A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  Cantry had crossed nearly a third of the pond before he began to slow. Even fifteen feet behind him, Emma could hear the ominous groan of the ice. She slid faster.

  "Wait," he called, barely moving now, his mouth an O of alarm when she shot past him. He'd stopped, afraid to go far­ther. A sharp crack sounded beneath her. Emma slowed, slid­ing carefully now, edging closer to the bank as she approached the midpoint of the pond, trying to keep her weight even on each foot.

  Cantry must have shifted or dared to take another step, for a flurry of small pops crackled through the air. Even she was startled by it, glancing back to be sure he hadn't plunged through the ice. But he stood safe—stranded, but safe—and his eyes widened at her smile.

  "Don't go any farther," he called as she turned away and inched ahead.

  "You're far larger than I, Mr. Cantry. I do believe it will hold my weight."

  She'd passed the center of the pond now and relief loos­ened her limbs, but her next step proved her hope false, for the ice caved beneath her boot and sucked her leg into freez­ing water. The force of the fall pitched her forward, her other knee smashing to the ice with a muffled thud. Shouts floated to her ears.

  A writhing, stretching ache enveloped her foot and calf. When they grew numb, the pain twisted its way to her knee, then up to throb mercilessly in her hip. Emma bit back the curses that flew to her lips and tried to smile toward the nearest shout. It was Lord Lancaster, standing a dozen feet away, shoes sunk in the soggy snow that lined the bank.

  "Stay there, Lord Lancaster. The ice won't hold you and if you rescue me you'll forfeit my win."

  "Damn the stupid bet," he muttered but didn't approach. He could not; the pond would never support him.

  "I'm fine," she lied and shifted her weight to her gloved hands to try to pull her nerveless leg free.

  "What is going on here!"

  That voice stilled her attempts and whipped her head up in alarm. The Duke of Somerhart approached the pond, his striking face hardened by a frown. Emma glared.

  "Bloody hell," she whispered and yanked with all her might. Her leg scraped free, but the sudden pull spilled her to the ice, slapping her face against the slick wet. "Hell, hell, hell."

  Ice creaked and shifted beneath her like some beast she'd woken from slumber. She couldn't see Somerhart now, but she heard his vicious curse to her right and assumed he'd joined Lancaster.

  "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" he growled, as if he had some right to scold. Emma's anger gave her the will to rise to her hands and knees.

  "Hold still. I'm coming out."

  "No!" she shouted, piercing him with a glare, trying to ignore the way her heart lurched at his tall form. "I'll not forfeit my prize."

  Somerhart muttered something that widened even Lan­caster's eyes.

  "I concede the win," Cantry cried from behind her.

  The duke stepped onto the ice.

  Emma inched forward, moving toward the solid white of firm ice that loomed ahead. A crack and a splash told her that the duke's foot had already breached the surface. She tried not to smirk at his growl.

  "I may be a woman, gentlemen, but I do have some sense of honor. I won't concede now when I knew the ice was too thin to hold Mr. Cantry." She'd reached a thicker patch and pushed to her feet, hoping her sparking, tingling leg would hold her. A new pain joined the ache, sharper and more dis­tracting. Emma took a tentative step. Then another. Within two minutes she'd reached the far bank and the gawking crowd that gathered there.

  Several hands clapped her on the back in congratulations, though the two young matrons stood apart, mouths flat with disapproval. Let them disapprove, Emma told herself. You are fifty pounds richer. A sudden hush alerted her to the ap­proach of the other men and gave her time to fix a smile to her mouth.

  "Your Grace," she murmured when he loomed into view. "Are you injured?"

  "I am well, thank you."

  "Lady Denmore," Lancaster interrupted, "your cloak." "I wouldn't have expected you to encourage this, Lan­caster."

  The viscount swept the cloak over her shoulders, offering Emma a hidden grimace at Somerhart's chiding. She held back a nervous giggle when his twinkling brown eyes caught hers. "I wouldn't use the word 'encouraged.' The lady seemed determined."

  "Determined," Somerhart growled. "Determined to make a fool of herself for a few quid."

  Emma froze, her eyes locking with the duke's when Lan­caster moved away. The murmur of the crowd died out as all heads turned toward Somerhart.

