by Amy Lake
THE RAKE AND MISS ASHERWOOD
Amy Lake
About the Author
Publishing Information
My love, fate was shut in a box,
the moment we were born.
Nevertheless, let us make our own.
—J.L.P.
* * *
Chapter 1
The Incompetent Lord Blakeley
Elizabeth Asherwood entered the Duke of Lincolnshire’s ballroom, her name announced by His Grace’s ancient butler in a quavering, nearly inaudible voice.
“Thank you, Rees,” said Elizabeth, fighting the temptation to put a hand out to steady the old man. She scanned the crowd for Penelope Perrin, her best friend, before descending the few steps to the dance floor proper. Miss Asherwood took a long breath. ’Twas her first ball in over a year, and she was determined to put sadness aside and enjoy herself.
You cannot mourn forever. Elizabeth heard her friend’s voice in her head and smiled. Penelope had supported her without fail after her father’s death, and only in the last month had she urged Miss Asherwood to think of returning to society. The Lincolnshire’s ball—the event of the fortnight—had finally convinced Lizzie to give in.
The duke’s ballroom was well laid out, a spacious floor surrounded by a colonnade on three sides, and garden doors, already flung open against the heat of the crowd, making up the whole of the fourth. Behind the columns there were alcoves full of chairs, and tables laden with punch and food, which were being taken full advantage of by both the men and women of the haut ton.
One would think, thought Elizabeth as she watched them, that none of us has eaten for days.
The orchestra was taking its rest, so quiet ruled for the moment, but quiet of only a relative sort. Hundreds of people conversing in the confines of a ballroom made a unique, unmistakable sound, a growling sea of voices punctuated with shouts of male laughter.
Where was Penny? Elizabeth pushed her way through the throng of people waiting for the music to begin again. The guests were a cheerful group, the men in fine dark wools, the women a riot of satins and lace and sweeps of tulle. They gossiped and chattered, seeking out partners, jostling each other over to the food and drink, and back. She smiled and curtseyed and greeted those she knew, hoping to find Penny before Geoffrey arrived to claim the first dance. She was not disappointed.
“Lizzie!”
Her friends were gathered in one alcove, away from the watchful eyes of the dragons—the older ladies of the ton—and immersed in animated discussion.
“Clarence Lafferty is making a cake of himself over Miss Stephens,” said Penelope Perrin, when Elizabeth gained her side. Penny was the red-head of the group, tall and slender with a scattering of freckles, and dressed tonight in a light, sea-green silk. “I shouldn’t call that a surprise,” said Elizabeth.
“No, but his engagement to the Campersdown chit is about to be announced,” said Helen Wexcomb, another acquaintance. She added, “next week.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lizzie.
“’Oh, dear’ is right. She’ll take him anyway, I suppose.”
“Do you really think so?”
Lady Helen shrugged. “Why not?”
Elizabeth frowned. “Well, clearly he doesn’t love her. And I don’t see how she could love him.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” said Penny.
“Well, then.”
“He’s very wealthy,” said Susannah Ware.
Lizzie rolled her eyes. “And the stupidest man in England.”
“He spends most of his time in Leicestershire. Once she has supplied him with a son, I imagine Lady Lafferty will prefer London.”
Penny was looking back at the entrance to the ballroom, frowning.
“I worry about Rees,” she said. “Do you suppose he will survive the night?”
“I wonder that Lord Hutchens doesn’t allow him to retire.”
Lady Helen laughed. “The duke? He’s begged him to retire,” she said. “Rees refuses.”
“Well then, what’s to be done?”
“Too true.”
Elizabeth had followed Penelope’s gaze to the entrance; her eye was now caught by a tall, dark-haired man who stood a little apart. His features were strong and chiseled and his hair was arranged simply, tied back in a ribbon.
Dark, serious eyes. And a bit older than the group of young Corinthians nearby, Elizabeth thought. But not by much.
“Have you been introduced to that gentleman?” she asked Penny, pointing cautiously with her fan.
