harm done.’ She added hers to the rest, standing back from the burst of heat.

  His gaze seared into her, muddling her thoughts. Then her memory returned to the sight of him lying in the grass face down and her rolling him over. She missed that person. The one who cou
ldn’t talk and didn’t leave the house.

  She took in a breath that lodged in her throat. Was that what she’d wanted in a husband? It somehow didn’t seem very noble.

  She spoke quickly to push those thoughts aside.

  ‘How long have your parents lived apart?’ Rebecca moved to the fireplace. She appreciated the warmth from the grate because she could see so little in Foxworthy’s eyes.

  ‘After my older sister died, my parents never seemed to stay in the same house for very long.’ He didn’t move.

  ‘Why? They both seem nice enough.’ She touched the handle of the poker, feeling the warmth of the iron, and used it to push the rest of the paper into the flames.

  ‘It’s just the way it’s always been. I was perhaps ten when my sister died.’

  ‘It makes no sense to me. Your parents both have generous hearts. They would have needed each other for comfort.’

  ‘No. That was not how it settled out. They grew wicked tempers with each other. It’s best that they live where they are happiest. My mother’s home was once owned by her own grandmother so I understand her connection. And the country estate has been in Father’s family for even longer. They are close to their past memories.’

  ‘A family should be together.’

  ‘A husband and wife, you mean. Just because my parents aren’t in the same room doesn’t mean we aren’t a family. We are.’ He took one step closer. ‘We are every bit as much a family as you and your father were. We just look to others for conversation.’

  ‘That is not a family to me.’

  ‘It is to us and, as it is our world, you should give it the same acceptance as you have for your own ways.’ He moved towards her, brushing a lock from her cheek. ‘They’re happy apart. They are bound by marriage and even though they aren’t in the same house, they are tied together for ever.’

  ‘Tied together. You could not give Byron any views on writing.’

  ‘Rebecca.’ The shutters in his eyes faded, but even the small lines that had formed were better than the distance. ‘Marriage is a vow. It means something to me. It is a lifelong connection. But it does not mean drinking out of the same teacup, or you trying to walk in my boots while I wear your slippers.’

  She turned to him. ‘Some day we will have children and I want them to have grandparents.’

  ‘They will. My father will teach them how depriving oneself builds spirit and Mother will most likely spoil them senseless. And you will likely be thinking our children have too many grandparents once the tug of war begins.’

  ‘Is that what happened with you?’

  ‘My grandfather wanted me to follow in his footsteps and my father thought him senseless and too shallow.’

  ‘So the tug of war?’

  His lids half closed over his eyes. ‘No. Grandfather made the rules as he controlled the allowances. Everyone answered to him, except me. I could make him laugh.’

  ‘That wouldn’t teach a child patience.’

  His brows rose. ‘I’ve never claimed to be patient.’

  She took in a breath, but spoke softly. ‘If you don’t make claims of who you are, it is very easy to live up to your expectations.’

  He waved a finger in the air, slowly, almost mocking. ‘Ah, I do feel an obligation to have a good time. To make an event…an event.’ A glimmer of challenge lit his eyes. ‘And you should have more frivolous moments.’ His voice lowered. ‘But keep the patience. It’s a virtue and something everyone always appreciates in the people nearby.’

  ‘I think I should have worked harder on developing it.’

  ‘Possibly. This town can be a bit trying at times.’

  ‘I’ve already found that out.’

  His blue eyes speared in her direction.

  A pang of guilt hit her. She’d meant that barb and it was wrong of her.

  She spoke softly, trying to erase the unkindness she’d just done. ‘Secretly, I’d always thought London sounded pleasant on the few times people spoke of it. I just have yet to find the good works I need to do. At home, the people needed me. And if I couldn’t help them I could pass the word along and help would be given.’

  She straightened the hem of her sleeve. ‘Everyone here has so much, or so very little, it doesn’t feel like I belong among them.’

  ‘We will go to the Smotherses’ soirée. This would be a perfect opportunity for you to meet the ladies of the ton.’

  ‘No.’

  His eyes narrowed and the blue ice winked through. ‘So a marriage of togetherness only is a consideration when you wish it?’

  Her jaw tightened. ‘I can understand married couples living apart much better now.’

  She turned away—so angered at herself. She put her hands close to her body, hiding her fists from him. Her tongue had got away from her. That was wrong. A person who could not control her words could control nothing.

