A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  Chapter 19

  The silence of the church contracted around him, squeez­ing Matthew's heart until he began to weep. Tears spattered against his folded hands.

  That mad constable had finally let him go, but Emily had disappeared again. All that searching and suffering and he had gained nothing but a terrible fear of confined spaces. He had not repaired his soul, had not brought her to God.

  Reverend Whittier had welcomed him home with a sym­pathetic embrace and stern words. If you still lust for her, you cannot enter the service of the church with this sin on your soul. If you cannot make it right with the young woman, you must pray for forgiveness. Pray for your very life.

  And so he had. Every day, every night. His knees had long since given up working properly. His neck ached with strain. But Matthew did not stop. Either God would remove this hunger from his body, or he would offer a miracle and return Emily to her rightful place.

  "Mr. Matthew, sir?" a small voice said.

  He raised his head and stared up at the statue of Christ. "You are never to disturb me during prayer."

  "I'm sorry, sir," the maid stammered, voice echoing around the chapel. "Your father bade me fetch you. Some­one has arrived from London. A gentleman."

  When he spun toward her, the girl backed away. "From London?"

  She nodded and added in a whisper, "In a crested car­riage, sir."

  Matthew lurched past her, limping as fast as he could toward the doors. His miracle. His miracle was here.

  The black carriage seemed an enormous beast lounging in front of his father's home. The gold crest shone in the sun, glinting danger and decadence. Matthew didn't bother studying it; he was a simple man of God. He knew nothing of great names or family crests. He only knew this man must have something to do with Emily.

  He rushed through the door, letting it slam into the far wall. Three faces turned toward him from the parlor. His father, his sister, and some man who looked like Satan in his most beautiful disguise. That face was like a sculpture of a Greek god. Perfect and cold and frighteningly confident.

  Matthew shivered.

  "Matthew," his father said as the stranger rose from his seat. "This man is the Duke of Somerhart. He is here about Emily."

  Emily, Emily. His mind spun, sending all his thoughts into useless disarray. "Where is she?" he finally managed to croak.

  His cow of a sister gasped his name and his father paled, but Matthew only stared at them in confusion. What did they want from him? "Where is she? Shall I fetch her home? This is her home, you know. We are to be married. There's no time to waste. I—"

  His father took a step forward. "Matthew, show your re­spect."

  Propriety? This was what worried them? Matthew waved an impatient hand, but when he looked to the visitor, he re­alized his terrible mistake. Their worry had nothing to do with propriety and everything to do with the menacing power in those impossibly pale eyes.

  Matthew dropped into a deep bow. "Your Grace," he rasped, picturing that devil gaze, wondering if he would be haunted by it in his dreams. The man looked perfectly capa­ble of murder.

  "As I was saying . . ." The duke's voice had turned away, so Matthew felt it safe to rise from the bow. They had all seated themselves, though his sister fanned herself and shot terrified glances in Matthew's direction. He limped over to join the discussion.

  The duke's smooth voice held little emotion. "I do not know where she is, but I have something I wish to return to her. I am hoping you can assist."

  "You mean to find her?" Matthew blurted, then swal­lowed his breath when the man glanced at him.

  His question was ignored, but Matthew had found his miracle. This man, this duke with all the power of England behind him, he would find Emily. And he would deliver her right into her rightful husband's arms.

  Hart wanted to leave this place, jump into his carriage and move on. He'd passed her uncle's home at the edge of town. The wreckage had never been razed, the pristine white "Jensen" sign at the gate stood in morbid contrast to the piles of bricks and ruined wood.

  She was only nineteen, the solicitor had said. Eighteen when her uncle died and alone in the world with only a pit­tance for income. Eighteen when she had first arrived in London.

  The ninth Baron Denmore had run the entailed estate into the ground and sold off all unattached lands. He'd killed his only heir and so the title had rescinded to his uncle, but there had been no income to funnel to maintenance, no money to pay servants. Her great-uncle had inherited an im­poverished title and crumbling estate. He'd wisely chosen to stay in his own home.

