Ravished by the Rake

by Louise Allen

  ‘Down,’ he rasped, pulling her to the grass. ‘Like this.’ She found herself on hands and knees, her skirts up to her waist, her jacket hanging open as he bent over her. ‘Dita.’ He buried his face in the nape of her neck, biting softly as his hands cupped the weight of her breasts. ‘You are mine.’ She felt him nudge her legs apart and gasped. She wanted to look at him, to see his eyes, kiss his mouth, but the weight of him, the excitement of what he was doing was strange and arousing almost beyond measure.

  He left her breasts, one hand braced on the ground as the other parted her. ‘Such sweet honey.’ She should be embarrassed that she was so wet for him, but she was beyond that now, pushing shamelessly against his probing hand. One finger slid into her, then another and she moaned as he caressed her deeply, withdrew, tormented the throbbing focus of her need, plunged in again. The exquisite feeling built and built to the point of pain and she gasped, wordless words that he seemed to understand.

  Alistair shifted and she felt him against her, hard and implacable. ‘Yes, now!’ And he surged into the heat and the tightness. There was discomfort, momentary; it had been a long time and he was a big man, but her body opened for him, sheathed him as he entered, and she shuddered with delight as he began to move, driving them both with his passion until the spiralling tension took her, shook her, threw all conscious thought from her as she felt him groan above her and pull away.

  Dita came back to herself to find she was leaning back against Alistair’s chest as he knelt, supporting her. ‘I should have got you with child,’ he said and his voice was not quite steady.

  ‘You—’ She did not know the words, could hardly speak.

  ‘I withdrew,’ he said, his arms tight when she would have twisted to look at him. ‘It makes no difference. You must marry me now.’

  So, that had not been a spontaneous expression of passion, perhaps concealing feelings she longed for, but which he was unaware of. It had been a calculated move to force her. The hurt was almost as great as that first rejection had been.

  ‘Nothing has changed,’ she said, finding her voice was as harsh as his. ‘I am not a virgin and I am not with child.’

  ‘Damn it.’ He stood, pulling her with him. ‘Then I should finish the business and do it properly this time.’

  ‘Then you would be forcing me.’ She moved away and fumbled with her buttons. When she turned back he was stuffing his shirt into his fastened breeches, his face thunderous.

  ‘How do you know I am not capable of that?’

  ‘Because I know you,’ she said. He made no move to stop her as she untied her mare and stood on a tree stump to mount. She did not turn back as she rode away into the woods.

  She went back to Wycombe Combe by way of the ruined tower where she had found him that evening eight years ago. It was deserted, so she slid down and sat there amongst the flowerless rose bushes, out of sight of everyone and everything except the jackdaws, and got her weeping done, once and for all. There was a pool of rainwater, clear and fresh, on top of one of the tumbled walls, and she bathed her eyes afterwards and walked briskly home to plot with Mama against the spiteful, damaged woman who would try to ruin Alistair. The woman who had loved him once.

  Chapter Eighteen

  4th April—Grosvenor Street, London

  ‘Lord Iwerne is in London.’ Lady Wycombe spread the single sheet of notepaper open beside her breakfast place, not noticing Dita drop her bread and butter back on the plate.

  A week apart had not made the separation any easier to bear, as she had hoped it would. Perhaps nothing ever would. ‘Alone, I trust?’ she said, making her voice light.

  ‘Yes, this is a letter of thanks, I believe. He says that Lady Iwerne is settled in at the Dower House and is planning its redecoration with the assistance of Miss Cruickshank, whom he considers was an inspired choice of mine.’

  What we need, Mama had said, is a lady as apparently frivolous as Imogen, but with the sense to realise who is paying her very substantial wages and enough insight to hazard a guess as to why. It appeared they had succeeded. ‘It was a masterstroke of Alistair’s to have expressed doubts about Miss Cruickshank,’ Dita said. ‘Lady Iwerne is quite content, thinking she has bested him in this.’ Despite that earth-shattering incident in the woods he had still called with Imogen and Dita had done her best to help. It seemed they had succeeded.

  ‘And is he at the Iwernes’ town house in Bolton Street?’