  Blood rushed to Emma's face, but she forced her mouth into a laughing smile. He blinked and seemed to remember himself, for his face flushed too.

  "And where are my winnings, gentlemen?"

  Cantry rushed forward to thrust the coins into her hand. "I admire your bravery, madam," he offered with a pretty bow, though his lips were stretched thin with embarrass­ment.

  Emma forced her neck to bend in an easy nod, then turned her shoulders slightly, angling away from Somerhart and his glinting blue eyes. "A fine bit of entertainment and noon has not yet struck. I thank you, Mr. Cantry, for accept­ing my silly proposal. A pleasure to have met you, Lord Lan­caster."

  Somerhart stepped close, his fingers wrapping around her elbow. "Let me escort you inside."

  Emma gritted her teeth and felt her mask of gaiety slip. She couldn't help the sneer that stiffened her mouth when she looked at his hand, dark against her pale sleeve. His grip loosened in response, fell away. A murmur swept over the group.

  "Viscount? I do believe my skirts are somewhat soggy. Will you see me to the hall?"

  "I'd be honored," Lancaster drawled and gave her his arm.

  Hart watched Lady Denmore walk away from him for the second time in as many days. The first time, of course, her hand hadn't been locked in a cozy clasp around Viscount Lancaster's arm. And Hart hadn't just insulted her in front of a large group of her peers.

  "I say, Your Grace, that one's giving you a merry chase."

  Setting his jaw, he turned his eyes to the young pup who'd spoken. "Pardon me?"

  "Uh . . ." The boy's eyes fell to the snow at Hart's feet. "Nothing, sir."

  He let his gaze sweep over the group of staring people, noticing the wide-eyed looks they exchanged, the tittering of the ladies. Wonderful. He'd given them a sensational story to tell over luncheon. And he'd been unconscionably rude to Emma. She hadn't shown a smidgen of hurt in her expres­sion, but her face had burned a dull red, betraying the wound he'd inflicted.

  And in playing the villain, he'd thrust Lancaster into the role of rescuer. Lancaster—that charming, golden-haired fortune hunter.

  Hart hid his anger behind a cool glance of displeasure for the closest group of bucks. When he crossed his arms and glared, the boys took the hint and sidled away, back toward the house, trailing the rest of the group. The women had dis­appeared, no doubt eager to spill the details of Lady Den­more 's undignified behavior and Somerhart's contempt. Hart simply stood in the cold, watching his breath condense into clouds under the bright sun.

  By God, he'd felt an ax strike him over the head when he'd stepped into the gardens and spied Lady Denmore careering across the pond like some gleeful bedlamite. And when she'd fallen, when her face had melted from determination to pain, he'd felt such a sudden bolt of anger that he'd actu­ally stumbled. Why he felt concern for the irresponsible chit, he couldn't imagine.

  Giving his head a hard shake, Hart attempted to throw off his roiling thoughts as he swung about to return to the house—and his plans to leave. But his eye caught on some­thing discordant. . . a strange shock of color. He blinked, nar­rowing his gaze to the trampled snow just a foot away. Four crimson spots flashed in the white. Even as he watched, the red began to fade, spreading to deep pink in the snow.

  Blood. He was sure of it. He searched the ground for more evidence and found two more drops on the path Lady Den­more had taken toward the house. The woman had injured herself, likely she'd cut her leg open on t
hat blasted ice. Christ.

  Hart stalked to the door and back to the front hall where he spotted Lancaster walking away. Ignoring his spike of ir­ritation, he bounded up the stairs and down the hallway to the guest chambers. A peek into one of the open rooms re­warded him with the startled gasp of a young maid.

  "Would you be so kind as to direct me to Lady Denmore's room?"

  "Uh . . ." Her eyes blinked rapidly, fluttering with fear. "Two doors down, sir. To the left."

  "Please bring hot water and soap to her chambers."

  The girl dropped a wobbling curtsy as Hart spun away to stalk down the hall and knock on the door.

  "Come in," she called before his hand had fallen away. Hart pushed open the door. "If you—" The words ended on a sharp draw of air and her hands flew to flick her skirts down, but not before Hart spied the gash that ran from mid shin to her knee.

  He looked to her red-stained boot and the crumpled ruin of a silk stocking puddled on the floor. "A maid is coming with water and soap."

