A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  Emma finished collecting her previous bets and retrieved her cards. She willed her hands to stop shaking, but Marsh saw and his eyes sparkled.

  "Well, then, my dear. Let's see them."

  Emma gritted her teeth. "The play is yours."

  "Of course." He laid down his cards. The room dropped into silence, as if they'd all been plunged suddenly into deep, cold water.

  She stared at the cards, taking in the suits, the numbers. The jack of spades and the jack of hearts were both winking at her, mocking her with knowing smiles. Throat thick with rising tears, Emma nodded. A pair, not a thrice.

  Her skin burned as she carefully tilted her cards and placed them flat on the glossy wood. "A running flush," she whis­pered, and the cries of the gentlemen around her pierced straight through her skull.

  "I say, Marsh, that was outrageous."

  "Scurrilous. You should be ashamed."

  "She may have won the hand, but that is the end of her."

  "Disgusting."

  "Unthinkable."

  She ignored it all, staring into her opponent's cold eyes as she carefully opened her reticule and began dropping handfuls of coin in.

  Well done, he mouthed, but his congratulations ended on a sneer. Emma smiled back and tugged the cord of her bag closed. Triumph and relief twisted through her, though they felt strangely like acid, burning her lungs, heating her skin. She took a deep breath, then another. The terrible words around her began to fade. She smiled more genuinely as she stood. No one pulled out her chair.

  She turned to leave and within a few feet, found herself face-to-face with a very pale Mr. Jones. Emma inclined her head, but he seemed frozen. Nodding to let him know that she understood, she started to pass around him and was shocked when his arm appeared, hovering just under her hand.

  "You needn't do this," she murmured.

  He shook his head. "I escorted you in. I shall escort you out as well."

  "Thank you."

  As they neared a door, Emma caught sight of two ele­gantly dressed ladies. They turned their backs as she passed; word had spread already. She forced herself not to care. She did not know these people and they did not know her.

  "I shall take my leave," she informed Mr. Jones, and tried to walk more quickly toward the stairway, but his arm held her back.

  "Do not hurry as if you are fleeing. Leave with dignity."

  "With what dignity?"

  He glanced toward her. "I never thought of your gaming as a shameful thing."

  "Until now?"

  He was too much a gentleman to answer. Another lady turned her back. A younger woman stepped back and re­treated into a doorway as Emma swept past.

  "Just take me to the door, Mr. Jones. Do not wait with me."

  "Nonsense."

  She ordered her cloak from the butler. A footman went to signal her driver. When Emma dared to turn, she found dozens of pairs of eyes focused on her. They looked down from the landing of the first floor. She offered them all a curtsy, then closed her eyes as Mr. Jones swept her cloak around her shoulders.

  "I shall wait outside."

  He followed her, stubborn boy.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  His eyes no longer met hers, his head tilted down toward the pale stone of the walk. "I had thought . . ." An icy breeze blew his hair awry and made him shiver. "I had thought perhaps your wildness would grow tempered with time. You are enjoying your first weeks in London, I know. And I. . . My income is respectable. My uncle holds an old title."

  "Mr. Jones—"

  "I'd even taken the step of trying to locate your family, to make inquiries . .."

  Her sympathy froze to shock. "You what?"

  "I wished to make the acquaintance of your family, in order to—"

  "My father is dead."

  "Yes, I am sorry. Terribly sorry. But I had thought to—"

  "You could have asked me. Why did you . . . ? To whom did you write?"

  He looked utterly confused. "I am sorry, Lady Denmore. I wasn't sure. You are still in half mourning. I did not think it appropriate to press my suit until the summer."

  "Whom did you contact?"

  "The local magistrate. A Mr. Bromley."

  Wheels crunched somewhere to her left. Turning, Emma watched as the hired carriage stopped a few feet away. The driver hopped down and opened the door.

  Emma unlocked her jaw. "I apologize for this evening. You will excuse me? I have a private dinner to attend."

  When the carriage door closed, Mr. Jones still stood there, staring down, arms crossed to hold off the cold. Emma did not know what to do, so she let the coach move on toward Osbourne's home.

