To Recapture a Rake: A Hephaestus Club Novella

by Christine Merrill

  This was greeted with silence, but his grasp on her arm gentled, though he continued to propel her forward, to a wooden gazebo surrounded by carefully trimmed shrubbery. Once they were inside, he pulled her forward, into his arms and murmured, “It was never my intent to hurt you.”

  “Intent does not matter,” she said weakly. “The damage is done. There is nothing that will make me whole again, in the eyes of society.”

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But society can be damned. In my eyes, you are an angel and far too good for me.” Then he pulled her fully into his arms and kissed her.

  As it had at the theater, it felt wonderful. Familiar. Right. His arms wrapped around her body, taking the night chill away. She snuggled into them, letting her fingers trail over the broad shoulders hidden by his coat. He was right. Society could be damned, as long as these strong arms were there, to hold her tight.

  His voice was a low, seductive whisper. “I will be better. I swear it, if you will only give me another chance.” His lips teased the cord in her neck, and she arched her back, leaning over his arm to urge them lower, over the hollow of her collarbone, until his kisses skirted the edge of her bodice. “I do love you, Caro. If I do not love well enough, then you must teach me how.”

  Hadn’t she said something like that, a year ago? Teach me. His lips on her skin were a reminder of all the wondrous things she had learned since, as was the thrumming in her body, the weakness in her knees, and the way her breasts ached to be touched.

  “We shouldn’t,” she said, in answer to a question he had not asked.

  “You’re right,” he agreed. Then he cupped her breast through the fabric of her gown.

  When had they ever chosen the sensible path over the pleasurable one? She slipped a hand under his coat, and ran it along his ribs, stroking his chest through the opening of his shirt.

  She could not see, but she was sure he was smiling. “Society be damned, for I certainly am. You are too great a temptation to resist.”

  He bit her shoulder, and she gasped and squirmed against him, wishing that there was no barrier of clothing between their bodies. She could remind him later of his promise to love her better, and tell him what she required of him. Then, he would offer again or he would not, and that would be the end of it. But she would not ransom this moment of joy, for it might be the last one they shared.

  He was turning her now, leaning her back against the wall of the gazebo, as he reached to lift her skirt. One hand found its proper place between her legs, toying with her as he undid his trousers with the other. Then he was sliding into her, inch by precious inch, moving surely in the darkness.

  She gasped, then stifled the sound with her fist. There were voices on the path, just beyond the doorway. He thrust again, as though trying to coax a response from her, and she felt every muscle in her tighten and release in a brief climax.

  He felt it as well, for he covered her mouth with his, to muffle his own growl of pleasure. Then eased back so gently that there was not even the rustle of their garments to reveal them. They moved like that for a time, a silent slide of skin on skin, the tension growing between them, until they were both trembling with desperation.

  Through the slats in the wood, she could see fireworks by the pavilion, flashes of gold and silver in the darkness, and hear the crackle and hiss of the powder. Perhaps she would still see them, if she closed her eyes, like the fire in her blood, whenever Vincent was near.

  The couple outside turned back up the path, to see the display. Before they had gone very far, Vincent lost control, taking her with him over the edge as a plume of sparks lit the sky above them. They stayed for a time, holding each other, as the lights in the sky died away. Then they did up buttons and straightened petticoats, silently helping each other as they had done hundreds of times before.

  Before they left the dark enclosure, he paused to kiss her again, tenderly this time. As he mouthed ‘I love you,’ against her lips, she made no move to scold him for it. Something between them had changed. It was for the better, she hoped. While this tryst had been foolish, the fact that they would be walking back arm in arm in public was an improvement over a month ago.

  When they stepped clear of the building, Mr. Howard was standing in the center of the dimly lit path, a pair of ham sandwiches on the ground at his feet. He looked strange in the dark, the shadows making him seem taller, more angular, even more of an animated scarecrow than he appeared in daylight. Was that disapproval on his face, or disappointment? He glanced past her, to Vincent. “Lord Blackthorne?”