  Hart had felt already overwhelmed with the story of the Denmores, and now these people, the Bromley family, sit­ting pale and frightened before him, and the young man, Matthew. Hart gritted his teeth.

  Emma had claimed to be afraid of him, and Hart believed it now. The boy was pale and far too thin, his blond hair lank and in need of washing. Sickly as he seemed, his eyes burned with life. Hate and lust and conviction. The sister seemed afraid, the father resigned. And by the solicitor's account, Emma had lived here for months after her uncle's death.

  "I understand that you took her in after the fire."

  "We did!" the sister, Catherine, blurted. "She had no one else and we thought . . ." She glanced toward Matthew. "Well, we thought perhaps she would remain with us."

  "We were to be married," Matthew said firmly.

  Hart raised an eyebrow. "There was a betrothal?"

  "Ye—"

  "Not a formal one," the father interrupted, "no. But Emma was like family to us."

  Hart stiffened at the sound of her name. He'd thought that a lie too. All the documents had named her Emily. "Emma?" he heard himself say. "I understood her given name was Emily."

  The sister nodded. "Yes, but she preferred Emma. Matthew was the only one who called her Emily."

  "It is her given name," Matthew insisted, his tone making clear he had argued this point many times. "To use it is to honor her mother and father."

  A weight lifted from Hart's shoulders. It made no sense, changed nothing, and yet it did. Her name was Emma, just as she'd said. Hart felt pitiful in his relief, but so much lighter as he pressed on. "But she had plans to go to London?"

  "No," Matthew barked. "She had plans to marry me." "And yet she did not."

  "She was quite upset after her uncle's death. She lost her way, that is all. She only needs leading back."

  Temper clenched Hart's hands into fists. "Yes," he ground out. "I understand you did your best to lead her back from London. By whatever means necessary. Mr. Bromley." He turned back to the father. "I find I would prefer speaking with you alone. Would that be possible?"

  The sister sprang immediately to her feet, dropping a curtsy before she'd even managed to rise to her full height. "A pleasure, Your Grace," she chirped, then rushed from the room.

  Matthew stayed seated until his father cleared his throat. Then he shuffled from the room under muttered protest.

  "My apologies, Your Grace," Mr. Bromley said. "My son is . . ." He gave up with a shrug.

  "As magistrate, you undoubtedly know of the trouble Matthew could face if he returns to London. Or if he contin­ues to harass Miss Jensen. I would feel conscience-bound to turn him over to the authorities."

  "Yes. Of course. I. . . They were friends once, truly. But when she refused his hand . . . He does care for her."

  "As do you."

  "Yes. I thought she would be my daughter, and I was glad for it. She was a quiet girl when she moved to this village. Watchful. But a good niece to her uncle. Devoted to him. Always puttering with him in his gardens.

  "But after he died, she changed. Grew restless and ner­vous. Almost as if. . ."

  Hart waited as the older man rubbed his forehead.

  "I can't explain it. She would not answer sometimes when I spoke to her. It was as if she were already gone away. I knew then that she would not stay here, regardless what we all hoped."

  "And one da
y she hopped the coach to London?"

  "No, she left our home after a few months. Boarded with the miller for a time. We did not find out she'd gone from there until days later. She said she was moving back to Den­more, but Matthew found no sign of her there, and no evi­dence of the cousin she'd mentioned to the miller's wife.

  "In truth, she'd run off and did not mean to be found."

  Hart nodded and frowned. He was no closer to her now than he'd been in London. She was not here and clearly meant not to come back. "So she has no family at Denmore. And the new baron says he does not know her."

  "Yes, I understand the title went to a distant cousin. He was taken by surprise."

  "And you have no other ideas? No guesses? It's quite im­portant that I find her."

  The man's gaze fell away and shifted slowly about the room. Finally, with a long look of caution toward the archway that led to the hall, Mr. Bromley leaned forward. "I had thought," he whispered, "before Matthew found her in London . . . I'd thought she might have gone to the Yorkshire coast."