  She ground out, "Why are you here?"

  "I saw blood. I wanted to be sure you were all right." Un­invited, Hart closed the door behind him and crossed to kneel by her leg.

  She scooted it away from him. "As you can see, I'm fine."

  "On the contrary, that looks rather nasty."

  "Just a scrape. And your opinion doesn't signify."

  He almost laughed at that. He was quite sure no one had ever said those words to him. Excepting his father, of course, but he was long dead. "It looked to be more than a scrape. It may need stitching."

  "Unlikely. Please leave."

  Hart shifted back a little, startled by the hardness of her words. Her hazel eyes met his in unflinching scorn. "I apol­ogize, Lady Denmore, for my earlier words."

  "Fine. Now go."

  "I was taken aback when I saw you in danger—"

  "I can't imagine what you mean, Your Grace. We do not know each other. And I sincerely have no wish to be chalked up as another of your paramours, so please leave my room."

  "I see." Hart stood, the movement quickened by a rush of anger. "I'm sorry I bothered then."

  "Sorry you bothered to check on my well-being? Only be­cause I don't wish to be in your bed?"

  He blinked, caught by her logic. "No, I—" Her smirk dissolved any awkwardness he might have felt. "Good day, Lady Denmore." The nod she gave was no more than a jerk of her head.

  Hart stared down at her, perched so stiffly on the bed, her back straight as a column of iron. He looked to her hands, one clutching the bedspread, the other her skirt. The knuck­les of both were livid white, pushing against the skin. And her jaw ticked forward and back, forward and back, shifting the tiniest fraction of an inch against clenched teeth.

  Hart felt the shift in his own jaw and sighed. She may very well find him irritating, but the anger she showed had little to do with him and more to do with pain striking through her body. A tap at the door saved them from fur­ther sparring.

  Opening the door to find the maid bobbing another curtsy, Hart fished a sovereign from his pocket and slipped it to her as he took the ewer of hot water and stack of towels.

  "An inconvenience, I'm sure, but could I bother you for something more? We need clean linen and a salve if you've something good at hand."

  "Of course, sir," she bubbled, bobbing again as he closed the door.

  Lady Denmore glared. "I thought you were going."

  He gave her a shrug and knelt at her feet again, like a suppli­cant to her sharp tongue. Before she could even open her mouth to protest—loudly if the set of her chin was any indication— Hart flipped her skirts up and settled them over her knee. The flat of his hand held them down despite her attempts to dis­lodge it.

  "I believe I made clear that I would not invite you to toss up my skirts."

  Hart looked down, away from the slits of her eyes, and grimaced at the bloody mess she'd made of her leg. A fine leg—slender and long.

  "I will do that," she growled when he dipped a cloth into the hot water. "Ouch!"

  "Sorry. This'll sting a bit."

  "A bit!"

  Her breath hissed sharply through her teeth when he dabbed at the blood again, drawing another wince from Hart. He nearly gave in to her demand to leave her alone when he saw the bright glint of tears in her eyes, nearly shoved the towel into her hand and fled the room, but he was no coward. Still, he was relieved when she closed those glit­tering eyes and eased herself back to lie on the bed.

  Hart tried not to see the twist of her fists in her skirts as he did his best to manage the twin feats of cleaning the wound and not hurting her. Impossible.

  "This will scar, I'm afraid."

  She gave a huff that he took to be laughter. "Best to de­posit me directly on the shelf then. I'm ruined."

  Sassy chit. "You're right. No one will want you like this. You might consider locking yourself away in a tower." He'd cleaned the easiest parts first, and now found himself left with only the rawest area of the scrape. Her chest rose and fell in a quick, steady rhythm. Best to distract her from the next bit. "I seem to find myself surrounded lately by ruined women. I wonder why that is."

  "Surely that's not one of the great mysteries of the world." She tensed when the hot towel touched her, but his sacrifice was well rewarded when she pressed on. "You're a rake."

  "I disagree." When he dabbed at a particularly nasty spot, she gasped and twisted the yellow velvet of the bedcover. "Sorry."

  "How . . . how can you disagree? You're a rogue. A con­noisseur of women. And I understand you spent the better part of your youth perfecting your sense of taste."

