The Emperor had invaded peaceful little Portugal via his new ally Spain in November 1807. England had quickly sought to defend their oldest, and only remaining ally in Europe, once it was clear just how much of a spirited resistance the Portuguese were willing to put up to liberate themselves from the detested French.
Though Michael had written home fairly regularly, and they had seen him home on leave once or twice in the early days, once their other brother Robert had been killed at Cuidad Roderigo, Michael had never come back. In a grimly ironic twist of fate, Michael had been killed in the very last battle of the Peninsular war, Toulouse, in April 1814.
Ever since then, Randall had lived his life like a ship without a rudder, directionless, idle, without purpose, He had grown more and more debauched in an effort to feel something, anything, other than the crushing grief and guilt every time he thought of how he was still alive, when so many other better men had died....
When would the burning in the pit of his belly every time he thought of the past ever stop? Would he ever live a normal life, with a proper family, a wife, children of his very own?
"Surely there has to be some woman in the world that could love me, flawed though I am. A woman whom I could love to distraction?" he murmured as he refreshed the compress on his mother's brow.
"Love. I would give anything to experience it again. But I would even settle for admire, if I could ever trust any woman, after, well, after everything that's happened...."
"But no woman can be trusted. They're all false, faithless. All except you Mother, and now you're leaving me too." He sighed bitterly and stroked her once-raven hair back from her brow tenderly before planting a kiss there.
He longed to down a glass or two of brandy, anything to stop feeling the regret for just a moment. But he needed to keep a clear head in case his mother required him, and these days liquor was no longer an escape for him, but just another problem that needed to be coped with.
He couldn't remember the last time he had slept through the night. Couldn't even recall the last time he had had a serious itch in his loins. Perhaps he was well and truly growing up at last, when his todger no longer did the thinking for him.
But then, it never really had. He had made a conscious decision to never get closer to any woman than a quick futter. It had been fun, power, the excitement of the hunt. The thrill of his own superiority, the women thinking they had gulled him, yet being gulled themselves.
They had been so sure that their allure had enticed him beyond prudence. That their honeypots had well and truly mired him like a greedy insect.
He had determined early on never to wed, never to be so indiscriminate or out of control that he could ever be held to account for any by-blow. But then, he recalled grimly, he had made this decision after he had caught the childhood sweetheart he had worshipped to distraction swiving another man.
A great deal had changed since then, he knew, but the memories still jarred in his breast with all the force of a hammer blow. He clamped his hand over his mouth to stem the tide of his rising gorge and rushed to the water carafe.
He drank some thirstily before rinsing his mouth and spitting out into the basin. He shook his head. Damnation. The choices we make... And think with the glorious arrogance of youth that they are going to be the right ones.
"But I was wrong, so wrong. God help me. If I lose you, Mother, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do," he sighed aloud, before draining the glass.
He looked around the lovely room, and knew what his father would have urged as his duty. Randall might be willing to wed if there were a woman he could tolerate being with for more than a dance or two.
But the only women of that sort he had met so far were already married, and he did not hold with adultery in any form. Now that he was Earl, he and any children he had would have to be beyond reproach.
He had known many women, mainly professionals. But never had he trespassed against any man in the way he had been, and he never would. The trouble was, the new crop of debutantes who were as innocent as newborn lambs, were also about as intelligent as sheep as well.
Most of them only ever talked of balls and clothes. Or each other, gossiping viciously. As for the on the shelf brigade, well, there had to be more to life than consorting with the old tabbies to pick over each other's bones.
Especially since the hags of the Town were so happy to continually pick over his. They acted as though it were a personal affront to them that he had never married.
The last time he had been in London, prior to the devastating deaths that had rocked his family, he had been excessive, he had to admit, rather rampant even for him.
He had allowed himself to make free with the delights the wanton women of the Town had to offer. The Society dames had been hearing about his supposed exploits ever since, for the tales got ever more sensational and salacious with the retelling.
They should really know the truth about him: that he had raked and raked to try to feel something, anything, even pleasure.
But it had been elusive no matter how lustily he had sought it out. No, he simply had to face the truth. He had experienced nothing more than a slight physical release, such as one might feel after a sneeze, ever since he had murdered his brother.
And now Randall had to face the even more grim fact that if he had not killed him, Francis would be the Earl now, not himself.
The knowledge burning in his breast was almost too much to bear. He resisted the temptation of the decanter, and wrung out the cloth to put it back on his mother's brow only by the greatest act of willpower.
As he sat, Randall looked around the room grimly, thinking what a gilded cage he had built for himself. He should have had the courage to cut himself off from his family years ago as penance over what he had done.
