Taming the Rake

by Monica McCarty

  “No,” Gina said, aghast. “I had no idea.”

  Lady Blakemore nodded. “Well, he did. He tried to seduce me and arranged for my husband—though he wasn’t my husband at the time—to happen upon us in the garden.”

  “How horrible,” Gina exclaimed, a sick feeling quivering in her stomach. Would the stories of Coventry’s despicable deeds never end?

  Lady Blakemore patted her hand, soothing her obvious mortification. “Don’t worry, nothing happened. Lord Coventry is a handsome man, but I’ve always sensed something cold about him. And I was much too in love with my husband to dally with anyone else.” She smiled dreamily. “I still am.” She sighed contentedly. “I think it was some kind of test on Lord Coventry’s part. But in any event, I shan’t forget his trickery. If you need anything, just ask.”

  “I will,” Gina said, still absorbing the latest gash in Coventry’s unknightly armor.

  The countess led Gina back to the drawing room. “Blakemore was hoping Coventry would come tonight, but I suppose our entertainment is too tame for the likes of him.” She returned Gina to her chair. “Perhaps it is for the best. I’m not sure I could muster a civil tongue.”

  Thinking of all she had learned about Coventry today, Gina felt much the same.

  The countess moved on to speak with her other guests and Gina looked around the room for Mr. Collins, wondering where he’d disappeared to with her punch. She frowned, catching sight of Augusta across the room. She was seated on a small settee flanked by Lord Ashley and Mr. Carrington, though all of her properly maidenly demure attention was fixed on Lord Ashley.

  As no one else seemed to notice what was going on, Gina had a mind to pull the girl away from the Hellfire Rake and give her a severe chastising. Lord Ashley was a thoroughly improper suitor—almost as bad as Augusta’s brother. Gina had known him since she was a girl. But there was more to it than that. As a young girl she’d once fancied herself besotted with him, until she’d stumbled upon him tupping a serving maid in the barn. Though he was probably no more than eighteen at the time, he’d hardly seemed to have matured any in the past few years. Mr. Carrington, on the other hand, had an exceptional gentlemanly manner; Augusta would be wise to save her attentions for him.

  When Augusta giggled at something Lord Ashley whispered in her ear, Gina decided that she’d had enough. But something—or rather someone—stopped her from moving. She felt his presence, knowing immediately who it was, before she saw him. Or perhaps she recognized the now-familiar scent of warm spice and port. He’d come up behind her while she had been focused on Augusta. A dark, looming presence that seemed to suck the air right out of her.

  Thankfully, Mr. Collins picked that moment to return with her ratafia, saving Gina from forced conversation. In truth, she did not trust herself to speak.

  Her neck prickled with the heat of his gaze, but still she refused to turn and acknowledge him. Instead, she spent the better part of an hour barely able to breathe as a succession of young ladies took their turn demonstrating their varied accomplishment in singing, the harp, and the pianoforte.

  Yet she was excruciatingly aware of him the entire time.

  Following the polite applause that signaled the end of the recital, Gina stood with the assistance of Mr. Collins.

  “Did you enjoy the performances, Lady Georgina,” he asked, releasing her hand.

  “Very much, Mr. Collins.” He really was a pleasant man, with his soft brown eyes. He was fashionably lean and only half a foot taller than her. Not at all imposing or overwhelming. Why couldn’t she be attracted to someone like him?

  “It’s quite warm,” he continued. “Would you care to take some air in the garden?”

  “I would be delighted—”

  A firm hand gripped her elbow. The broad shield of his chest pressed against her shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, old boy, but Lady Georgina has promised me a turn about the garden.” His fingers increased their pressure on her arm. “Haven’t you, Lady Georgina?” The challenge in his voice dared her to deny him.

  “I hardly think it’s proper…,” Mr. Collins started.

  Gina’s mouth pursed into a flat line. Mulishly, she wanted to argue. But something in his voice told her he’d make an even bigger scene if she did. Conscious of the many eyes turned in their direction, she forced a captivated smile to her lips. “Lord Coventry, I’d thought you’d forgotten all about me?” she asked with mock playfulness.