Her friend thought for a few moments. “Isn’t that . . . ? No, I don’t remember. But I’ve seen him before. He seems to attend a great many balls.”
“That,” said Susannah Ware, “is Lord Peregrine Blakeley.” She laughed. “The biggest rake in all London.”
“Posh,” said Lady Helen. They had all heard Miss Ware make this pronouncement too often, on behalf of other men, to be impressed.
“He doesn’t seem to be actively seeking out any ladies at the moment,” said Penny.
“Just wait,” said Susannah.
“He works for the Foreign Office,” said Lady Helen. “Lord Teagrave says he is a complete bungler, but they cannot dismiss him.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he’s terribly rich, for one thing—” said Lady Helen.
“—and he’s bedded everyone’s wife,” added Susannah. She lowered her voice. “All the ministers. So they’re afraid he . . . knows things.”
“Why would someone who’s terribly rich want work at which he is deemed incompetent?” asked Elizabeth.
Miss Ware shrugged. “Lud. Who knows why men do anything?”
The orchestra began to tune, and the chaos of the ballroom devolved into couples. The longways formed, a row of laughing, animated pairs who added and subtracted themselves, seemingly at random, into an ever-growing line.
“His Grace certainly adores jasmine,” said Penny, wrinkling her nose.
“Oh, is that what I’m smelling?” said Susannah. “I thought perhaps Lady Marbrey was nearby.”
“Mmm. What do you think of Lord Hertford’s breeches tonight?”
This earned a chorus of appreciative, conspiratorial laughter. Jeremy Hertford was often described as having the best legs in England, and he was accustomed to wearing the tightest of skin-tight breeches. This pair was a soft fawn, and showed every ripple of muscle.
“Oh!” said Susannah, sending a longing, doe-eyed glance in Lord Hertford’s direction. “Just imagine what they must feel like!”
“Susannah!”
“I danced with him at Lady Pensieve’s this past week,” said Penny. “One’s powers of imagination are not required.”
“What about Lord Fancot?” asked Helen. “He’ll be doing the rounds this evening, I’m sure.”
“A bore,” said Penny. “Too chatty by half. A man ought to take time for thought.”
“His chin is weak,” said Susannah. “Perhaps a beard would help.”
“A beard!” This was a shocking proposal. Gentlemen were clean-shaven these days.
“I am only saying—”
Elizabeth listened with half an ear to the conversation, finding her gaze drawn back to the dark man. He didn’t appear a bungler, she thought. But what would one look like, after all?
Once his eyes turned her way. She raised her fan and looked aside, embarrassed. But the man—Lord Blakeley?—didn’t seem to take her in. A lady had now claimed his attention, and Elizabeth gave a small, rueful smile.
Adelaide Caldwell, is it? she thought, feeling a pang of . . . envy. Mrs. Caldwell was a youngish widow with an active social life and an unapologetic penchant for rich men. She wore scandalously low décolletage
and her conversation often shocked, but society accepted her, the dragons notwithstanding. Penny always claimed that the gentlemen simply refused to let her go.
You’re being ridiculous, Miss Asherwood told herself. You’ve never even been introduced.
“Lizzie,” said Penny, suddenly. “Here’s Geoff.”
Elizabeth turned around. Lord Geoffrey Winthrop was making his way through the crowd. She smiled, and reminded herself of how happy she was to see him.
* * *
Chapter 2
Kisses on a Garden Bench
“Geoff!” Elizabeth protested softly, a bit breathless. “Geoffrey, no.”
She twisted away from her companion on the garden bench, smoothing back a stray tendril of hair and tugging at the cap sleeve of her gown. She cast a quick eye for other couples who might also be taking advantage of the cool night air.
“Oh, Lizzie, why not?” asked Geoffrey. His hand inched again toward her shoulder.
“Don’t be a goose. Somebody might see.”
Fenced off from the main house by stone walls and a large wooden gate, the Duke of Linconshire’s garden was a favorite trysting spot for lovers—or lovers-to-be. Its gravel pathways twisted through tall yews and clipped boxwood, providing a series of secluded nooks beyond the reach of lanterns.
