A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  "I see," he said simply. He studied her again, as he had so many times before. Studied her and found her wanting if the downward curve of his mouth was any indication. He gave her a slow nod. "Well, thank you for the explanation. You must be tired after your disturbing morning. I'll honor my promise and leave you to rest."

  "Thank you, Your Grace."

  His carriage had not returned, but she did not inquire how he would travel. She couldn't speak. The door opened and closed in a rush of freezing air, cooling the tears that only now pooled in her eyes.

  She'd spoken the truth—almost—and the pain of that truth held her rooted to the spot. She stood there, dumb and silent and staring at a small rip in the wallpaper against the far wall.

  No, she did not want children. She could not bear the thought of it. Not because her mother had grown fat; Emma suspected she'd done that purposefully to avoid her hus­band's desires. It wasn't even her mother's slow descent into death after Will's birth.

  Emma did not want a husband, and so it had always been easy to dismiss the thought of children. But when she'd spoken the words aloud, the truth of it had stabbed through her heart. She had already had a child. Will. She had loved him and raised him. Seen to his needs. She'd comforted him after his nightmares, and held his little body when he'd hurt. She'd taken him everywhere with her, even taught him to read when his nanny had been occupied in the baron's bed­room. And then he'd died.

  One moment he'd been her whole world, and the next he'd been lowered into a dank, muddy hole and covered up with dirt. The world had moved on, and she'd been left standing there, staring at turned earth.

  She had loved one child, and that had been enough pain to last two lifetimes.

  Emma made her feet move back to the stairway. She trudged slowly up to the second floor, shuffled into her bed­room and climbed beneath the cold sheets. She was too tired to prepare dinner, and she knew that Bess was just as heart­sick as she.

  The sky outside slowly darkened, and Emma closed her swollen eyes.

  "She is gone. You will have to forget her."

  Matthew glared at his father. "How can you say that?"

  His father threw up his hands with a grimace. "How can I say it? She is gone, Matthew. Now I agreed she was a fine match when she was here, but the girl is clearly determined not to marry. She turned down your every offer, and then she ran off. Use your head for something more than prayer."

  Matthew shot to his feet and slammed his hands down on the table. "How dare you. I am obligated to honor you as my father, but I will not tolerate you mocking the church."

  "Our church is the Church of England, and that vicar is nothing but a Romanist."

  "Reverend Whittier is a great man! He and others like him are determined to bring the church back to God. He is help­ing the church find its soul, just as he is helping me find mine."

  His father ran a hand through his thin white hair. "Your soul is right here and there is nothing wrong with it. And there is nothing wrong with the church. Those men you speak of will soon be driven out of it like the vermin they are. And if you continue your plan to join their ranks, you will be driven away too."

  "You know nothing about it," Matthew spat.

  "The church has made its position clear about your Ro­manists and their papist rituals."

  "I will not listen to this. As soon as I'm married, Father Whittier will sponsor my admission to the clergy. I will heal people's souls. I will help lead the church back to its spirit. But I cannot do that if my own soul is shadowed with sin and wanton lust."

  His father only shook his head. It was a conversation they'd had many times. Matthew stared at the old man's cot­tony puffs of hair and his pink skin. He was weak; he'd always been too kind, too forgiving. Always given into his wife's stronger personality. Matthew said a quick prayer of thanks that he'd inherited his mother's spine.

  "You promised that I could marry her. Promised you would help."

  "I thought she wanted the same. She—"

  "She made her choice when she led me astray. She toyed with my heart and sullied my soul and now she will reap her harvest. I will marry her, Father. I must."

  The old man's head dropped into his hands. "You have no idea where she is. You've done nothing for the past months but travel half the country looking for her. I refuse to sup­port you any longer. I cannot afford it."

  Frustration urged him to rail and fume, but Matthew man­aged to hold onto logic. When the time came, his father would do as he asked; he was sure of it. So he tempered his voice when he spoke. "I understand, Father, but I am pray­ing for an answer every day. If God brings me information about her, will you offer me one last chance?"