  When another vehicle rolled past, turning into the Tun­witty's drive, Emma glanced out in time to see the golden, outstretched wings of a solemn hawk flying through the night. The Somerhart hawk on the Somerhart crest. The duke's carriage had arrived.

  Emma let her head fall to her hands. She breathed in the sharp metal scent of dirty coin and thanked God that she had left so quickly. She had shamed him, and he would never forgive her. And suddenly she felt very afraid.

  Chapter 16

  "Must you leave so early? It is only past twelve," Lady Osbourne insisted.

  Osbourne placed a hand on his wife's arm. "Let her go to her tables. The girl has a gift. We mustn't stifle it."

  "Oh, you are encouraging her to be a dreadful gambler, Osbourne. Hush."

  Emma smiled at them and told herself she really must rise from the warm comfort of the fire and be gone. No gam­bling tonight, but there were preparations to be made. And she felt odd, not herself, but her lethargy was part of the oddness as well. She felt pulled down, heavy and weary.

  The Osbournes continued their affectionate bickering. She would miss them so much. Her uncle had told her that theirs had not been a love match; in fact, they'd quite hated each other for several years. But after the birth of their first child, a daughter, something had changed for them. Animos­ity had been transformed to love, and it had lasted for forty years now.

  Lady Osbourne could no longer travel comfortably to their country house. Three days in a carriage caused her hip to ache terribly for weeks on end, so Lord Osbourne had given up his months of hunting in the north, and they stayed in London all year. Together.

  Emma sighed, knowing she could not leave with just a casual farewell. She'd come to care deeply for them.

  "Actually," she started, "I will be leaving town. Tomorrow, I think."

  "Oh," Lady Osbourne gasped, "but you will be back in time for our ball, won't you? It's the first ball after Easter and I intend for it to be a complete crush."

  "I. . . No, I'm afraid I won't be back for the ball. In fact, I will have to miss the Season entirely. You must—" Emma paused to think how much to say. "I'm afraid I created quite a scandal earlier. You may wish to disavow my presence here this evening."

  Lord Osbourne huffed. "We will disavow you entirely if it suits us, but it will not. Now what is this nonsense about quitting town for the whole Season?"

  "Oh, it is your wardrobe, isn't it?" his wife cried. "Every­thing is so dreadfully expensive. You must stay with us, dear girl. There is no need to waste money on your own apart­ments; we have fifteen empty chambers here! Stay with us and we will see to your dresses."

  Emma held up both hands. "No, no. I cannot. It is not my lack of funds, or not entirely. And it's not even my dis­grace, though that would be enough. It's clear that my nerves cannot take the gaiety and energy of the Season. Why, even the winter rounds have me tired beyond belief. No, I will retire to the country for the summer. I'm afraid that Den­more passed his passion for gardening on to me."

  Lady Osbourne did not give up. "But we have gardens here!"

  Emma shook her head, and Lord Osbourne exchanged a meaningful look with his wife before he reached for Emma's hand.

  "We will miss you. You have become as a daughter to us. You must promise to return in the fall to stay here. We are old enough to del
ight in scandal as we no longer create any of our own."

  Lady Osbourne slapped his arm and giggled like a young girl.

  "Nothing public at any rate," he said with a raised brow.

  Emma smiled past her tightening throat. "Thank you so much. Your friendship has meant everything to me. Every­thing. Please remember that."

  She rose to her feet and was enveloped in the plump arms of Lady Osbourne. After long hugs and several motherly kisses, Emma was free to go, but her feet felt heavy as she descended to the drive.

  She'd arrived in London already anticipating her tri­umphant exit, and now that it was time to leave she couldn't quite imagine it. She would be an impostor in her next life too, though she'd be pretending at respectability instead of worldliness. But the effect would be the same. She would be lonely, without real friends. But everything would be better soon. It must be.

  "Where to, ma'am?" her driver asked as he handed her up. Emma tripped over her skirt and fell hard into the seat.