  He returned her sarcasm in spades. “I find it impossible to forget about you, Lady Georgina.”

  Good. It was hardly the reaction he’d been hoping for, and Gina couldn’t help but be pleased.

  Leaving a sputtering Mr. Collins behind, Coventry steered her toward the garden. Gina looked to Augusta for a reprieve, but found her utterly enthralled, in too deep a conversation with Lord Ashley to notice Gina’s plight. Gina thought about resisting—remembering what had happened the last time she went into a dark garden with him—but she stole a quick glance at his expression and thought better of it. He had something other than seduction on his mind.

  He was livid. Whatever it was that had him all in a twist was probably best said away from the inquisitive ears of the ton.

  He dragged her across the gravel paths, heading toward the hedgerow maze that dominated the garden, modeled on the larger version at Hampton Court. Sharp rocks pocked the soles of her satin slippers.

  “Slow down,” she said. “The stones hurt my feet.”

  “Stop complaining,” he hissed. “If it hurts that much, I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you.”

  Gina pressed her lips together. She did not doubt that he meant it. Of all the indignities. Deeper and deeper they wound their way through the maze until there was no chance that anyone from the party would be able to see them. He spun her around to face him. The hazy moonlight cast a sinister shadow across his face, sharpening the soft angles of his features.

  “I thought I warned you not to interfere.”

  He was drunk and furious. Not the most promising of combinations.

  She squared her shoulders. What did he have to be angry about? “If you don’t like the divan, just say so. There is no need to be so rough,” she said, trying to pry her elbow out of his hand.

  “It’s not the blasted divan,” he seethed. “And if you think this is rough, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  A shiver of awareness slid down her belly. The wicked tone of his voice made it clear that he wasn’t talking about her elbow.

  Focus, Gina reminded herself. He was getting to her again with his naughty innuendo. “Then what?” she asked. “The curtains?”

  He growled in response.

  Too bad they hadn’t chosen to make a wager about who could make a rake the most furious; she’d have won in a heartbeat. But oddly enough, despite Augusta’s misgivings, Coventry’s anger didn’t frighten her. If anything, it gave her a strange sense of accomplishment. In some perverse way, she’d managed to crack through his shell. No longer was he detached and indifferent. Angry, teeming with emotion, he came alive.

  Baiting him, it turned out, was invigorating, and as much fun as she’d had in years. “Then what is it that has you in such a dither,” she asked haughtily.

  At the word “dither,” she thought he might have an apoplexy. There was nothing cold about him now. His eyes were no longer hard as marble, but were burning a deep blue midnight. His face truly was magnificent with the lean lines, angular cheekbones and squared masculine jaw. But that tic in his jaw had really grown quite pronounced. She yearned to reach out and smooth it with her finger.

  “Why do you suppose my carriage was parked on Curzon Street when I was blocks away at Brooks’s?”

  Gina blanched. That was not what she expected. How could he have found out about her little visit so quickly? She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “Neither did I,” he said bluntly. “That’s why after Ponsonby’s strange remark that he’d seen my carriage across town, I returned home t
o speak with Mr. Jennings. Do you have any idea what he told me?”

  “I couldn’t conceive—”

  “Oh, I’m sure you could,” he said, pulling her closer until the top of her head rested just under his chin. Dear God, she could feel the entire muscled plane of his rigid body. Her body instantly responded to his undeniable raw sexuality. The heat that seemed to radiate from him engulfed her. His voice lowered. “Jennings said that you borrowed my carriage for a short errand.”

  Gina couldn’t find her tongue. His hand was resting on the small of her back and with her head dipped back, she feared that he intended to kiss her. Her pulse raced frantically.

  He leaned his mouth closer. An intoxicating aroma of port filled her nose. “What were you doing on Curzon Street, Lady Georgina,” he whispered, his voice husky, only inches from her mouth.