  His father said nothing for a long time. His shoulders dropped.

  "I love her," Matthew whispered.

  Finally, his father nodded. "If you find her, I will send you to see her, but I will do nothing to force her back. You under­stand?"

  Satisfaction burned through him. Yes, he understood, but it didn't matter. He would need no help forcing her back. Matthew smiled down at his father's bowed head. "Of course. Thank you, Father." And he headed back to the church to pray harder.

  Chapter ll

  The sun was warm against her back, nearly as warm as the heat of Lancaster's arm beneath her hand. She smiled toward the bright, shifting light of the Thames and slowed her pace a little. Their walk was coming to an end and she didn't quite want it to stop. Lancaster was charming and handsome. A friend, it seemed, since he wasn't a suitor. And the day felt like spring.

  She felt a prickling of alarm at the idea and pushed it away. She had a month, nearly, before the crowds began their return to London, and her assets grew daily. A few members of Parliament had begun to trickle back to town, but they left their families in the country until March. The men wanted entertainment, and gambling was the order of the day. Whor­ing too, she supposed, but the gambling was all that inter­ested her.

  And for the moment, winter was gone, and all the dark thoughts that came along with it. The day reminded her of afternoons in her uncle's kitchen garden, or mornings col­lecting warm eggs from the henhouse, the smooth, perfect curve of heat in her palm.

  A gull flew past, only feet away, and Emma thought of her mother exclaiming with delight at the sight of every seal or pelican as they'd walked along the seashore.

  "What are you thinking of, Lady Denmore?"

  Emma smiled up at her companion. "I was thinking of being a child, walking with my mother along the beach."

  "Ah. I have never been to Brighton."

  "Neither have I, actually! We preferred Scarborough. She did not go to be seen, you understand. She wanted peace." Peace. Just what Emma wanted for herself.

  "Well, you certainly looked peaceful thinking about it."

  "It is my favorite place in the world," she said, before she thought better of it. When she disappeared, she needed to dis­appear completely. She saw that Lancaster was about to speak and rushed to change the subject. "I was shocked that there would be yachting so early in the year. The water must be frigid."

  "As long as there's no ice, it is always the right time for a race, I gather. There are people to place bets"—he shot her a sardonic look—"and so there are people willing to race."

  "Some men are easily persuaded."

  "Ha! When you are doing the persuading, I'm sure that is true of all of us."

  Emma tapped his arm and laughed, but his words reminded her of Somerhart and how she'd finally persuaded him away. Three weeks had passed without a word. Oh, she spied him at a few parties, but he'd spared her nothing more than a nod and a look. He hadn't made his way to her, and she hadn't dared approach him after she'd finally gotten him to keep his dis­tance. It had been necessary. Painful, but necessary.

  Lancaster interrupted her thoughts. "Lord Osbourne tells me that your luck has only improved in the past month. He is quite proud of your skills."

  Emma laughed past her twinge of guilt. The Osbournes ha
d welcomed her as if she were a long-lost niece. They had been quite close to her uncle in their youth, and they de­lighted in hearing stories of him and his garden battles, but they were even happier to pass on tales of their collective youth. They'd be hurt by her elaborate deception, perhaps humiliated.

  "Lord Osbourne," she said sincerely, "is the soul of kind­ness."

  "He also mentioned that Somerhart has been conspicu­ously absent from most gatherings you attend."

  She glanced up to find Lancaster watching her, a sardonic smile tilting up his mouth. He was an attractive man, he made her laugh, and she would undoubtedly have been flat­tered by his attentions if she weren't so conscious of her lies. He was more open than Somerhart, and so she felt con­stantly guilty. But she needed her falsehoods. If the rumors persisted that the duke was already done with her, she would be fighting off men like Lord Marsh every night.