  "I don't. . ." Where was she going? Home, she supposed, but she remembered Hart's carriage. He'd arrived at the Tun­witty's in the full force of the drama she'd created. He would have been furious. More than furious. Enraged. And he might very well have gone straight to her home, might be there still. Waiting.

  "Ma'am?"

  But she had nowhere to go. She could not damage Lan­caster's chances of finding a wife by driving up to his front step like a whore making her rounds.

  "Drive to my street, but not to my door. Turn 'round the corner and stop there."

  "Ma'am." He tipped his hat and betrayed not an ounce of incredulity as he closed the door and shut her up in darkness.

  Her weary body urged her to lie down on her seat, to lay her head on her arms and curl her legs beneath warm skirts. But if she gave in now, she was sure she would dissolve into a useless mass of jelly, weak and unsure of herself. So she kept her spine rigid and did not let it touch the seatback as they passed from the hulking luxury of the mansions of Regent's Park to the beautiful rows of Mayfair. Somerhart lived here, in the heart of the fashionable district. She won­dered idly how many properties he owned, and which one he would bury her on, given the chance.

  They turned a corner, and the bright lights of Mayfair fell behind them. St. James now, then Belgrave. And finally her street.

  Her shoulders grew tighter, froze to rock when the coach leaned around a corner before rocking to a stop. Emma eased toward the window, squinting into the night. A light drizzle began to patter against the glass, obscuring her view. She could just make out her door and there was no fuming duke standing before it.

  But he could be inside, he could be in his carriage watch­ing for her, he could be careening through the streets right this moment, racing toward her home. Shivers raced from her belly outward.

  It hadn't been Hart who'd betrayed her. She could no longer pretend to ease her guilt with his transgressions. He'd been unfailingly honest with her, and she had lied at every turn. But he was a rich, powerful, degenerate duke, so why should she care?

  Her lonely door shone wet in the faint light of the corner lamp. How sad it looked, and censuring. She would walk out that door tomorrow and disappear. Hart would never know anything about her but her lies. She would leave him with nothing but humiliation. She wanted to leave him with more, wanted more for herself.

  If he was in there, waiting, she owed him this confrontation at least. The chance to call her every foul name he could. The chance to vent his hurt. And he would be hurt.

  She should go in. She should.

  There was nowhere else to go.

  Her hand moved toward the handle, then the carriage dipped to one side and she heard the driver yell, "Hey!"

  Emma's heart stopped as the far door swung open. She cringed into the corner, not certain what Hart would do, but fearing it all the same.

  Then a little face popped into view. "Stimp?"

  "Get off my damn carriage, you worthless rat!" the driver yelled.

  Stimp jumped inside, demanding, "And where've you been?"

  The box rocked from side to side as the driver began to descend.

  "It's fine," Emma called. "This rat is known to me."

  Stimp's jaw edged out. "Yer in big trouble."

  "Being paid to spy on me again?"

  "Oh, not just that. I'm to send for him when I see you. The man's furious."

  "Yes, I know."

  "And he seemed quite drunk by the time he left off wait­ing in his shiny carriage. Murder in 'is eyes."

  Somehow just knowing made Emma feel bolder. "Drunk and murderous and you mean to scurry off and bring him straight to my door?"

  The stubborn chin inched up. "Can you pay me better?"

  "Perhaps."

  "But you'll pay me once and then not at all. I'm practi­cally on His Grace's payroll." He shrugged, conveying his sympathy but no regret.

  Emma turned away to stare again at the sad door that led to her sad little home. Hart was furious. And drunk. And determined to make her pay.

  The shivers in Emma's belly intensified until she felt she couldn't breathe. She'd made her decision. She could finally afford to be foolish.

  "No need to inform him, Stimp. I'll find him myself."

  His little face scrunched up. "I don't believe you."

  Emma pulled off her soiled gloves and tossed them onto the opposite seat. "Believe me or not, but I'll not sit here and wait to be cornered. Now out of my carriage. If the man wants a fight, he'll get it."