  “Mr. Howard.” Vincent was making matters worse. His response was smug, and more than a little possessive.

  “Aubrey,” she said, trying a conciliatory smile as she disengaged herself from Vincent’s arm. “It is all right.”

  “Yes, Aubrey.” Vincent said in a tone dripping scorn. “There is nothing to concern you here.”

  He tipped his head to the side, examining the pair of them and drawing the obvious conclusion. “Actually, I do not think that is so.” Then he pulled off one glove, stepped forward and slapped the Earl of Blackthorne in the face with it.

  Were duels really so ridiculously courtly as this? She doubted so, for Vincent laughed in response. “Do you mean to challenge me, sir? Whatever for?”

  “I should think it would be obvious. For the dishonor you have done Miss Sydney.”

  “I hardly think that is necessary,” Vincent said, with another half laugh. “She and I have an understanding.”

  Mr. Howard stood his ground. “If you do not think it is necessary, then it is all the more reason to challenge you.” He looked at his glove again, as though measuring its weight. “Do you need me to strike you again? Or would it be better to use my fist, as you did with Worthington?”

  Now, it seemed as if Vincent grew larger beside her. If Mr. Howard meant to try another blow, she doubted that he would survive the response to it. Then Vincent stepped away from her. “Very well, then. You will hear from my second in the morning.”

  It was happening again, just as it had a year ago. And it was all wrong. Before she could protest that this was not at all what she wanted, Vincent was striding down the path away from them, and Mr. Howard had taken her arm to lead her out of the park.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “My Lord, you have a visitor. It is Miss Sydney.” The footman stood in the hallway, waiting instructions.

  “Show her to the drawing room. I shall be down directly.” Vincent remained impassive as his valet finished the process of dressing him. Then, he walked slowly down the stairs to the main floor, doing his best to conceal the wonder that the announcement had wrought in him. Though the whole household must know of her, he had never entertained her here. Time spent with Caro had been spent in her house, which had come to be a magical place where he was free of all responsibilities other than caring for the pleasure of his lady. In return, she had treated him like a sultan: pampered him, pleasured him, and let him think that the sun rose and set at his command.

  Yesterday, she’d said she’d been a prisoner there. It was a sobering revelation. But it made sense. On those occasions when the thought of those four walls had tired him, he’d spent the evening elsewhere. If she had offered to accompany him, to the theater, Vauxhall, or even a walk through Piccadilly, he’d made excuses. He had not wanted to expose her to gossip. She must have thought he was ashamed.

  Now, to see her here, on the settee in his own drawing room, the mistake he’d made was clear. Other than her beauty, there was nothing shocking or exceptional about the lady before him. Her dress was fashionable but modest. Her manners were impeccable. She belonged in a place like this, making calls on polite society. Better yet, she should be receiving them, as lady of this house. Any shame or gossip attached to her character had sprung from her association with him. It had been his job to repair it, not offer a weak shield against further insult.

  To know this now, when it was likely too late, was no consolation at all. �
��Caro,” he said softly, dropping into a chair at her side. “What brings you here?”

  He thought of offering her his hand and decided against it. Her brown eyes were bottomless, and there was a firm set to her lips that suggested she did not want to be petted into a better humor. “I have come to put a stop to this foolish duel.”

  “Have you now?” He hid a smile, for the matter was a serious one. “How do you mean to do that?”

  “You will cry off,” she said, staring directly into his eyes.

  “You know I cannot,” he said, as patiently as possible. “It is a matter of honor. Howard was the one to challenge me, and rightly so, for I was in the wrong. I cannot refuse. I have sent Tripp to mediate with his second. Howard will not accept my apologies. We meet tomorrow, at dawn.”

  In truth, he had sent a brief note of response. It is not I who deserve the apology. If you wish to settle this, you must speak to Miss Sydney.