  "I rather think that Somerhart was conspicuously present a few weeks ago. He has only fallen back into old habits. I'm sure you know he prefers less public company."

  Lancaster nodded his understanding. "So he does."

  "Did you know his sister?" Emma asked, almost sur­prised at her own words.

  "Lady Alexandra? Yes, I did. She was smart and impetu­ous. Entertaining. You remind me a little of her, actually. Though she was . . ."

  "Younger?"

  "Younger, definitely. But I was going to say more reck­less. You are more calculating in your risks."

  Emma had been wondering about her, about this girl that Hart apparently loved so much even though she courted scandal and rumor at every turn. He had tolerated it, de­fended her. He hated notoriety, but he loved his notorious sister. He despised scandal, yet he pursued Emma. Or had pursued her.

  They'd returned back to the yacht club where their walk had started, but instead of releasing her, Lancaster put his hand over hers. "My carriage is here. I hope you'll allow me to escort you home."

  "Thank you, Lancaster."

  He waved to his man. "I was thrilled to see you here. We don't often run in the same circles. We are clearly handling our impoverishment in different ways. A good thing, since I have neither your luck nor skill at the tables."

  Emma stepped into his landau. He took the seat opposite.

  "You've had no luck with heiresses?"

  "Not yet. But the Season should solve that problem."

  Emma cocked her head and studied the sudden tension around his eyes. "You are so troubled by it. Are you one of those who despises the cits and their vulgar money?"

  Lancaster sighed and smiled, his brown eyes shining with wry humor. "No, it's not that. It is just stubbornness, I sup­pose, mixed with a splash of romanticism and perhaps a touch of pride."

  "A touch?"

  "No more, I assure you." His laughter faded and, facing him like this, the sun at her back, Emma saw true weari­ness in his eyes and not a little sadness. He shook his head. "He kept us all in the dark, you know." His voice had tamed quiet and serious. "My mother . . . my brother and sister, they all refuse to see the truth of it. But I cannot help but see it. The creditors will not stop showing me."

  His sad smile touched her heart. Emma reached out and took one of his hands in hers. "There are just as many lovely girls among the cits as there are among the ton. More even."

  "Of course."

  "You will find someone who will make you forget that she brings twenty thousand a year."

  Lancaster laughed again, his normal, open laugh, and Emma smiled and squeezed his hand.

  "I do wish your husband had left you some money. Have you not managed to earn your fortune yet?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Well, you should be. The perfect woman right before me and not a shilling to her name."

  "Perfectly scandalous, at any rate." Emma was still smil­ing as they turned onto her street. The smile froze when she caught sight of a man's profile in the distance, delicate and pale. He stood almost a block away and the brim of his hat threw a shadow over his face, but she felt a jolt of recogni­tion. Her gut tightened with fear.

  "Lady Denmore?" Lancaster turned to look over his shoul­der. "What is wrong?"

  "Nothing," she murmured as the figure turned and walked in the opposite direction. She recognized that walk, she was almost certain of it. Almost. "Nothing," she said again, more strongly.

  "I'm not convinced. You must tell me if something is wrong. Ever."

  Emma forced herself to meet his eyes and smile. "Some­one walked over my grave. That is all."

  He glanced over his shoulder again, clearly doubtful. But the carriage had pulled to a halt, and he could do nothing but descend and offer her a hand.

  "It has been a lovely afternoon," Emma murmured.

  "A beautiful afternoon," Lancaster agreed. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but Emma gently extracted her hand from his and moved up the stairs. She managed to say a happy farewell, but her face fell as she closed the door behind her.

  She waited for the sound of Lancaster's carriage moving away before she shouted, "Bess, I need your cloak. Hurry!"

  With the hood of Bess's brown cloak pulled low over her face, she could pass anyone without being recognized. It couldn't have been Matthew. It was nothing, just as Burl Smythe had been nothing, and she would not live in fear for days because of some stranger's profile. She would search the street and shops and find the man and put her worry to rest within the quarter hour.

