A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

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  Copyright © 2008 by Victoria Dahl

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-0016-7 ISBN-10: 1-4201-0016-5

  First Printing: August 2008

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my husband, Bill,

  who believed in my dreams from the moment we met.

  Thank you for being my hero.

  Acknowledgments

  First, thank you so much to my readers for helping to make this dream come true. The letters I've received mean the world to me.

  Thank you to my lovely agent, Amy, for always being sup­portive, and my wonderful editor, John, for taking a chance on me.

  And to my family ... I could not dream up a more support­ive family than the one I have. Thank you to my boys, who hand out bookmarks to surprised customers at the book­store. (And sometimes try to charge for them!) To my hus­band, who says that each book is my best ever, and means it. And to my mom, for being so proud.

  The romance community is a nurturing one, so I couldn't possibly thank everyone who's contributed to my success, but there are two people I cannot miss. Thank you to Eloisa James for being an inspiration. And thank you to Connie Brockway for being always generous. Also, my continued gratitude to all the writers on all the loops who know so much more than I.

  Every writer needs mental support, some of us daily. Thank you, Jennifer, for being my critique partner and my voice of reason.

  Chapter I

  December 1844, outside London

  The storm had passed only hours before, blanketing the countryside in half a foot of snow. Moonlight and torch flame glittered and sparked off the icy garden, and the sight called to Emma Jensen through the hard cold of the window. Nature had reclaimed the tamed bower, swept in and buried the path­ways, softened the stark angle of hedges cut to precise cor­ners. This garden, painstakingly shaped by man, now lay hidden under gentle hills and deep drifts of snow, and Emma wondered how it would feel to be so effortlessly smothered. So still.

  Her deep sigh fogged the glass and blanked the stark scene. Straightening, she glanced back to the bright whirl of the ballroom. Boredom had set in, and when she grew bored her mind turned to useless melancholy. Her life was not so bad, after all, or someday wouldn't be.

  "Lady Denmore!"

  Emma angled her chin, set a smile on her face, and turned toward the half-drunk voice.

  "Lady Denmore, your presence is greatly desired in the hall."

  "Why, Mr. Jones, whatever for?" Emma forced the words to come light and pretty.

  "Matherton and Osbourne have arranged a race and they wish you to start it."

  A distraction. Good. Emma smiled more genuinely and took the arm the thin young man offered, leaving behind the cold escape of her daydream.

  Giggles and loud voices filled the cavernous front hall of Wembley House. All heads were turned toward the sweeping staircase and the impossible sight at the top. There, perched atop the landing, were Lords Matherton and Os­bourne, peers of the Realm, each crouching down to sit on what looked to be huge silver platters. The men, once seated, began to slide gingerly over the Persian runner, easing them­selves closer to the edge of the top stair.

  "This is a race?" Emma laughed, but she didn't let her amusement distract from a quick study of the men. "Fifty pounds on Osbourne."

  The noise around her paused, as if the whole room drew a breath, then exploded in a flurry of betting. Emma took the bottom step with a smile, meaning to climb to the top to start the race, but a loud shout stopped her.

  "Ho there! The starter can't bet on the race!"

  Emma only shrugged and stepped aside with a flourish of her hand, letting another woman take the starter's position, a woman not so cursed with the need to gamble on the out­come of every contest.

  A moment passed, then a handkerchief dropped and the men burst from the landing, gaslight glinting off silver as the trays tilted and shot down the stairs with surprising speed. Emma gasped—everyone gasped—and the crowd parted in the face of imminent danger.

  She almost closed her eyes, afraid to see the crash that surely awaited both men, but she did have fifty quid riding on this, so she watched the men fly down, watched as Os­bourne's greater weight proved its advantage. She nodded in satisfaction as Osbourne shot past her perch, then grimaced as he crashed with drama, a cacophony of metal and wall and groaning man.

  The crowd dispersed almost immediately, back to their drinks and gossip, and Emma wound her way between the guests, working toward Osbourne to see how he'd fared. Matherton, she saw, had already righted himself and stood laughing with his friends.

  "Osbourne," she called past a small crowd of attendees, "are you injured?"

  "Just my elbow," he wheezed.

  "Oh, Lord Osbourne," Emma sighed at the sight of his flushed face. "Tell me you haven't broken it?"

  "No, no. Just banged it up a bit."

  "Thank God. Lady Osbourne would have my head if I'd encouraged your injuring yourself."

  "Mine as well."

  "Come, my lord, let's see if there is ice—"

  "Henry!"

  "Oh, no," the earl breathed.

  "Oh, no," Emma echoed. "Well ... if Lady Osbourne is coming to help, I'll just leave you to her care."

  "But—"

  "Henry! Have you lost your mind?"

  Emma ducked away, not willing to be caught between a tipsy old man and his loving, outraged wife.

  Mr. Jones caught her arm and presented her winnings with a grin. Seventy pounds. Not as much as she'd hoped for. Her reputation for good hunches had begun to cut into her profits, as people often bet with her instead of on the wager. Luckily, the tables still proved profitable.