  Sparks tingled over Hart's skin. The feel of the truth again, rare as it was. Lancaster had mentioned Scarborough and the sea. He made his voice as mild as possible. "Why Yorkshire?"

  "I took Emma fishing once, in the stream behind that forest there. And she spoke of the water. How much she loved the sea. Her mother took her to Scarborough every summer when she was a girl." He looked again toward the hallway and leaned closer. "I never told Matthew," he added needlessly.

  Scarborough. Yorkshire. Not the most narrow of direc­tions, but it was better than searching the whole damned civ­ilized world.

  Chapter 20

  The tilled ground was soft and unbelievably rich, and the wind from the ocean often warmer than she expected. Al­ready, tiny sprouts were beginning to peek through the dirt, protected by the hay she'd spread the week before.

  Emma felt blessed whenever she stood here in her own garden, at the side of her own home. She could see the pale blue haze of the sea, just a glimmering line above the edge of the cliffs.

  She'd found exactly what she'd wanted. She'd put the land agent on notice months ago, let him know exactly what she needed and where. He'd recommended four properties; she hadn't looked farther than the second.

  It was perfect. Beautiful and quiet. Everything she'd ever wanted. Until the sun set and closed her up alone in her lovely cottage.

  Emma brushed a hand over the waist of her dress, still tossed between desperate relief and a strange yearning. She'd taken the precautions recommended by the herb woman, and Hart had taken his own precautions. She'd trem­bled with relief when she'd felt the first of her monthly cramps, but she'd also felt the distinct concussion of a door slamming shut on her past. All of it.

  Emma Jensen was gone. As was Emily. And the false Lady Denmore. She was now, simply, the Widow Kern. As false as Lady Denmore, but so very, very different.

  She dug her spade hard into the dirt and wondered how different she really was. Her lust for Hart hadn't faded. That night with him had unlocked all those horrid desires that she feared. And yet. . .

  It wasn't exactly what she'd feared. She wanted things from him, fantasized and dreamed about the promises of future pleasure he'd made. Her body roused itself at the mere thought of him. If she'd stayed in London she'd have been lost, just as she'd worried.

  But the wickedness seemed to stop there. She didn't find herself watching the men of her new village with need. In fact, she'd even tried to look upon them with something close to lust and had failed miserable. The shirtless young men splashing in the sea did not tempt her to anything even close to sin.

  It was just Hart.

  The salt wind snatched away her sigh, and Emma leaned her spade against the grayed wood of her cottage wall. She would have to whitewash this summer to protect it from the constant caress of the wind, but she would miss the silvery glint of the worn boards.

  Emma slipped off her apron and waved to Bess in the kitchen window. Then she headed straight for the path she'd already worn in the waving grass.

  Bess couldn't begin to understand the charm of the narrow cliff path and the stone-rough beach below. You’ ll break your neck, she'd warned countless times, but Emma thought the reward worth the risk.

  Down on that narrow strip of sand she felt free. Strange, since she couldn't walk more than two hundred yards in either direction. But the steady breeze and the cry of the gulls and the strange green scent of the air. . . it all filled her up, pushed into all the empty places inside her and made her whole. She was young again, seven years old and happy. She was safe. Loved.

  But she couldn't seem to carry that feeling back up with her. She certainly couldn't coax it inside to keep her com­pany at night.

  "This place is good," Emma whispered as she picked her way down the path. Her foot slipped on pebbles and she banged into the rough cliff face but hardly slowed at all. "My life is good," she muttered instead, determined to make it true. Soon London would be a distant memory. Hart no more than a . . . a . . .

  "A footnote," she said, tasting cruelty in the word and trying to make herself believe it.

  Something crawled over her neck. She brushed at the sen­sation, but it remained. Anxiety probably, sprung from her own guilt. She had lied and cheated and used people. Though she'd told herself that Hart was a powerful, imper­vious man of the world, there was no denying the burn of her shame. She'd hurt him, could only have hurt him more by her calculated disappearance.

  Her hand rubbed idly at the nape of her neck, but the sen­sation remained, even through the hour she spent staring out to the white-capped sea.