  God forgive her, she trembled. She was aching with desire like she’d never before experienced. Her heart felt drawn to her feet, so intense was the yearning.

  He was affected too. She could see the warring emotion flickering in his hazy gaze. The heady aroma of port, the glazed vision.

  He was foxed. The flash of insight sufficiently chilled her ardor. “Don’t,” she whispered. Fool. After what she’d learned of him today, how could she fall prey to such insanity? “You’re drunk.”

  He’d put her on the defensive with his unexpected anger, but she remembered now. She remembered how he seduced women for play. She’d just never imagined how good he was at it. Nor had she imagined that she would be susceptible to his overwhelming masculine magnetism. How she would want to melt into the heat of his embrace.

  He muttered a vile profanity and released her.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, he seemed to collect himself. “I’m not drunk. On my way, perhaps, but not drunk.”

  “Why do you drink so much?” she asked quietly.

  “It’s none of your damned business,” he snapped back.

  Drinking certainly wasn’t improving his temper any. What could drive a man to constantly dull his senses with liquor? She had a sudden epiphany. “When are you going to recognize the real problem?”

  “And what problem is that?”

  “That there isn’t enough drink in the world to make you forget whatever it is you want to forget.”

  His eyes flashed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, but I think I do.” Something or someone had hurt him. Here was a man that projected a cool, devil-may-care attitude, but deep down, he was in pain. He did care. He might not want to, but he did. He felt it enough to try to drown the pain in drink.

  One only had to observe him with his sister to see the truth. To see the fondness he fought so hard to hide. Something kept him apart, and Gina was determined to find out what it was.

  He met her gaze and Gina felt the connection. Felt the truth humming between them. And he felt it, too, because he looked away.

  When he spoke there was a weariness that hadn’t been there before. “What were you doing on Curzon Street, Georgina?”

  He’d slipped and used her Christian name. Such an intimacy sounded strange coming from him. Strange, but nice. He’d begun to let her in, even if he didn’t know it yet.

  He stared at her hard, waiting for an explanation.

  She shrugged.

  “I can always make a visit myself and find out,” he threatened.

  “No,” she said too quickly. At some basic level, the thought sickened her. Though she felt sorry for Madame Simone, she didn’t want Coventry anywhere in the vicinity of Mayfair.

  Goodness gracious. He’d gotten Gina all mixed-up. He was the one who should be explaining himself. All of the resentment and anger that she’d harbored earlier surged forth. “Very well, if you must know, I went to offer your light-o’-love a settlement. But when I arrived I discovered it was unnecessary.”

  He reached out and grabbed her shoulders. “Of all the asinine, foolish things. Don’t you realize what could have happened if anybody saw you?”

  She stuck out her chin. “I was careful. And I’m not the one who should be ashamed. How could you treat the poor woman like that?”

  He looked at her like she was a bedlamite. “Poor woman? I settled a fortune on her. She can live like a queen for years.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Don’t you know that she is in love with you?”

  He scoffed, releasing her. “A woman like Simone does not fall in love.”

  Uncaring wretch. Did nothing penetrate his cold heart? “Anyone can fall in love.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said flatly. “Don’t mistake passion—which she has an abundance of—for love.”

  He sounded so certain, Gina thought to question him further, but he cut her off.

  “She’ll find another protector. Women like her always do.”

  Something in his tone raised her hackles. “Women like what?”

  He took her chin and lifted to meet his gaze. “Women who sell their virtue for money,” he said harshly. “It was a business relationship, nothing more. And now that business has ended. Don’t romanticize her position, my dear. Love was never part of the bargain.”

  Gina got the feeling he wasn’t just talking about light-o’-loves like Simone. No, it was too personal. “You can make it sound as ugly as you want,” Gina said stubbornly. “But she is in love with you.”

  “Then she is a fool.”

  The warning was unmistakable: Any woman would be a fool to fall in love with Lord Coventry.