  ‘Yes, he writes it is in drastic need of redecoration and is tempted to send the entire contents to the Auction Mart. He also says that if we are attending Almack’s this evening he will see us there and he hopes we will ease his initiation into the Sacred Halls, as he puts it.’

  Evaline laughed. ‘I do feel sorry for the poor gentlemen. They have to wear the stuffiest of evening dress, the food and drink is almost non-existent and they spend their entire time escaping from predatory mamas.’

  ‘I hope that is not directed at me, my dear,’ Lady Wycombe remarked with a chuckle. ‘I cannot feel so sorry for them; they have every eligible young lady presented for their inspection—think of all the effort it saves them!’

  Twelve hours later Dita overheard Evaline put this point of view to Alistair as they stood beneath the curving front edge of the orchestra balcony. Her sister had seemed rather subdued and thoughtful for the past few days, but teasing Alistair appeared to have revived her spirits.

  ‘Rather it confuses the eye,’ he retorted. ‘All this beauty and vivacity dazzles the poor male brain.’ He did not appear very dazzled to Dita, watching this exchange. If anything, his expression as he surveyed the dancing in the centre of the ballroom and the chattering groups around it was detached and judgemental. She put out a hand and steadied herself against a pillar. It was hard to believe that this man was the one with whom she had shared those passionate interludes. How could their experiences together not brand them as lovers for every eye to see?

  ‘So may a sultan inspect his seraglio,’ she murmured, recovering herself. She waved her fan languidly.

  ‘I have no need of one of those,’ he said, not turning his head. ‘My choice is fixed.’

  ‘It takes two to make a contract,’ Dita retorted. ‘Where has Evaline gone?’

  ‘Over there with that fellow with the crimson waistcoat.’ Alistair pointed.

  ‘Oh, yes. I wonder who he is,’ she mused, more out of an instinct to keep an eye on Evaline than from any real curiosity.

  ‘No idea, but then, I hardly know a soul here. Dita, I will call on you tomorrow.’

  And I will be out, she vowed. ‘Come and let me introduce me to some of our acquaintances.’ She slipped her hand through his arm.

  ‘Are you having any problems with gossip?’ he asked bluntly as they strolled along the edge of the dance floor. She could feel his muscles under her palm and sensed he was every bit as tense as she was, despite appearances.

  ‘Some. There are snide remarks from the usual cats, some of the chaperons look at me a little sideways, but I can ignore that. The men—’ She shrugged, making light of it in case he reacted badly. There had been things said, hinted, glances and touches and several outright offers that were most definitely not honourable. Somehow she had coped, although it hurt. Sooner or later they would realise she was not available, she hoped.

  ‘Lady Cartwright,’ she said as they came up to a lively group, ‘may I make known to you the Marquis of Iwerne, just returned from the East?’ As she expected, Fiona Cartwright, a lively young matron, pounced on this promising-looking gentleman and promptly drew Alistair into her circle of friends. With that start he would soon know virtually everyone in the place and surely, once he did, he would see that there were many young women who took his fancy and this foolishness would cease.

  A glance at the dancers showed that Evaline was partnered by the young man in the handsome waistcoat. With a mental note to find out who he was, just in case he should prove undesirable, Dita strolled on, in no mood to dance herself. She
felt weary and out of sorts, her mood not helped when she saw Alistair walk on to the floor with the charming Lady Jane Franklin on his arm. It was just what she hoped for and the sight was like a knife in the stomach.

  ‘Madam? May I assist you?’

  Startled, she turned to find a gentleman at her side. He was slightly over average height, with light brown hair, hazel eyes and tanned skin. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, but you sighed so heavily I thought perhaps …’

  ‘Oh, no, I am quite all right. Just bored, if the truth be told.’

  ‘Would you care to dance? I am sure I can find someone to introduce me.’

  ‘I fear I am not in a dancing mood this evening, sir. But thank you for offering.’ Impulsively she held out her hand. ‘Shall we forget propriety for a moment and introduce ourselves? I am Perdita Brooke; my father is Lord Wycombe.’

  ‘Lady Perdita.’ He bowed over her hand. ‘Francis Wynstanley. You may know my brother, Lord Percy Wynstanley. I am quite a newcomer to Almack’s myself; I have been in the West Indies for several years.’

  ‘And I am just back from India, so I am equally out of touch,’ Dita said.

