The Rake

by Suzanne Enoch

  “You want me,” he murmured, his voice shaking a little.

  “I can’t help myself.”

  She hadn’t meant to say that, it seemed like such an admission of weakness. Tristan only chuckled, reaching around her shoulders to unbutton the top fastenings of her gown.

  “I don’t know if it’s the sex, or just touching you,” he said, tugging the front of her dress forward so he could slide his left hand into her bodice and fondle her breast. “You’ll be the death of me, Georgiana Elizabeth.”

  She couldn’t breathe any longer. “Hurry,” she gasped, unbuttoning his breeches.

  Kissing her openmouthed, Tristan freed himself, drew her forward again, and entered her. She threw her head back, the sensation of him filling her so extraordinarily satisfying that it stole her breath away. Flinging her arms back behind her to keep her balance, she sent billiards balls rolling across the table.

  “Ah, yes,” she moaned, wrapping her ankles behind his hips. “Oh, Tristan.”

  “Shh,” he said, holding her thighs as he pumped his hips strongly into her. “Oh, God.” His eyes caught and held hers as she spiraled into release.

  He followed with a deep groan, and bowed his head against her shoulder. Shaking, Georgiana sat up straighter again. “Good heavens,” she sighed, twining her fingers through his hair.

  “I told you we could be quick,” he said against her shoulder, his voice deep and rich with amusement. “And you play a fair game of billiards, as well.”

  “Quick is nice,” she agreed. “But we have been gone from the others for quite a while.”

  “Not that long.” He cupped his fingers around her breasts again.

  “We can’t,” she said regretfully. It was difficult to be firm when all she could think of was how good he felt.

  “Right.” He pulled away from her, rebuttoning her gown and slipping her skirt back down. “We’ll tell them we’ve been arguing.”

  Tristan fastened his trousers and tucked his shirt back in. Making love—on Grey’s damned billiards table, yet—had been unwise in the extreme, but he couldn’t regret it. He would never regret being with Georgiana, whatever the consequences.

  She spun a slow circle, trying to look at the back side of her dress. “How do I look?”

  “You look beautiful.”

  Deeper color touched her cheeks, already flushed from their lovemaking. “That’s not what I meant. Am I put back together?”

  “Quite well, Georgiana,” he murmured. Even now he wanted her again, though at the moment it felt more like the need to protect her. Giving in to the urge, he pulled her into his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder.

  She sighed, relaxing against him and settling her arms around his waist. “I’m glad you told me,” she said. “If you hadn’t, I—”

  “You would never have trusted me again,” he finished. “And why did you tell me about Westbrook?”

  “For the same reason, I suppose.”

  The next step was a simple and obvious one: He needed to ask Georgiana to marry him. But he didn’t want her to think that he was simply jealous, or trying to escape from Amelia and using her as the most convenient method to do so.

  So, with deep regret, he released her. “We should get back, or we’ll miss cake and strawberries. I find myself quite famished.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Yes, you do seem to have an appetite.”

  “Only around you, these days.”

  At least he’d made her forget for a few moments that someone else now possessed her stockings and her letter, but as she took his arm and they exited the gaming room, the sated amusement in her eyes faded, replaced by the ill-concealed worry that he so often saw there. He knew that, because he couldn’t keep his eyes off her as they rejoined the others, and she went to check on the progress of Bradshaw’s ship.

  He wanted to see that look of worry leave her eyes once and for all. And he wanted to wake up in the morning with her beside him, and to be able to touch her and kiss her without having to drag her into coatrooms to do so.

  “Is everything all right?” Grey asked from behind him.

  Tristan turned around, pasting a look of jaded amusement on his face. “Nothing a glass of whiskey couldn’t cure,” he drawled. “Why?”

  “Because you and Shaw look like someone’s beaten you half to death, and you’ve been banned from White’s. Not exactly your usual day.”

  “Hm. It’s been fairly uneventful, I thought.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me, then. But just know,” the duke said, taking a step closer and lowering his voice, “that if you hurt Georgiana again, you will regret it.”

  After what Tristan had been through that day to avoid just that, he’d had enough. “I assure you,” he said in the same hard tone, “that I am taking all of this very seriously. And if you ever threaten me again, you’d best do so over a pistol.”

  Grey nodded. “Just so we understand one another.”

  “I think we do.”

  With a faint scent of lavender, Georgiana appeared between the two of them. “My goodness,” she said, “you two are stomping and snorting like bulls. Do behave, or take your little battle out to the pasture, won’t you?”

  “Snort,” Grey said, and strolled over to rejoin his wife.

  “I was going to say that,” Tristan protested, unable to keep from taking her fingers in his. “Worried about me?”

  “Emma just had this room refurnished. I didn’t want you to break anything.”

  Her eyes warmed, and the sudden dryness in his throat made him swallow. No one but Georgiana could make him feel like a green schoolboy.

  “Come and see the galleon Edward’s drawn,” she continued, tugging on his hand. “He’s going to be the cabin boy, you know.”

  “And we’ll all join the crew as pirates, no doubt.”

  Edward popped to his feet. “Could we?”

  Tristan lifted his eyebrow. “No.”