  Without another glance he walked away, leaving Gina alone in the moonlight, a strange sadness engulfing her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Soon after leaving the garden, Coventry made his excuses to his smirking host (damn Blakemore, anyway) and ordered his carriage back to Brooks’s. He laid his head back on the velvet cushion and closed his eyes, allowing the gentle sway to soothe his flaming body.

  Which was no mean feat.

  Desire gripped him. He’d never wanted to kiss someone as badly as he’d wanted to kiss that little firebrand. The temptation had been overwhelming. A secluded garden, the soft moonlight bathing her beautiful features in a luminous alabaster light, the succulent red of her sensuous mouth, all drawing him into her feminine web. He’d ached to taste her. And would have, had she not stopped him.

  She frustrated him on many levels, but it was the sexual craving that was driving him mad. He better do something soon to slake his lust, or he might well do something he regretted.

  His attempt to find another mistress had to this point proved unsuccessful. The slew of available soiled doves he’d considered couldn’t compare to the termagant who haunted his dreams. In truth, his hand held greater appeal than yet another in the long succession of overly painted mouths like those who had preceded Simone. Not when the image of her sensual mouth surrounding him kept popping into mind.

  Nor did he relish another tiresome scene such as the one he’d endured last week with Simone.

  He frowned. Could Lady Georgina have been correct about Simone?

  He’d attributed Simone’s hysterics to her passionate Gallic temperament. He’d known she’d grown attached, but did Simone truly believe herself in love? No, it was ridiculous. She was no inexperienced debutante; she knew what she’d been getting into. She’d known it wouldn’t last. With him, no one did.

  Still, he could not dismiss the kernel of guilt gnawing at a conscience that he’d heretofore thought nonexistent. He hadn’t set out to treat Simone cruelly. In truth he hadn’t given her feelings a second thought. He thought her a simple, uncomplicated woman, enthusiastically enjoying a mutually satisfying arrangement. Perhaps the arrangement was more complicated than he realized.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. He sounded like a damned milksop, worrying about the emotional entanglements of a cyprian. He didn’t understand it himself.

  The coach turned the corner onto Piccadilly, clattered past Green Park to St. James’s Street, heading to
ward Brooks’s. To think, only a few short hours ago he’d been well on his way to a peaceful night of inebriated bliss. He hadn’t intended to attend Blakemore’s dismal little gathering until Ponsonby remarked upon seeing his coach parked in front of Simone’s townhouse.

  He shook his head in continued astonishment. Lady Georgina Beauclerk had actually visited his mistress. In some perverse way it made him want to laugh. He admired her gumption, even as he hated to think of what she might do next.

  But something bothered him about Lady Georgina. Once he’d gotten past the shock of being so blatantly pursued by a society miss, the questions started to form. As Blakemore had so indelicately put it: Why him? Her sudden attraction didn’t make any sense. They’d crossed paths enough times over the past few years to know that it was not his looks that drew her attention. Nor was it his title or fortune, neither of which she needed. Perhaps she saw herself as some kind of reformer. Maybe that was it; she wanted to reform the rake. Was it the challenge that drew her? Something about the idea rang true—and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to be some young girl’s project. He chose to live his life the way he wanted to. Who was she to judge him?

  He’d been judged enough.

  Coventry opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. He was thinking far too much about her. She had him all twisted up in knots. One minute he wanted to throttle her, the next he wanted to kiss her. It was bloody disconcerting.

  And it was dangerous. She saw far too much.

  He looked out the small window, the familiar buildings of St. James’s Street sliding by. The purely male bastion where no respectable woman would dare tread, even one as bold as Lady Georgina. Another few minutes and he could return to his friends, his bottle, and his cards. The thought should relieve him, but somehow between here and Blakemore’s, getting drunk no longer sounded so appealing.

  Still, he wouldn’t allow one pert miss to dissuade him from trying. And for a few more hours he did just that. Until he’d lost the taste—and a good deal of blunt—for gaming and took his bottle to a chair beside the fireplace.