  A flash of crimson caught her eye and she saw it was the waistcoat of Evaline’s partner—and he was dancing with her again.

  ‘What makes you frown, if I may ask?’

  ‘My sister, dancing a second time with a man I do not know. See, the blonde girl in the pale green and the man with the crimson waistcoat.’

  ‘Oh, I can help you there. That is James Morgan, my brother’s confidential secretary. Percy is much involved in politics, you know, and Morgan is his right-hand man. Good character and all that, nothing to be worried about.’

  ‘No, indeed. If you can vouch for him I am quite reassured.’ But she was not. Confidential secretaries, however well bred, were not what her parents were looking for.

  A week later her friendship with Lord Percy’s brother was pronounced enough for her mother to be asking questions. ‘He seems a most pleasant gentleman,’ she observed. ‘And intelligent. I spoke to him for a while at Lady Longrigg’s soirée last night. Has he any prospects?’

  ‘I really have no idea,’ Dita said, with truth.

  ‘I trust he is not some idler hanging out for a rich wife.’

  ‘Mama, we are friends, that is all.’

  But she was provoked enough to probe a little as they sat in the supper room at the Millingtons’ ball. Alistair, she noted with a pang, was partnering one of Lord Faversham’s daughters and Evaline had her head together with James Morgan, which was worrying.

  ‘Do you make your home in London, Mr Wynstanley?’ Alistair was flirting, she could tell, just from the back of his head—and the way the Faversham chit was blushing.

  ‘I am doing the Season and living with my brother for the duration, but I have an estate in Suffolk I inherited from my maternal grandfather and I shall be basing myself there and seeing what is to be done to bring it about.’

  ‘How interesting. It needs much work?’

  He was a nice, intelligent, apparently eligible man. It would be pleasant, but unwise, to continue their friendship. Was this whole Season to be like this, fearing to make any male friendships while she watched Alistair find his wife?

  ‘Good evening, Lady Perdita.’

  Dita jumped and then managed a smile of welcome as Francis got to his feet. ‘Oh …’ Pull yourself together! ‘Lord Iwerne, Miss Faversham, may I introduce Mr Wynstanley? Mr Wynstanley: the Marquis of Iwerne, Miss Faversham.’

  ‘Will you not join us?’ Francis pulled out a chair for Miss Faversham and they all sat down again. Francis gestured to the waiter and wine and glasses were brought.

  Dita met Alistair’s eyes with what she hoped was tolerable composure, only to find he was at his coolest, one eyebrow slightly raised. She stared back defiantly and engaged Miss Faversham, who appeared very shy, in conversation. Beside her she was aware of Francis undergoing a skilful interrogation—damn Alistair, he would be warning the man off in a moment!

  After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only fifteen minutes, Alistair rose. ‘Might I beg the honour of a dance, Lady Perdita?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ Her instinct was to refuse, but that would show she cared. She consulted her card. ‘The second set after supper?’

  ‘Ma’am. Wynstanley.’ He bowed and escorted Miss Faversham out of the supper room.

  By the time Alistair came to claim her for the set she had lost her nerve. ‘I have changed my mind,’ she said, staying firmly in the seat where Francis had left her when he went to claim his own partner.

  ‘Don’t sulk, Dita, it isn’t like you.’

  ‘I am not sulking and you, Alistair Lyndon, are not my keeper; I’ll thank you not to embarrass me by interrogating perfectly respectable gentlemen just because they are in my company.’

  ‘I am going to marry you,’ he said, taking the chair next to her without being asked. ‘And besides, you should not toy with men’s affections this way. Wynstanley seems a decent enough fellow and he is within an inch of falling for you, if I am any judge.

  ‘Well, we know you are not, don’t we?’ she countered, refusing to react to the declaration that he would marry her. ‘You place no importance upon love.’

  Alistair stretched his legs out in front of him, showing every sign of settling down for a long and intimate conversation. ‘It is a chimera, a delusion. You will come to your senses soon enough and marry me, Dita.’

  ‘What if I fall in love with someone else and want to marry them?’ she demanded. ‘Or are you so arrogant that you believe that would be a delusion that I must be saved from?’