  He was doing that now. He hoped she would welcome the only solution he had to offer. At the moment, she seemed more concerned about the other fellow, than anything he had to say to her. She was literally wringing her hands in distress.

  “Aubrey will not talk to me at all,” she said. There was that troublesome Christian name again. Blackthorne did his best to ignore it.

  “He doesn’t understand what he was done,” she insisted. “He doesn’t know you as I do. He does not know what you are capable of.” There were tears in her eyes, as though this complete knowledge of his character was a cause for additional distress.

  “What I am capable of?” He experimented with a laugh, but it sounded false even to him.

  “You will kill him,” she said, flatly. “Mr. Worthington barely survived the encounter with you, and he was a marksman with nerves of steel. Aubrey has no such skills. The fight is not fair. You must not allow him to goad you.”

  She was right. Howard would be no opponent at all, with swords or pistols. With the last duel, he’d done more to damage her honor than to defend it. If it happened again, she would not be just a mistress. She would be the sort of notorious beauty that men fought and died for. Every rake in London would hunger for her.

  “He only meant to help me,” she whispered. “I should never have involved him in this. It is all my fault.”

  “It is not,” he said. “It was never your fault.” Howard was right. He owed her reparation. If he’d cared as much about her as he claimed, he should not have seduced her in a public place, scant feet from discovery. That was not the action of a man in love. At what point had wickedness stopped being a game? He had thought himself a man of honor. It seemed he was a blackguard, after all. “The blame is mine, alone. I behave like an idiot, when I am around you. And I am most heartily sorry for the wrong I have done.”

  She waved his apology away with a twitch of her handkerchief. “It does not matter, really. What did we do last night that we have not done a hundred times or more?”

  “Do not put the blame upon yourself. I should have known better than to take risks in Vauxhall.”

  “Risks to whom, Vincent? I am sure it is not the most scandalous thing you have done, and my honor has been gone for quite some time. While it is terribly sweet of him to try to fight for me, there is no point in it.”

  Was that really the way she felt about herself? “But it does matter, Caro.”

  “I fail to see why. Who saw us, but poor Aubrey?” she said. “If we all agree to forget it, then no one need ever know it happened.”

  But I would know,” he said. “You deserve better than to be tumbled in the bushes.” He looked at her again, still fresh and lovely, and just as pure and modest as the day he’d met her. There was one thing he could do that would solve all. It would restore her honor, placate Howard, and they would be together again, as they should be. “Caro.” He wet his lips, surprised to be nervous about her answer. “Caroline. You are right. We must stop this disagreement with Howard. No good will come of it.”

  “Thank God,” she said, with a relieved sigh. She leaned forward, laying her hand on his thigh. “Promise me you will walk away from this, and you may have me again. It will be as it was. I will not trouble you over trips to the theater or Vauxhall. You may do just as you like, and say what you like. I will not comment or complain. I shall not be an embarrassment to you, ever again. Forget this duel and I shall do anything for you. Anything you ask.” There was a slight increase of pressure from those magical fingertips. It brought to mind any number of things he might suggest, that she would willingly comply with.

  “Anything at all,” she repeated. “But do not fight Aubrey over me. He is the sweetest of men, Vincent. And he has been so kind to me. I swear, if anything should happen to him…” Her composure slipped, and a sob escaped her.

  His proposal stuck in his throat, as if the words were a troublesome bit of gristle. He swallowed, and they were gone. Then he leaned forward, and carefully removed her hand from his leg, clasping it in his own in what he hoped was a brotherly way. “It will be all right,” he said, wondering how it ever could be. She was offering him the use of her body, while weeping over another man. And though he had confessed his love on more than one occasion, he could not remember her ever responding in kind.

  “You will not hurt him?” she said, through the tears.

  “Your Mr. Howard is safe. I give you my word.”