Lizzie closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrance of chamomile and thyme underfoot, bluebells and sweet violet. She tried to relax, thinking that it had been a poor idea to leave the dance, despite the heat of the room and her tired feet.
The first sarabande with Lord Winthrop, then a Millfield round with Henry Perrin, Penelope’s brother. A Pick-Up-Sticks and another sarabande—
And then Geoffrey made a fuss, something about the crowded room and Miss Asherwood’s delicate constitution.
Posh, thought Lizzie, knowing full well that it was only the traditional excuse.
As they had walked through the double doors onto the terrace, Elizabeth saw Lord Blakeley, leaning casually against an enormous Egyptian ceramic pot and talking, once again, to Adelaide Caldwell. She thought he had glanced at her, and then looked away, indifferent.
Annoying man.
She turned her attention back to Lord Winthrop.
“No-one cares. We’ll be married soon,” Geoffrey was saying. He drew Elizabeth closer and kissed the tip of her nose.
“You and I,” said Lizzie, leaning away to look up at him, “are not even engaged.”
“But we will be,” Lord Winthrop replied. He caught her hand in his own and pressed his lips to each fingertip. “Soon?” he added, with a hint of question, and again slid his hand underneath the cap sleeve.
“Geoffrey.”
“Mmm,” said Lord Winthrop.
“Geoffrey. We need to go back.”
“Just . . . a little longer,” murmured Lord Winthrop. He held her pressed hard against the smooth wool of his jacket, and now she could feel his fingers fumbling at the row of buttons at the back of her bodice.
Good heavens, what had gotten into him? Geoffrey had never been so insistent and forward before. He was so patient, in fact, that Miss Asherwood had occasionally felt slighted; Lord Winthrop’s behavior was nothing like Susannah’s descriptions of the young men who buzzed around her.
“I can’t breathe,” protested Lizzie. “Geoffrey—”
She inched away, pushing a hairpin back into place. Lord Winthrop allowed her a moment, but no more.
“We’ve waited so long,” he murmured.
’Twas true. Geoff had patiently endured the year following her father’s death, a year when Elizabeth had accepted no invitations and rarely left the family home. He’d never complained and, until now, he’d never pressed her for more than she was ready to give.
Elizabeth told herself not to be school-missish. She was in the arms of her fiancé-to-be; wasn’t that the dream of every unmarried female of the ton? Society told them that a husband and family were the sole purpose and ambition of their lives, but society was generally not listening in when young women gathered to talk. They were, thought Lizzie, as least as interested in men as the reverse.
Men for their own sake. Men as a group.
And she should be lonely, Lizzie supposed. Rattling around in Aisling House, the London home of the Asherwoods, with only ‘Aunt’ Philippa, an elderly second-cousin-twice-removed, for company. Both her parents were dead, as well as a brother who had not survived infancy—she was alone. She should want to be married. Her friends certainly thought so.
Except for Penelope, of course.
“You’re a young woman with plenty of blunt,” was Penny’s comment. “Why hurry?”
The garden bench was cold stone but, unlike many, it boasted a tall, smooth back which curved to each side. Geoffrey pressed Elizabeth into one corner and began kissing her in earnest, one hand cradling her head, the other fumbling at the heavy layers of her skirts. His fingers searched through the netting of the overskirt, the folds of ivory silk below, the smooth cambric of her petticoats—
Lord Winthrop’s breathing was rapid and harsh in her ears. “No-one comes this way,” he promised Lizzie. “No-one will know.”
This was enough. “Geoff, no.”
“Mmm.”
Lord Winthrop was, not to put too fine a point on the thing, growing quite agitated. Miss Asherwood continued to say no, and he knew he must stop—he would stop, he told himself, in just another moment or two—but he was a young man, and Elizabeth was a pretty young woman.
They should have been married by now, he thought.