  Tucking the bills into her glove, Emma craned her neck, looking past the soggy smile of Mr. Jones for Matherton. She spotted him moving away, toward the card room, waving friendly acknowledgments to those he passed. Emma fol­lowed, though she was waylaid for a moment by an agitated Lady Matherton who was sure her Persian carpet must have been damaged. After much patting of hands and sympathetic murmurs, Emma edged away from her hostess and moved swiftly toward the card room.

  She couldn't help but smile when she spied the familiar shock of white hair glowing in the dim light at the end of the hallway. Lord Matherton would play the wounded party well. No doubt he planned to accuse her of treachery and be­trayal for placing her bet with Osbourne. Perhaps she would let him win a round of piquet to help heal his wounded pride.

  Emma drew a breath, meaning to call out to him, but just as her lips parted, he stepped aside and revealed the face of the man he spoke with. Emma froze. Someone plowed
into her back.

  "Oh, my dear girl. I'm so sorry."

  Emma steadied herself against the wall as the man tried to help her stand upright. But she didn't take her eyes off the black-haired stranger just ahead. "No need to apologize, sir. 'Twas my fault, after all."

  "Still, I should have been watching."

  "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stopped like that." She fi­nally glanced to her collider. "Admiral Hartford, that man looks familiar—the one with Matherton—but I can't place him."

  "Oh." The admiral's eyes widened, then slid back to her with a sympathetic smile. "That, my dear, is the Duke of Somerhart. A committed bachelor, I'm afraid."

  "Somerhart," she murmured, feeling the name on her lips. "Oh, yes, of course. Somerhart. Thank you, Admiral."

  Emma spun on her heel and retreated, hurrying back to the front hall, then around a corner to the ladies' retiring room. She darted into a corner that had been curtained off and sat down hard on the padded chair. A duke! She would never have believed it.

  Had he seen her? And if he had, would he know her?

  "Of course not," Emma breathed. It was ridiculous to think so. She'd only met the man once and that had been.. . what? A decade before? Yes, she'd been nine at the time. He couldn't know her. He'd probably forgotten her that very evening.

  Still, the whole of her plan rested on this charade, this lie of being the widow of the tenth Baron Denmore, and if Duke Somerhart did remember her then the game would be up, for she could not have been married to her own great-uncle.

  She'd planned on at least another two months before doubts began to surface. There were few fashionable mem­bers of society from their county, and none who'd arrive before the Season. She needed just a few more weeks . . .

  Emma sat up straight and looked into the wall mirror. No, the duke would not know her. Her brown hair had been dark blond then, and she had certainly filled out in important places. Also, she was not wearing a white nightgown and braids. She was unrecognizable.

  He, on the other hand, had been etched into her mind the first moment she'd seen him, stepping from his shadowed space on the wall.

  "Hello, pet," he'd called, as she snuck down the wide hall­way, trying desperately to get a peek at one of her father's strange new parties.

  By God, he'd scared the devil out of her, his voice like a ghost's, floating from the dark. Then he'd come into the light and Emma had gasped.

  "What are you about so late?" he asked, voice soft and low. Emma thought he might be an angel. He was far pret­tier than any of her father's other friends. But did angels wear red waistcoats and smoke cigarillos? "You should be in bed, kitten."

  "I. . . I wanted to see the dancing. I can hear the music from my bed."

  His eyes, pale sky blue, swept over her, from her braided hair to her bare toes, and his beautiful face turned sad. "This is no place for you. You shouldn't come down to your papa's parties, all right? Best to stay in your room."

  "Oh," she breathed, amazed at the kindness of that voice. He was an angel, the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. Emma eased one foot back, meaning to turn toward the ser­vants' stairs, but his eyes stopped her, blue warmth closing her throat with something hopeful.

  She drew a breath. "But. . ." When she leaned forward a little, his mouth quirked up into a smile, but the smile blurred when her eyes pricked with tears. "But someone has come to my room."

  "What?" She'd thought him enormously tall, but he drew himself up taller. His pretty mouth hardened and thinned. "What do you mean?"

  Emma took that step back. "I don't. . . My, my room. Someone came in last night. While I was sleeping. I don't want to stay there." Her cheeks flushed hot at the burn in his gaze. "He kissed me."

  Something hard and terrible stole over his face. Emma cringed and meant to spin around, but his mouth gentled with a twitch and he reached out one hand to curl her fingers into his.

  "I'm sorry." He crouched down and offered a small smile. "You are certainly pretty enough to want to kiss, but only a husband should do that, you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And no one has hurt you?" Emma shook her head.

  "All right. Is there a lock on your door? Yes? You go back to your room then, and lock the door. Then put a chair under the handle. Do you know what I mean?"

  A nod this time.

  "Do that whenever your papa has a party. And do not try to spy again, pet, all right?"

  "Yes." And she had fled. And though she hadn't ceased her spying, she'd nursed an infatuation for that nameless man for nigh on four years. Then she'd forgotten him. Until now.