  She lunged forward to kiss him, and he accepted it. What harm would one kiss do, if it gave him strength? Then he set her away, as gently as possible, and wiped the last of her tears with his own handkerchief. “Now you must go. Do not worry yourself any further. After tomorrow, everything will be all right.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Vincent had lied to her.

  Or perhaps not. But Caro could find no evidence that he’d told the truth. On the previous day, she had relayed his assurances to Mr. Howard.

  That man had given her a searching look. Then he’d said that the duel would go on as scheduled and that she was not to worry.

  How could she not? Aubrey was being so bullheaded about going forward with it that she was beginning to wonder if he had developed a tendre for her. If that was the case, he had mistaken her kindness for more than it was. He was totally out of his depth in challenging Vincent.

  Vincent had been equally stubborn and equally cryptic. He had assured her of Aubrey’s safety. But he had sent her away after, unwilling to explain himself, and had not visited her house in the evening. She had sent him a note, reminding him of his welcome. The prompt, written response she had received was that further contact between them would be unwise, and that she was free to spend the evening with Mr. Howard, if she chose to do so.

  She had railed at that poor man for the better part of three hours, demanding that something must be done. All she had gotten from him was permission to ride in his carriage to the duel.

  The sun was rising as she sat beside him in the barouche, and received disapproving looks from his second, Mr. Massey, who clearly blamed her for putting his friend’s life at risk.

  “You must stay in the carriage,” Aubrey said absently, glancing out the window at the dueling field. “The grass is damp from the morning.” He sniffed. “And I believe the site my friend has chosen is a cow pasture. You do not want to ruin your slippers.”

  The idea was so ludicrous that she laughed, which earned her another glare from Mr. Massey. She was probably violating some rule of male etiquette by being here at all. Of course, polite ladies were not the subject of duels in the first place. Neither gender would approve of her plan to throw herself between the two combatants, should it be necessary. This argument was her fault. She meant to do whatever was necessary to end it.

  She ignored Aubrey’s words and followed the men when they got down out of the carriage.

  He gave her a sad look. “Very well, then. But please, stand quietly to the side. There must be no dithering about, no weeping or running into the line of fire. It will spoil my aim, as well as being unnecessari
ly dramatic.”

  “As if this duel is not dramatic enough,” Massey said, with a snort. “You are likely to get yourself slaughtered over this. What am I to tell them, back at the club? We cannot very well blackball Blackthorne over it. There is no rule to cover one member killing another.”

  “Perhaps there should be,” Mr. Howard said, thoughtfully. “But do not bother to make one on my account. Besides, as my second, you should try to exhibit some confidence in my abilities. I have been practicing, you know. Perhaps I shall be the one to kill him.”

  “Do not joke over this,” Caro snapped. “I do not want to see either of you dead.”

  Aubrey gave her a stern look. “I told you that you must not interfere. Trust that things will work out as I planned for them to.”

  “You have a plan?” Caro said, with doubt.

  “Of course. As I said from the first, you must trust me. Everything will be all right.”

  As the combatants divested themselves of coats and waistcoats, the seconds met, a few yards away. Vincent’s friend, Mr. Tripp, produced the pistol case. He and Massey spent a few moments examining the weapons and remarking on their quality and weight before loading them. Then each delivered a gun to his friend.

  She looked to Vincent again. “You promised,” she said, and removed her handkerchief from her reticule, dabbing at the first tears.

  He refused to meet her eye, instead, staring at the gun in his hand. “I promised that it would be all right. It will.” He turned to Mr. Tripp. “I know what she intends. Keep her clear of this, Bob.”

  His friend nodded, and came to her side, gripping her arm like a manacle, while Mr. Massey arranged the two men back to back, and instructed them to pace ten, turn and fire. When they stood so close, the contrast between the two seemed even greater. Mr. Howard was the taller. But while Vincent was the very image of male perfection in crisp linen, tight breeches and Hessians, Aubrey looked like a bundle of animated sticks, wrapped in wrinkled cloth.