  “Oh, I’d like to be a pirate,” Edwina chimed in. “We could all wear trousers and curse.”

  “Yes!” Edward galloped over to his aunt. “And Dragon could be the ship’s mascot!”

  “Dragon?” Emma asked, chuckling.

  “My kitten,” Edwina explained.

  “And I could ride my pony on deck!”

  “Good heavens,” Georgiana choked, laughing breathlessly, “we’d be the scourge of the seven seas.”

  “We’d be the laughingstock of the seven seas, you mean,” Tristan corrected, his heart beating a fast tattoo at the sight of her smile.

  “Well, if word gets out to the Admiralty that my first command would feature kittens and ponies and the aunties in trousers, I might as well become a pirate,” Bradshaw said dryly. “I suppose you’d want to knit our skull and crossbones, Aunt Milly?”

  “Oh, heavens no. Not a skull. Perhaps a teacup. That’s much more civilized.”

  Even Frederica was chuckling now. “You should suggest that to the East India Company, then.”

  “Can’t you hear the screams of terror as we hoist the teacup flag?” Andrew, who’d been sitting beside Aunt Milly, chimed in.

  “I’d be screaming, myself.” Tristan pulled out his pocket watch. “Children and pirates, it’s nearly half past midnight. I think we need to take our leave.”

  If it had been he alone, he would have stayed all night, or at least as long as Georgiana remained. After the past few weeks, he didn’t even like letting her out of his sight. Too many things could still go wrong.

  She and Frederica decided to leave, as well, so at least he was able to escort her down the stairs and out the front door. “Take care,” he said, wishing he could kiss her good night.

  “I will. And I’m going to call on Amelia tomorrow.”

  “Good luck.” He reluctantly released her hand as she disappeared into her aunt’s coach. “Let me know what happens.”

  “Oh, I will. You can wager on that.”

  “Not at White’s,” the dowager duchess said as a footman
closed and latched the door.

  If being banned from White’s were his only problem, he would be a happy man. Sighing, he ushered his family into the pair of coaches they’d commandeered. Edward was so sleepy that he allowed Bradshaw to hoist him over one shoulder. They could all use some sleep. He, of course, had to do his monthly accounts tonight so he could meet with his solicitor in the morning and determine how many days he had remaining before he either had to marry or begin selling off property.

  Dire as that was, he was still more concerned about Georgiana’s meeting with Amelia. The chit had surprised him with her venom, and he could only hope that Georgie had more luck than he. With the way things had been going, though, he doubted she would. So he would have to come up with another plan.

  Tristan smiled as he settled back in the darkness of the coach. After tonight, he thought he knew just what that plan would entail.

  Frederica Wycliffe preceded Georgiana upstairs to the second floor of Hawthorne House. Someone needed to say something, and as her niece’s parent in absentia, the task seemed to have fallen to her.

  She stopped in the doorway of her bedchamber. “Georgiana?”

  Her niece halted, an absent half smile on her face. “Yes, Aunt?”

  “Is he going to ask you to marry him?”

  “What?” Georgiana flushed. “Tristan?”

  “Westbrook already asked, and you put him off. Yes, Dare. Is he?”

  “I don’t know. Heavens, what would make you say such a thing?”

  “Goodness knows why, but you’ve had a tendre for that man for years. And I know he broke your heart once. Are you going to allow him the opportunity to do so again?”

  Her niece laughed. “I am much older and wiser these days. And I haven’t even decided if I like him, yet.”

  “Really,” the duchess said, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice. “It looked to me as though you’d already made up your mind about that.”

  Georgiana’s smile faded. “Do you have something you wish to say to me, Aunt Frederica?”

  “Just a few days ago, you were in hysterics over him. I’ll admit he seems to have matured since his father’s death, but do you really think he’s someone to whom you can give your heart, my dear?”

  “That is a very good question. I’ll let you know when I have an answer.” Georgiana turned away again, heading off toward her own bedchamber. “I do wish my heart and my head would make the same decisions, though.”

  Frederica frowned. This was even worse than she’d thought. “Don’t we all.”

  Chapter 20

  I tell you, he that can lay hold of her

  Shall have the chinks.

  —Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene v

  Tristan wanted to bang his head against something hard. “I know it’s bad,” he grumbled, settling for glaring across the desk at his solicitor. “I see the numbers just as plainly as you do.”

  “Yes, my lord, of course you do,” Beacham said in a soothing voice, pushing his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “What I meant to say was, the situation is very bad. Untenable, almost.”

  “Almost,” Tristan repeated, springing onto the word and holding on for dear life. “It’s salvageable, then.”

  “Eh, well, you see—”

  “What?” Tristan hammered his fist against the desk.

  The solicitor jumped, his spectacles sliding down his nose again. Swallowing, he shoved them back into place. “The Glauden estate at Dunborough isn’t entailed, my lord. I know of several nobles, and even one or two merchants, looking for a small piece of land in Scotland. For hunting, you know.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Glauden’s been in my family for two hundred years. I will not be the one to lose it.” And Robert had spent last winter there. If Bit felt comfortable someplace, he wasn’t about to take it away from him.