  "Taste, hmm?"

  Her head popped up, eyes wide with shock at what she'd said. "I didn't mean . . . I only meant that you spent a good many years sampling . . . Ow! Good God, isn't it clean yet? It's not as if I fell into a pig trough." Her face disappeared again, though he could still make out the occasional growled curse.

  He finished, finally, and sat back to stare at the fresh blood oozing from her shin. He hadn't been kidding about the scar, though she hadn't seemed to care either way. Strange girl.

  "The maid's bringing bandages," he said and heard the bedcover shush as she nodded. "It should be just a moment."

  The pain of the wound must have worsened. She didn't bother to pursue her assault on his character, she only lay still and stiff on the bed. A strange awkwardness crept over his skin as he sat and stared at the bare leg of a woman who wanted nothing from him. Her pink toes curled into the carpet, drawing his eye, and he noticed that her leg shook a little, from pain or cold. He smoothed a hand down her instep and curled his fingers around her toes. The icy cold against his skin shocked him.

  Not bothering to wonder what she'd think of it, Hart raised her foot and unbuttoned his waistcoat to settle it against his stomach. He pressed his palm close to warm those shell pink toes. When they curled into the linen of his shirt, awareness prickled down his belly, and her small sigh affected him like a moan.

  "Are you . . . ?" He cleared the unexpected huskiness from his throat. "Are you being chased by creditors, Lady Denmore?"

  "Not that I know of. Is someone hanging outside my window?" Her toes curled again. Hart stroked his palm over the top of her foot and up her ankle, chasing goose flesh ahead of his touch. There hadn't been goose flesh before.

  He shook his head. "You seem in reckless need of a few pounds. I thought perhaps your late husband left you wanting."

  Another wave of chills. "I can't imagine what you mean."

  "Really?"

  "Not to mention that it's still none of your concern."

  Hart smiled, intrigued by her refusal to concede anything to his title and wealth. Her body, however, was conceding something to his touch. He eased his thumb beneath the curve of her arch and worked small circles into her foot. Those pink toes curled obligingly and her knee bent a little, prompting Hart's brain to craft a series of fascinating images. The little widow bending her knee
farther, tilting it to the side, so that he could see the soft white flesh of her inner thigh. Then she'd slide her foot across his belly until she could hook her ankle around his waist and tug him closer. His hips would fit perfectly in the cradle of those thighs, the skin so white, never once touched by the sun.

  Hart sighed. He had a libertine's soul but the mind of a man yoked with responsibility and pride. If only he were twenty again, and unconcerned with the world and its fascination with his life. And though he had thought Lady Denmore subtle, she was not the least bit subtle. The very opposite of circumspect. She'd already goaded Hart into embarrassing them both.

  He gave her foot one last lingering rub, then lowered it to the floor. "I will go check on that maid."

  "Thank you," she said, sounding as if she choked on it. She rubbed the sole of her foot against the deep-piled rug before he turned away to yank open the door.

  The maid was flying down the hall, hanks of blond hair es­caping her cap. "Sorry, milord! I'm sorry. There was a—"

  "Wonderful." He plucked the bandages and the little brown crock from her hands. "My thanks."

  "Yes, sir," she gasped, and curtsied over and over until Hart closed the door.

  He found Lady Denmore pushed up on her elbows, watching with a smirk. "I do believe you're the queen in disguise. My, my. Such deference."

  "You have no respect for your betters, Lady Denmore."

  She laughed. Really laughed. That same husky sound he'd heard the night before. "So true," she chuckled. "None at all."

  Women never laughed at him. Never. Hart found himself suddenly smiling. "You remind me of my sister."

  Her amusement died in a fluttering blink of her eyes. "I'm not surprised."

  "What do you mean?" He knelt before her again, and lifted the skirt she'd dropped over her leg. Dark stains of blood marred her petticoats. "You can't have met Alexandra."

  "No. But I've heard that. . . she sounds quite . .. uncon­ventional."

  "Yes," he said carefully. He dipped a square of linen in the salve and dabbed the pale yellow muck against her leg. "She is that."

  He listened for a pained gasp or at least a sigh, but in­stead, her muscles began to relax. "Oh, that's not too bad at all. Lovely, actually."