  It was not a possibility, of course. She had come to accept that she was not going to fall out of love with him and into love with some other man. Given that, marrying someone like Francis and settling down to a pleasant, if second-best, life might be possible if only she could square her conscience over hiding her feelings for Alistair from him. But to marry Alistair when she loved him and he did not love her would be misery. She would be constantly hoping that he would fall in love with her and every day she would be disappointed.

  ‘If he is a decent man and if I was convinced you loved him, then perhaps.’ He did not look happy about it. ‘And if you gave me your word of honour that you did love him and were not simply trying to escape from me.’

  ‘You trust my honour?’

  ‘I thought I could trust it with my own,’ he countered and there was no mistaking the bitterness now.

  ‘So you place your honour above my happiness?’ she asked. ‘No, do not answer that, I do not think I want to hear it. ‘Why not give some thought to your own happiness instead and then perhaps we can both sleep easy in our beds?’

  Alistair sat down again as Dita swept off. Happiness. He had never thought of it as something to go out and seek. He had lived life as he wanted it and on his terms ever since he had left home and he supposed that for most of the time he had been happy. Certainly he had felt challenged, fulfilled, energised by the life he had lived.

  Happiness, Dita appeared to be implying, required him to take a wife. He knew he needed one, but these little peahens were intolerable; he had observed them for two weeks and they bored him rigid. He studied the room, feeling like a punter assessing racehorse form. Silly laugh, intolerable mother, rude to servants, never washes her neck … None of them had Dita’s class or intelligence. And she, with every reason in the world to marry him—except her fantasy of love—refused him.

  He sat and watched the dancing until he caught sight of Lady Evaline Brooke waltzing, which he was fairly certain she shouldn’t be, with that young man who only appeared to possess one waistcoat. He should extricate her from that flirtation before her mama saw her. Alistair waited until the music stopped and then walked across to cut into their conversation that was continuing as they left the floor.

  ‘Lady Evaline.’

  She jumped and looked guilty. ‘Lord Iwerne.’ />
  ‘Won’t you introduce me?’

  ‘Of course. Lord Iwerne, this is Mr Morgan, Lord Winstanley’s confidential secretary. James, the Marquis of Iwerne.’

  ‘My lord.’ The young man made a neat bow. He was slightly stocky, dark—Welsh, perhaps, as his name might suggest—and met Alistair’s cool regard with a expression that was polite but not cowed. He’s got some backbone, then.

  ‘Mr Morgan. Lady Evaline, I was hoping for a dance.’

  ‘Oh. Well, my card is quite full, my lord.’ She fiddled with it, nervous.

  ‘How dashing of you, Lady Evaline.’ He caught the dangling card and opened it. ‘Are you sure you cannot spare me a single county dance?’ Every remaining dance had JM pencilled against it. The uncomfortable silence dragged on. ‘How did you expect to get away with that?’ he asked.

  ‘We were going to sit them out, my lord,’ Morgan said. ‘Over there.’ He nodded towards a partly curtained alcove. ‘Not outside, I assure you.’

  ‘I suggest you have rather more of a care for the lady’s reputation, Mr Morgan. Lady Evaline, you, I believe, will dance this set with me.’ He swept her on to the floor, leaving Morgan white-faced on the sidelines. It was a country dance, not the best place for a delicate exchange, but he managed to ask, ‘What would your mother say?’

  ‘She’d be furious,’ Evaline murmured. She was as white as her swain, but her chin came up and she fixed a bright social smile on her lips. ‘You are quite right to chide me, my lord.’

  ‘I am not chiding,’ he said. ‘I’m rescuing you.’

  The steps swung them apart and they said no more until the set was finished and he walked her off to find her mother. ‘Hide that card,’ he suggested. ‘Lady Brooke, here is your youngest daughter, who has danced me to a standstill.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Evaline said as he stood looking down at her. ‘You are quite right, I know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to see you come to harm,’ he rejoined as her mother’s attention was claimed by a friend. ‘You matter to me.’ She would be his sister-in-law if he had his way; it behoved him to protect her. Besides, he owed her mother much for her help with Imogen. Evaline blushed and lowered her eyes, but he was not displeased. She had seen the folly of that silly flirtation. Enough of acting the big brother for one evening, he thought, and went in search of the card tables.