  She heard a noise from the first story and rushed up the stairs. "Bess, I need—"

  Bess emerged from the parlor and held up a hand. "You've a visitor, ma'am. I know I shouldn't 'ave—"

  Emma's heart dropped. She glanced back toward the front door, knowing it couldn't be Matthew in her home, even if it had been him on the street. It must be . . .

  "Hart," she gasped when he stepped into the hallway. Bess's face turned red. She knew she should not have admit­ted a gentleman without Emma's consent. Then again, she couldn't very well turn away the duke who had saved her from her husband's fists.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," Bess offered with a nervous curtsy.

  "It's fine."

  Hart inclined his head with a completely remorseless smirk. There was no way to be rid of him in time to follow the man, so Emma just took the last two steps up to the first floor. "Bring tea," she sighed.

  Hart's soft huff of sardonic laughter almost made her smile.

  It hadn't been Matthew on the street, Emma told herself as she swept off her cloak and handed it to Bess. And she found her fear was easy to forget as Hart followed her into the parlor, his presence a warm shadow at her back. She could not have thought of anything else if she'd tried.

  They were silent, studying each other until the tea tray ar­rived. Hart felt uncertain as he took in her pinkened cheeks and wind-mussed hair. A few strands had escaped her chignon and they curved toward her mouth, drawing his eye. He hadn't seen her in weeks and had resented every moment he'd spent thinking of ways to run across her.

  She'd shocked him with her casual dismissal of children and motherhood. She had seemed cruel and selfish, but he should not have been surprised. His own mother had had similar feelings. After three children she had declared her­self quite done with the whole wretched business and had never bothered herself with her children if she could help it.

  Perhaps that was why he'd reacted so strongly. He had dis­liked his mother in self-defense of her distaste for him. But he'd had time to think over the past three weeks. Emma's few words about her childhood had eventually filtered past her shocking statements.

  Emma broke the silence. "I thought you had finally re­solved to be done with me."

  "So had I."

  "And yet you are here." She offered him a cup of tea and dropped a sugar into her own.

  "And yet I am here."

  Her eyes rose to meet his. "Why?"

  God, she was beautiful. He didn't know why. She shouldn't be. But the sight of her hazel eyes staring him down . . . He felt himself r
elax even as something inside him tightened.

  "My father was a cruel man as well," he finally said.

  She blinked and the certainty vanished from her gaze. "Pardon me?"

  "What you said about your father, his treatment of your family . . . It is no wonder that you do not want children."

  She set her tea down and creased her napkin. "It is not so dramatic as all that, I'm sure."

  "But it is. There is nothing worse than being betrayed by someone who is supposed to love you."

  Her eyelids fluttered. She pressed her hands flat to her thighs. "As you were?" she murmured.

  His jaw tightened, but he had known that she must say something like this. He had invited it. So he nodded. "As we all have been."

  "Yes, well. . ."

  "You were trying to drive me away, Emma. I let you. But time heals all wounds, even those of pride and outrage."

  "Not all. You have never healed, not completely."

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Some-times there are scars."

  "Will you tell me the story?"

  "I am sure you've heard it all."

  "I have no idea what is true or false."

  "It's simple, Emma. I fell in love with the wrong woman."

  "But that is not the whole of it. She betrayed you, made a fool of you. I don't know how . . . I don't know why she would do that."

  Her eyelids rose, and Hart saw true distress there. Even past the familiar rage he felt at the topic, he could see that her interest was not prurient, her concern bordered on pain.

  And he had missed this illogical connection between them. He wanted to talk with her. So he sighed and gave in. Slightly. "Perhaps she was a bad person. Perhaps she was simply bored and I was her entertainment. I have no idea. I did not think much about it afterward."

  That was the truth, at any rate. Because her betrayal had hardly been the worst of it. Her betrayal had been only the beginning.

  "She had been deceiving you the whole time?"