  He could not believe it, even hours later.

  Scandalous as she was—defiant and reckless and sensual—Hart could not believe she'd offered up her body in a bet.

  He told himself she hadn't meant it and wouldn't have fol­lowed through with it. Hell, Hart wouldn't have let her. But that did not change the fact that she'd publicly offered her­self to another man as she'd refused Hart even a hint of pri­vate affection.

  We are not nice, she'd said. "No," Hart growled to the empty library, "we are not nice. Not anymore."

  The tenderness he'd begun to feel, the dreaded caring, had been pushed down into his gut, condensed into a burning, writhing knot of hatred. He was doing his best to drown it, but liquor was flammable, after all.

  Hart clenched his fingers tighter around the leaded crys­tal in his hands. The scrapes on his knuckles burned like fire when a little bourbon sloshed over the side of the glass and dribbled over his fingers. That bastard Marsh had had it coming. Hart wished he'd gotten more than two blows in before the other gentlemen had intervened. They'd claimed it wasn't fair to continue beating an unconscious man. Hart had loudly disagreed.

  Despite that he was alone, Hart growled several heartfelt curses before he tossed back the last of the bourbon and reached for the bellpull.

  He knew he'd only made the whole thing worse by con­fronting Marsh. He realized now that it would have been a simple thing to imply that he and Emma had severed their friendship long before. Then there would only have been nods of sympathy and a few congratulations at having the wisdom to cut Lady Denmore loose. But there had been no thinking for Hart. There had only been blind, howling fury, prodded on by unexpected pain.

  "Your Grace?"

  "This bottle's empty."

  "Sir." His butler bowed from the room and returned within seconds. Hart was thinking that the man must be a god of anticipation, but then he noticed that his hands were empty.

  "Now, Morton."

  "Of course, Your Grace. But the footman informs me you have a visitor."

  Hart blinked, and even he could tell that his eyelids were moving slowly. "Stimp?"

  "No, sir, a Lady Denmore. Shall I see her in?"

  He blinked even more slowly this time as he tried to think past the bourbon and nod at the same time. Was there some other Lady Denmore? It could not be Emma. She wouldn't be so foolish. He felt a sudden fear for what he might do to her if she walked through those doors, and then she walked through and Hart's lethargy vanishe
d.

  The liquor burned off in the heat of his rage. He pushed to his feet with no trouble at all and no hint of unsteadi­ness. Emma stared at him, unafraid, and Hart felt a smile twist his lips. She should be afraid. She should be terrified.

  "What have we here?" He looked her over, taking in the lovely amber-gold dress that made her skin glow like cream pearl. Her breasts were pushed high, her waist cinched tight He'd never seen her look more beautiful. "A foolish lamb."

  "You are the lion, I assume?"

  "Oh, I am."

  Morton had closed the door behind her and she still stood only a few feet from it. She seemed surrounded by a soft gold aura against the dark wood of his library. Her hair picked up the color of her dress in streaks of lighter brown.

  She took a deep breath. Her breasts rose, straining against the bodice. "I was told you sought me out, Your Grace."

  "And you obliged by coming to me?"

  "I did."

  "Emma," he sighed in mock empathy. "Tut-tut. That was an incredibly stupid thing to do."

  She crossed her arms over her stomach. "How so? I assume that you wish to chastise me for my behavior."

  Hart cocked his head and strolled across the wide room, drawing closer in slow increments that inched his blood toward a boil. "Is that what you assumed?" Her arms tight­ened. "That I wished to chastise you? How very naive, Emma. I am not your guardian to offer wisdom and guidance. I am not your father. I don't wish to chastise you, Emma."

  He drew within a foot of her, and watched her breathing grow fast and shallow. "I wish . . ." Her eyes followed his hand as he raised it to drag one finger along her collarbone. "I wish to punish you."

  She inhaled. The tops of her breasts brushed his knuckles. "I've done nothing .. . You have no right."

  "Oh, my sweet." He traced a path along the edge of the straining fabric. "If I did not have the right, you wouldn't have come here."