But he had continued to be the favoured son, though he had done nothing to earn it other than be blandly charming to his parents and go about his merry way painting his watercolours and copulating with any bit of skirt he fancied. Still they had indulged him.
What he had really wanted was for them to put their foot down the way they had with his brother Michael. Anything to show they cared, that they thought he could do something with his life. That they had had a bit of faith in him.
But no, he had gambled, drunk, and whored, and they had waited for him to mature. Waited all this time, until now, when it was almost too late.
Well, he had certainly grown up now, he thought with a sigh, stroking the cloth over his mother's fevered brow once more.
As a punishment, he tried to remember what his former fiance had looked like. Had Clarissa really been worth all of the agony and disappointment?
He recalled her pale blond hair like spun gold, her rigid posture, her frosty demeanour toward him most of the time, most especially when he had displeased her. Which had been more and more sudden and increasingly often at the end.
Almost every time they saw each other, in fact, until that fateful day he had found her in his brother's arms keening like a banshee as he had stoked her in the stables like the strumpet she was.
Oh, Clarissa had been beautiful, everyone had had to grant her that. But like an ice queen, so rigid and cool that he might as well have tried to make love to a bronze statue. Even her pale grey eyes, like steel, had reminded him of daggers, sharp and cold. Deadly. Except when Francis had been between her thighs....
He flung the cloth into the basin and pressed his hands together to stop them shaking. Why was he thinking about this now, of all times? Sometimes day could pass without him feeling the crushing sense of guilt, though he knew it was always just below the surface, always in his dreams.
Randall straightened his shoulders and told himself to stop feeling so sorry for himself. He had everything most people ever dreamed of. He had a fortune, title, magnificent home, choices. Why pine for what he couldn't have?
He rose to fluff his mother's pillow, and tidied the table once more. He dusted off his clothing, making sure he h
ad not got anything all over himself when he'd tried to feed his mother some supper. If only she would eat....
He squared his shoulders, and thought aloud, "The hell with it. Duty be damned for one night."
He decided to to enjoy himself this evening with the Cytherean, even if it was all just a bet. He was too tired for anything else but the little game of cat and mouse, but he would enjoy a small diversion from his gloomy thoughts. He'd get a bit of a tiddle, and that would be that.
The last thing he wanted was to think of the chilling Clarissa, for that would mean reminding himself too of his furious jealousy, her betrayal, the murder he had committed, and the irrevocable break up of the family he had adored.
He knew he'd been young, only eighteen, but his age had been no excuse. Murder was murder. It had left his family in ruins and set him on the cinder path which he now traveled, with never a moment's peace from that day to this.
He felt the bitter regret sear him, and rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. If he just focused on the girl, maybe it would be all right. Perhaps if he stopped dwelling on things that couldn't be changed, he might be able to feel more than a tiny hiccup in his loins.
Amongst his friends the Rakehells, there were some wonderful amateur actors. He too would play a role, just to leave his own grim self behind.
Tonight he would be dashing and debonair. For a while at least he would be able to pretend that he was proud to be the new Earl of Hazelmere. That he was the toast of London society for his education and accomplishments, as Michael had been, not for his legendary skills in the bedroom and at the gaming tables. Both were exaggerated legends, but like all legends, growing greater with each passing day, and night.
He would pretend that his father had not died in disgrace. Viscount Linley, who had exposed Randall's father so cruelly, had already paid for his role in the whole sorry affair, he recalled with grim satisfaction, though it had not been through no fault of Randall's own.
Randall was ashamed that he needed to remind himself of his self-appointed duty to see who had really been responsible for the crime the former earl had been publicly accused of. The accursed bastard who had lied, falsified papers, would pay one way or the other, of that he was sure. As soon as his mother was better, he would...
IF she got better, the nagging little voice inside his head reminded him quellingly.
He took a deep, steadying breath, winded at the very idea of losing her too. These recollections were all too grim. Randall didn't want to remember. It might well be the anniversary of his appalling crime, but that was no reason to dwell on all his errors...
Ah, THAT was it, he thought, heaving a trembling sigh of relief. Today was exactly ten years since the anniversary of poor Francis' death. That was what had no doubt triggered off this painful period of self-examination, he decided as he adjusted his cuffs.
But he needed oblivion now, not recollection. He flashed himself another smile, then forced himself to do better. He sighed, and re-tied his cravat. This pointless wool-gathering was not going to get anything done, and his companion for the evening would no doubt be here soon.
He stepped over to the door to call down the hall to the timid little maid whose turn it was to keep vigil by his mother's side. She hurried inside, bobbed a curtsey, and shut the door behind her.