London society recognized Lord Geoffrey Winthrop as a gentleman of adequate looks and intelligence, and a more than adequate fortune. His intentions with respect to Elizabeth were good. He didn’t want to seduce Miss Asherwood; he wanted to marry her. He had been willing two years ago, but Lizzie had claimed that she was not old enough—at almost nineteen!—and then, just when he thought that she was ready to accept his ring, Terence Asherwood had died. Elizabeth’s father.
Lord Winthrop remembered the day well; though the death was not unexpected, it was no less devastating to Elizabeth.
He and Miss Asherwood had been intended to marry from childhood, and Geoffrey had always been willing enough. Willing—and now impatient, as the six months of strict mourning had stretched to twelve. He had barely been within an arm’s length of Elizabeth in the whole of the past year, and sometimes it felt as if he had been waiting forever. But it was over now. Elizabeth was accepting invitations, and the time had surely arrived for Lord Winthrop to offer her the protection of his name.
Time to start a family of their own. Lizzie had no siblings; she had no close family left at all, as it happened, and was living in the Asherwood London home under the supposed aegis of Aunt Philippa, a woman who had not, to Geoffrey’s knowledge, left her bedroom in weeks.
A family of their own. An image of the marriage bed blossomed and grew in his mind, suddenly occupying it to the exclusion of all else. Geoffrey, unlike Elizabeth, had some experience of the act. Perhaps, thought Lord Winthrop fuzzily, if he . . . if he and Lizzie . . . if they did, she would have to marry him. At once.
Elizabeth pushed him away, struggling to catch her breath.
“Geoff, for heaven’s sake.”
Despite her current exasperation, Elizabeth was fond of Geoffrey Winthrop. The two had been friends since childhood, the families had been long acquainted, and both knew they would someday be married. Affianced couples were allowed some liberties; or at least, the liberties taken were overlooked.
Why not?
Clouds had drifted over the moon, dulling the stars and bringing a chill to the air. The scent of violet and thyme faded as a breeze ruffled the leaves overhead, and Lizzie felt the cold of the stone bench seep through the layers of cambric and silk to her skin.
She was to be his wife. Miss Asherwood had no objection to the state, and Lord Winthrop seemed as acceptable as any of the young men she knew. But in truth, at this point Elizabeth’s attention had
started to wander. She smoothed the netting of her skirt, and decided that she was happy with the deep lavender of the underlying silk. Lavender was an acceptable color for breaking mourning; Elizabeth was sick to death of greys and black.
“You may wear silver,” Lady Jersey had told her, “at your next ball.”
Suddenly, with Geoffrey still pressing kisses, she remembered a dream she’d had the past night. A dark-haired stranger—rugged and poorly shaven and nothing like a gentleman at all—had entered her bedroom. In the dream she had not been frightened, even when he sat down on the edge of her bed and pulled off his boots. Even when he had thrown back the duvet and lain beside her.
She had voiced no complaint. And he had said nothing.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and felt the man’s lips on hers. A calloused hand pulled the thin chemise from her shoulders and caressed her breast. His breathing became rough, his hands more insistent. He pinned her arms above her head and knelt over her. She saw the hard planes of his chest, the muscles limned by candlelight.
He was beautiful. She was naked and longing for something that, in the dream, she could not define. Her body rose to his.
He kissed her passionately, ravenously.
“Oh, Lizzie,” murmured Lord Winthrop.
Her eyes flew open.
“Oh, dear,” said Elizabeth. “I suppose we should go in.”
* * *
Chapter 3
Penny’s Question
The trick to re-entering a ballroom after a garden tryst was to do it openly, without a moment’s hesitation. Geoffrey and Elizabeth walked in together, smiling, and she immediately waved to her friends.
“Lizzie!” they cried in return.
A feeling of relief washed over Miss Asherwood as she and Lord Winthrop edged through the crowd. The ballroom was noisy and the heat unpleasant after the cool of the garden, and by this time of the evening no few of the men were drunk; still it was somehow easier to relax here than alone with Geoffrey. The dark-haired stranger had followed her in from the garden, occupying her mind with memories of rough hands and a demanding mouth, and Lizzie thought it required a throng of people to shake him off.