  He had started in Scarborough, certain that Emma would be naturally attracted to the crowds of the resorts. There was some money to be made there, trouble to find, though at this time of the year the crowds would be less flush than she was accustomed to in London. Still, perhaps the merchant classes were a livelier sort, and more easily swayed by her gentle manners. If she could manage gentle manners for any length of time. But she hadn't been in Scarborough. His week there had been entirely fruitless. He had found no trace of her, no ev­idence that she'd even passed through. Now he felt he was wandering aimlessly.

  If he did find her, he no longer knew who she'd be. She was not the woman he'd thought she was. She was a girl. A daughter, a niece. A quiet young woman remembered fondly in her village.

  She was not a widow or a vixen or a roving thief. She was not worldly or experienced. The sensual knowledge he'd rec­ognized in her had been nothing more than the echo of years spent in a den of inequity. Or that was what he hoped anyway. Hoped that she had only seen and heard.

  A sense of something misplaced would not stop taunting his brain. He'd been to Denmore's home once, a giant block of cold granite and crenellated towers, but he could remem­ber little more than an impression of dark hallways and darker guests. Whatever memories he might have retained had been jarred from his brain a few days later when he'd proposed to his lover and found devastation instead of joy.

  Vague memories aside, he was sure her childhood had been less than it should have been. First her mother had died, then her father and brother. Then she'd been sent to live with a stranger, a great-uncle she'd never met. At least it seemed she had been happy there, for a short time.

  Hart no longer knew how to hate her; he no longer knew what to feel. He only wanted to see her and . . .

  And what?

  Whenever he tried to puzzle it out, his chest hurt, his lungs froze. So he moved blindly forward, tracking a woman who meant not to be found. A woman who'd torn down everything he'd built to protect himself.

  "Only a mile more, Your Grace," the driver called back.

  Hart nodded absently, fairly certain they'd find nothing here, as they'd found nothing in the other huts and manors and cottages. Every lead seemed like a good one, every land agent perfectly sure that he'd dealt with a woman of her description. But a week of traveling up and down the coast through every village an
d hamlet had turned up two widows, several harlots, and one woman old enough to be his grand­mother.

  She wasn't here, and if she wasn't on the Yorkshire coast, then she may as well have sailed to America.

  Jesus, she probably had sailed to America. And it would take his investigators years to find her, if they ever did. A headache bloomed to life behind his left eye.

  "Just coming up on it now, sir. Shall I drive past?"

  "Yes." He pushed wearily off the seatback to look out at the view. Green grass, wind-shaped trees, the same vista he'd been studying for seven days. And then a cottage, worn but charming. Chickens pecked at the yard. Hart's eyes began to glaze over.

  The far side of the house came into view and two women bent over the furrows and hills of a garden. One of them looked like . . . He leaned closer to the door until the breeze touched his cheek. One of them looked like Bess, and the other. . .

  She wore a wide-brimmed hat and a stained apron tied at the waist. Her dress was simple and modest, blue muslin sprigged with little green leaves.

  It couldn't be her, laboring in a garden like a drover's wife. She was a baron's daughter, a gentlewoman. Then Hart re­membered the extensive plots that had surrounded the burned-out shell of her uncle's home. He remembered that Mr. Bromley had commented on her dedication to the gardens.

  But the dress and the chickens and the worn hat, and then she looked up and . . . and it was Emma. Her face trans­formed itself in an instant, from caution to intensity. She narrowed her eyes at the carriage, clearly studying its crest.

  "Stop," Hart said, and the wheels began to slow as her face settled on stark fear.

  He heard her say, "Bess." His foot touched the packed dirt lane.

  She'd dropped her little bucket of weeds and was moving toward the back of the house when he snapped the carriage door closed. That froze her in her tracks.

  Hart's emotions were held strangely at bay. He felt every inch the impervious lord as he walked toward her. Impene­trable and heartless. "I've been looking for you for weeks, Emma. Now I get the feeling you are about to claim you're not receiving visitors."