He explained all he had done, and asked if she would try again to get her to take some soup. At the end of his instructions, he said, "I shall be downstairs in the small blue drawing room. Have Hopkins summon me immediately if there's any change."
"Yes, sir." She bobbed again like a timid jenny wren.
Randall stooped to kiss his mother's cheek, and reluctantly began to head for the door. Had just about reached it when there was a tap from the other side.
"Come."
Hopkins peered around the door, wearing what for him was a most peculiar expression, Randall noted.
"What is it, Hopkins?" he asked almost impatiently, for if his mother was as well as could be expected, so far as he could see, why did his butler look as though another tragedy had just befallen them?
"Excuse me sir, but there's a young lady to see you. Miss Drake. Downstairs in the blue drawing room, as you asked."
"Thank you, Hopkins. I'll be down in a moment."
Randall adjusted his cuffs again and checked himself in one of the gilt rococo mirrors which flanked each door in the long corridor.
"Let's get this over with," he murmured, anticipating an all too easy victory against Tubby Barnet, and an even more disappointing futter with the wench, whom Hopkins was clearly balking at ever even letting into the house. THAT bad, was she? Then Tubby and the other men at the club were damned fools.
He fixed his best smile on his face, though inside he was cold with dread. He noted his eyes, lapis blue, and just as stony. A few of his past lovers had said he had a heart of stone, that he was unable to care about anyone other than himself.
He laughed bitterly at the very idea. If only they knew. He felt so little, because he felt too keenly. If only he hadn't cared about Clarissa and his family so much. If only his youthful lusts hadn't allowed him to be ensnared by the faithless woman he had once thought he loved.
He had murdered his own brother to have her all to himself, and destroyed his own life and his whole family in the process. Clarissa had fled from him in terror so far as he could ever understand any of her actions, for he had never seen her again after that fateful day. She had eloped with yet another man, making fools of them all.
He had killed Francis for nothing, and had been seeking love and redemption fruitlessly as a result ever since.
Didn't care? he thought with a wry twist of his lips as he descended the stairs to get the rest of the evening over with. He only wished he could stop bleeding inwardly from his shredded heart....
Chapter Three
Randall headed downstairs, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the intimate blue drawing room briskly. He held out his hand and took hers in a lingering caress. "My dear Miss Drake. Delighted."
Their bare hands tingled together. Her shocked gaze flew to his face.
Isolde gaped. This was the Earl of Hazelmere? She had expected a much older man. The position was supposed to be looking after the Lady of the house, after all. A mother, she wondered wildly, or perhaps a wife?
Yet the ad had implied an older woman....
There had to be a wife, she thought with an uncharacteristic stab of jealousy, and a string of lovers a mile long. A man like him, well....
She'd never seen a man of such physical beauty. She tried to recollect what she knew of the family. Avenel. Avenel.... The youngest son a rake of the first order by all accounts. Was this him?!
Drat. She always felt so angry around predatory men, a result of all the work she had done to help fallen women at her cousin's clinic. They were all victims of men just like this spectacularly seductive one.
As she stared at him with wide-eyed wonder, however, she had to admit with grudging admiration that she could see why women were prepared to risk, or even surrender, their virtue to be with a man such as the Earl of Hazelmere.
His elegant brow, fine aquiline nose, lush lips, dimpled chin, looked as though they had been carved in marble by a sculptor intent upon absolute classical perfection.
His elegant cheek bones and slightly golden complexion conveyed the impression of a man in the prime of youth and health who loved the outdoors. His wide dark blue eyes, thickly lashed and slightly tilted in the outer corners, gave him the look of a man of the world, all seeing, all knowing, though certainly not very impressed with what he saw.
He towered over her own tall height of five feet five by nearly another foot so far as she could tell. The breadth of his shoulders in his magnificently tailored black evening jacket was most impressive. He seemed so larger than life, she wondered how he managed to fit though the portal. His vast thighs, the way his trousers molded to him, he was all male from top to toe, a rake of the first order. He
was the kind of man she had been warned about ever since she had come out of short skirts, and the LAST man she should EVER be alone in the same room with.
What had Chauncey been thinking? But the post had been advertised, and she had an interview for the morrow. She would just say she had wanted to be sure of the address, and leave, ostensibly to return on the morrow, and never come back...
Yet as she stared at him, the excuses which had come bubbling to her lips remained unspoken. He towered over her, cowing her into silence, making her quiver with the most undefinable emotions.
She looked up at his snowy white shirt and stock, the silver brocade waistcoat and matching cravat. The only thing marring his perfect evening garb was the absence of gloves on his huge and capable but also very sensitive-looking hands. Other than that, he was so splendid, she was sure he would have put Beau Brummel to shame.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection #4 Page 3