  A duke. A rather notorious duke at that. Not known for his kindness. And still the handsomest man she'd ever seen.

  Well, there was no choice; she could not accomplish her goal by sneaking nervously about for the next few weeks. If her plans were in danger, she needed to know now. So Emma forced herself to her feet and went to meet her old protector.

  "Ah, the traitorous Lady Denmore!" Lord Matherton boomed, eliciting a husky laugh from a woman somewhere behind Hart's back.

  Hart turned toward her and let his eyebrows rise in sur­prise as he looked her over. It wasn't often one met new women at a ton gathering, and certainly not lovely young matrons.

  "I can't think what you mean, sir," she laughed, her hazel eyes sparkling. She glanced at Hart, then away just as quickly.

  "How could you do it, Lady Denmore? Put money on an­other man?"

  She reached a gloved hand out and touched Matherton's sleeve. "I am deeply wounded, my lord. Surely you can see that I had complete confidence in you. I thought only to sal­vage Osbourne's pride, fully expecting you to trounce him."

  Matherton snorted. "You, madam, would do the country a great service if you were to offer yourself as a diplomat. Words flow so prettily from your mouth that it matters not in the least if they are true."

  She laughed again, and Hart took in the sound with plea­sure. What a bedroom voice she had, soft and rich. It didn't quite match the rest of her. She was pretty in a mild way, cer­tainly not exotic.

  "Lady Denmore, may I present the Duke of Somerhart? Your Grace, this lovely woman is Baroness Denmore."

  He watched her curtsy, her dark lilac skirts crumpling a bit. Those hazel eyes crinkled in a smile as he took her hand.

  "Lady Denmore. A pleasure. And no 'Your Graces' if you please. Just Somerhart."

  "You do not employ your title, sir?" she teased.

  "Oh, I make full use of it. To the extent that I command how others may address me."

  "Ah. A man heady with his own power."

  Hart smiled, watched her full lips curve in answer, and wondered quickly if her husband were in attendance. If not. . .

  "Madam," Matherton interrupted, eyes darting toward the open doorway to his left. "I believe my table awaits me. May I leave you in Somerhart's care?"

  "Certainly. I will, however, be in to take your money soon."

  Hart smiled at Matherton's sigh, happy to be left alone with this appealing woman. "Shall I escort you to your hus­band?" he drawled.

  "Ah. I am a widow, Somerhart. The Dowager Baroness Denmore."

  Hart blinked, surprised by both the information and his faux pas. "My apologies." This girl was a widow! She looked no older than his baby sister. "And my condolences for your loss." His mind began to tick through the history of the Denmore line.

  Baron Denmore. He had known the ninth Baron Den­more, that lecherous, perverted drunk, but he'd died years ago. Hart had no idea who'd inherited the title. No one of his circle, certainly. A servant passed, and he plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray.

  "Have you been in London long?"

  Her pink mouth smiled at the glass he urged into her hand. "No. Not long."

  "And will you be staying with us through the Season?"

  She glanced up at the word "us," a flash of surprise light­ing her eyes. She recognized his flirtation. Good. He did not like obvious women. He was a man of su
btle tastes and subtle actions, or he was now at any rate.

  "For a little while, certainly," she murmured before rais­ing the glass to her lips.

  Hart's eyes widened as he watched her, this modest young woman, drain a full glass of champagne and pop it back into his hand.

  "Thank you. A pleasure."

  And then she spun away and disappeared into the card room, leaving behind the faint scent of citrus and one star­tled duke.

  Chapter 2

  Crystals glinted in her hair, caught by the flickering gaslight as she glanced at her cards. Hart glanced too. "Split," she mur­mured, and placed another bet.

  She was good at the game, Vingt-et-un, had been winning steadily since she'd sat down a quarter hour before, but she seemed distracted now. . . bored, glancing toward the players at the loo table even as she played her hand.

  "What do you know about this Lady Denmore?" Hart asked of the man next to him.

  Lord Marsh chuckled. "Ah, she's a tempting bit, isn't she? Married to an old man for a year and now she's free to pursue more interesting interests."

  "An old man?"

  "Yes, Baron Denmore must have been seventy at least, a recluse, and she no more than nineteen when they married. She'd never even been presented."

  Hart's mind turned over the possibilities. "And who intro­duced her to London?"

  "Ha! No one. She arrived in October, of all times, and still in mourning. The Mathertons were practically the only people left in town. And the Osbournes, of course. She's rather become their pet."

  Hart watched her collect her winnings and rise. She made her way immediately to the loo table, inviting several of the men already playing to wince.

  "She's an accomplished player, I gather?"

  "Mm. That coward Brasher is already fleeing the table. See the men tremble at her feet."

  Hart allowed himself a small smile. The men were, indeed, unhappy to see her. Lady Denmore, on the other hand, was all gracious good humor. "She seems a woman who enjoys taking risks."

  "Indeed." Marsh grinned. "And I am hoping that will translate to other habits as well. Did you get a good look at that mouth?"