  “To be honest, my lord, even knowing your…skill at wagering, and even after seeing the resulting figures, I’m not certain how you’ve managed to keep solvent. It’s something of a miracle to me, really.”

  “What matters is that I won’t be the one to begin selling off any of the familial properties. Give me another option.”

  “You’ve already sold off the majority of your personal possessions. Your stable, with the exception of Charlemagne, your yacht, that hunting lodge in Yorkshire, the—”

  “Be helpful, Beacham, for God’s sake,” Tristan interrupted. He knew precisely what he’d given up, and that it wasn’t enough. “What will it take for me to be able to keep paying my taxes, my staff, and my food bills for the next three months, say?”

  “Another miracle,” the solicitor mumbled, running a hand over his nearly bald head as though that would stimulate his brain activity.

  “Pounds and pence, if you please.”

  Beacham sighed, leaning forward to flip open one of his seemingly hundreds of ledger books. “Three hundred pounds a month.”

  “That’s steep.”

  “Yes. Most of your creditors will continue to honor your papers for another few months, but only if you don’t incur any further debt.”

  Tristan supposed that was good news, yet he felt as though someone had just summoned a priest to deliver last rites. “All right. I can manage three hundred quid.” He had no idea how, but he would do it, because it was necessary.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And now for the bad news,” Tristan continued. “Paying off all my creditors, bringing in enough blunt for seed, stock, everything. How much?”

  “Everything, my lord? Don’t you wish to set your sights on a more…practical figure?”

  “I am holding my breath in anticipation of your finally answering a question without some commentary attached,” Tristan said, glaring. If he began smashing things, poor Beacham might expire from fright.

  “Yes, my lord. In order to return all of your properties and yourself to a state of solvency, all at once, you would need approximately seventy-eight thousand, five hundred twenty-one pounds.”

  Tristan blinked. “Approximately,” he repeated. At least when Beacham delivered a death blow, he did it with power and precision.

  “Yes, my lord. It may be done in increments, of course, which is probably a wiser and more easily achieved course of action, but that will ultimately increase the amount of money needed.”

  “Of course.”

  The amount was close to what he’d expected, but hearing someone else confirm the number made it somehow worse. “How long do I have to acquire the three hundred pounds for this month?” he asked, sitting back in his old, comfortable chair.

  “A week, would be my guess, or two if you manage to…wager against the right people. And win, of course.”

  “I haven’t had much time for wagering, lately.” There was also the matter of being banned from White’s, where he always found his wealthiest opponents.

  Beacham cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold, I had heard, my lord, that you were pursuing a young lady with the idea of marriage. Given that you refuse to sell any property, that may be your only viable alternative.”

  “Yes, I do have someone in mind, but she will need some convincing.”

  Fate might be fickle, but it also seemed to know what it was doing. Lady Georgiana Halley had an annual income of nearly twenty thousand quid, and even without her dowry, he happened to know that she’d been investing very wisely over the past six years. All of his family’s estates would be saved within one second of her saying her vows to him. The problem was, he didn’t know whether he could convince her to say them.

  His determination to make her his wife had more to do with need and desire than money, but if she’d been a pauper, his obsession with her would probably have ended with him in the Old Bailey for bankruptcy. If she turned him down…He simply wouldn’t think about that.

  The solicitor stirred, and Tristan shook himself back to the present. “Thank you, Beacham. Let’s set our next meeting for Tuesday, and we’ll see if I’m in better
or worse condition than today.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  From the solicitor’s expression, he didn’t expect anything to improve. Tristan had his own doubts about that as well.

  He would have to tell Georgiana precisely how desperately he needed her money before he proposed. They’d danced around true feelings and true issues for years. It was well past time for the truth.

  The damnedest part of it all was that he wanted to marry Georgiana. When Amelia had told him about the letter and the stockings, that had become the most important item on his agenda. He needed to protect Georgiana from any rumors that might surface.

  The idea of living without Georgiana was completely unacceptable. Even if it meant selling off every last damned stitch of clothing he owned, he couldn’t consider marriage with someone else. It would be she, or no one. And it would be she.

  One thing he’d learned in all this mess was simple: He needed to tell her the truth, however angry or hurt it might make her. He could woo her, he knew, if he had the time to do it. She needed to see, over and over, that he’d changed.

  But three months didn’t seem enough time to prove himself, much less the two days left under Amelia Johns’s ultimatum. With four brothers, two aunts, and a handful of properties all staffed by people who looked to him for the food on their tables and the clothes on their backs, he didn’t have much of an alternative.

  He went upstairs to dress for the House of Lords. As he passed the open door of Bit’s bedchamber, he glanced inside, expecting to see his brother sitting by the window, reading. Instead, Robert was shrugging into a riding jacket.

  “Bit?” he said, stopping dead.

  His brother glanced over his shoulder at Tristan, then pulled on a pair of riding gloves. “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Dressing.” Continuing to do so, Bit settled a blue beaver hat on his black, too-long hair.

  “Why?”

  The old Robert, the one before Waterloo, would have made some comment about not wanting to go out into the streets naked on such a chilly day. This Bit, though, just brushed past him.