  The door behind her shut. And this time no noises let her know he was in the house.

  *

  Fox sat at White’s. The cards were stacked in square shapes, in tiers, three card-widths high. He’d declined the card game, making a wager that he could stack his cards twice as high as anyone else could, fully expecting to lose.

  But the two men who challenged him expected to lose even more than he did and didn’t give a valiant attempt to anything but having their glasses refilled.

  He picked up a final card and rotated it within his fingers and placed it on top of the tower, which more than exceeded what he needed to win. ‘I learned that at university.’

  One of the other men reached over and tapped the base, and the cards tumbled. ‘I learned that in the crib.’

  The others laughed and Fox stood. ‘I must be leaving to get ready for the soirée tonight. Besides, if I stay any longer the excitement here will be too overwhelming.’ The men laughed again, and Fox left.

  Rebecca needed to go out with him so people would know she wasn’t a misprint.

  *

  When he stepped in the door, he noticed the silence.

  He bounded up the stairs, wondering if Rebecca was at home.

  She sat in an easy chair, her knitting needles at top speed. She looked up, nodded, smiled and appeared to return her concentration to her project.

  ‘You aren’t ready for the soirée.’

  Tension formed at her eyes. ‘No. I have nothing to wear. I can’t go.’

  ‘You need to attend some events with me so people will know you are not a misprint. The soirée will be a good event to introduce to you the ton. Especially since it is Smothers’s.’ And he wanted to see if he could find out if anyone might remember a servant or friend of a friend who had a gold-buttoned coat and who might be capable of an attack.

  ‘I’ll be sure to purchase something suitable to wear,’ she said.

  His head turned to the side. ‘You’ve been shopping with Mother. I expected you to have plenty to wear.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve ordered gowns, but only one has arrived and it’s not right.’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’

  He stood, following her. She went to the clothes press in her room and pulled out the dress.

  *

  Her mother-in-law had asked the seamstress to complete it quickly. After all, this would be the garment the future countess would wear to her first event and everyone would be looking at her. And Rebecca had never seen a dress so elaborate.

  A plain white gown underneath, overlaid with a pink silk more sheer than anything she’d ever seen. At the base of the puffed sleeves, an embroidered hem made the cuffs. Then a row of ribbon flowers climbed from the hem to the shoulder of the dress. A matching row of flowers swirled at the bottom of the skirt. She held it up and looked over her shoulder.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ His voice rolled into the air behind her.

  She looked at it and didn’t speak.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s lovely—more than I could have imagined.’ She ran a hand over the fabric. �
��I do think it’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘I’d like to see you in it. You’ll need help with the corset.’ He reached for the pull to summon her maid.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t fit right.’

  He stepped behind her. She could feel his breath at her neck. Smell the scent of leather and shaving soap.

  The seamstress had made a sample top of muslin to make sure the pieces would fit. The sample garment had been perfect.

  ‘It looks like it fits,’ he said. ‘Let me see you in it.’ He rang for the maid.

  Then he turned. ‘I’ll get ready while you’re dressing.’

  *

  After she put on the garment, she walked into the sitting room, but had to slow because her head spun when she moved too fast.

  The plain dress looked as if it had been made for another woman. The puffed sleeves fell away from her shoulders.

  When he walked out of his room, he paused. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t quite fit.’ She shook her head, relieved. ‘No.’

  ‘Did it fit you when you purchased it?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so. The seamstress can alter it to fit.’

  ‘You…are ill?’ He leaned forward, watching her eyes.

  She shook her head. ‘I do have the sniffles your mother had, but I’m fine. I don’t want to look too weighty. Your mother thought a babe was on the way when we married. I don’t want that. And I’m really not hungry.’

  Nothing tasted the same when the cook fixed it. Not like her own cooking. She’d tried to give gentle requests, but the woman couldn’t seem to get the flavours quite right—besides, she’d been a cook for a quarter of a century and was quite proud of her skills.

  ‘It’s fine if everyone assumes you’re going to have a baby. They can count later and figure out the truth. And it wouldn’t be the end of the world to have a seven-month babe. Happens all the time.’

  ‘I’ve always been a bit plump.’ She held out the skirt, then dropped it, letting it flow back into place. ‘I feel so much better now and the corset doesn’t choke me like it did before. It’s much more comfortable. I was just slow about sending the dress back to the seamstress.’