To Recapture a Rake: A Hephaestus Club Novella

by Christine Merrill

  “Let me go,” she said and struggled against the grip on her arm.

  “When it is done,” Tripp said, emotionless.

  The men walked. They turned. They raised their weapons.

  Caro stared, her fist in her mouth to stop the scream, forcing herself to watch.

  Then Vincent very deliberately raised it further, and fired a single shot into the air before dropping it to the ground at his side. “Fire at will, Mr. Howard. I have earned what is to happen.”

  “You have deloped?” Caro all but shrieked at him. “Why could you not have told me earlier?” She pulled free of Tripp and started forward.

  “Caro,” Mr. Howard gave a warning. “We are not through here, yet. I have not responded.”

  She ran forward, throwing herself against Vincent and wrapping her arms around his impassive frame. “I do not care what your plans are. I will not stand by and let you shoot the man I love to prove some ridiculous point of honor.

  “A moment, please,” Blackthorne said, calmly, freeing one of his arms from her grasp to gesture at Mr. Howard. “I must speak to Miss Sydney. Then you may have satisfaction.”

  Aubrey lowered his pistol. “Fair enough.”

  He folded her easily into his arms. But there was no kiss, only a shaky sigh. “What is the meaning of this, Caro?” he said.

  “He will not shoot you,” she said. Her voice was muffled for her face was pressed into the linen of his shirt front. “If he does, he will have to shoot us both. I will not let you go again.”

  “You said you loved me,” he whispered.

  “Of course,” she answered.

  “Why did you not tell me sooner?”

  She looked up, surprised. “When did you ever require love from me? Your first proposal spoke of the honor and the title, and your need to marry and get an heir. I was but the means to that end.”

  “You were always more than that,” he assured her.

  “How was I to know? You confessed no feelings to me at that time.”

  “It was good I had not. It would have been even more humiliating when you turned me down,” he said.

  “Because I loved you. I did not want to tie myself forever to a rake who did not care for me. You’d have broken my heart without a second thought.”

  “I loved you,” he assured her. “Since the first moment I saw you.”

  “I suspected as much, in Bath. But in London?” She shrugged. “After I refused your proposal, your next offer was of a more physical nature. It was so much easier to understand.”

  “But if you loved me, why did you accept?”

  She sighed. “I could not resist. It was the only proof I had that I had captured any part of you. If you did not love me, at least you desired me. And I still loved you. Perhaps it would be enough.”

  “Last night, you spoke of nothing but Aubrey,” his lips twisted in disgust. “And your feelings for him. If you would prefer him…”

  “She does not.” Mr. Howard set down the gun and approached them. He looked at her, nervously. “You do not, do you? Because that would be dashed inconvenient. Do not mistake me. You are a lovely girl. But I cannot afford to keep you, as wife, or mistress.”

  She smiled at him. “No offence taken, Mr. Howard.” She looked back at Vincent. “Aubrey is my friend,” she said, trying to be as reasonable as she could. “I did not want you to kill him. I remember how you were, after the duel with Mr. Worthington. It affected you, Vincent. Whether you admit it or not, you are not a violent man. You would both have been hurt, had you shot him.”

  “You know me, better than I do myself.” His arms tightened on her. This time, he kissed her, as though it were the first time, or perhaps the last, and she felt the love in it.

  Mr. Howard cleared his throat. “Are you almost ready to continue? The sun is full up, and a lady’s honor is still at stake.”

  “I have no honor,” she cried in frustration.

  Vincent set her aside. “Exactly my point,” he informed her. “It is because of me. I was wrong to take you as mistress. And in Vauxhall? That was wrong as well.”

  “No!” If he’d had second thoughts about his alleged feelings, she did not want to hear them now.

  “I should have begged you to marry me, that very first night.”

  “I was no longer worthy,” she reminded him.

  “You did nothing that I could not forgive. I was jealous of your interest in Worthington, and still smarting from your rejection of my suit. And I wanted you.” He said with a sad smile. “I wanted you so bad it hurt. Suddenly, it was in my power to have you, that very night, if I wished. I was weak, when I should have been strong for your sake. I took advantage.”

  “It is all right,” she assured him.

  “Even worse. It was everything I’d hoped for. If I’d thought that the passion for you would burn away, I was a fool.”

  She touched his lips with a finger to silence him. “I have not regretted a moment of it.”

  “It is a pity that you have declared your plans to remain single until death,” Mr. Howard prompted.

  Vincent looked puzzled. “I must have been drunk if I said such a thing. Why would I avoid the opportunity to spend a lifetime with the woman I love? I must pray that it is not too late to do so. He dropped to one knee before her, in the wet grass. “Miss Sydney, will you make me the happiest of men?”

  “I seriously doubt it,” she said. “For I know you too well to do that. If, however, you wish me to marry you…”

  He smiled and took her hands in his, examining the fingers. “You own so much jewelry. And yet, I have given you no ring. I will remedy this, at last. You may have the one worn by my mother.”

  “Your mother.” She remembered how difficult a marriage it was likely to be, after all they had done. “She will not be pleased that you chose to marry a member of the demimonde.”

  “She will be overjoyed,” Blackthorne said, wryly. “She thinks me too timid.”

  “And society?”

  “Can go hang,” he said, snapping his fingers. “They want far more from me than I do from them. Anyone who shows disrespect to my countess will answer to me.”

  “No more duels,” she said, firmly.

  “No more duels,” he promised. “Now, let us go back to my house, for breakfast. This afternoon, I shall go to procure a special license, and we will be married before the week is out.” He stood and offered his hand to Mr. Howard. “And you sir, must join us, to prove that you are satisfied with the way this has ended.”

  “I am satisfied,” Mr. Howard agreed, with a smile and a bob of his head. “But I have other plans for the morning. I must go back to the club and adjust the odds on the betting board. And then, I have work to do.”

  THE END

  Thank you for reading!

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  Please continue reading for an excerpt from another of my works, the contemporary romantic comedy novella The Tourist of Zenda

  An excerpt from The Tourist of Zenda

  “I am Crown Prince Paolo Andreas Bartholomae Zara.”

  Dana Miller snorted. “You are not.” In a moment, they would veer to the left down some side drive, and someone would yell the Seravish equivalent of “You’ve been punk’d.” It probably had a lot of umlauts. She could already vouch for the fact that it wasn’t very funny.

  A few silent seconds passed and they were still headed for the front doors. She could see the scurry of activity at the approach of the limo, as servants and guards hustled to be in the correct place on arrival. She looked back at the man in front of her.

  “Remove your wallet.” His smile was gone. He made an expansive gesture toward her purse, and waited. “Now examine the local currency.”

  She
pulled out a bill. The face on the corner of it looked strangely familiar. She held it up to compare. “This looks nothing like you.”

  “It is not a perfect likeness, perhaps. But it is the only thing I can offer at this time. There are paintings in the great hall that will assure you. And a rather nice photo on the national website.”

  The bill slipped from her fingers and she grabbed her phone and punched furiously for the internet. He’d said, my country. She’d have said the same thing about America. But not the way this man had said it. It was his country, all right. He’d inherited every last goat from his father.

  She stared at her phone. He was right. There was a better picture on the website. And he was definitely royalty. If the picture did not tell her, she should have recognized it in the casual air of superiority, and the total lack of guilt at upending a commoner’s life to suit his own desires. “What do you want with me?” His identity put paid to most of her more lurid speculations. The real question became, if he could have any woman in the world just by asking, then why did he want her?

  “I have a problem. Something only you can help me with.” His eyes turned liquid, warm and dark, almost begging for her sympathy.

  “Me.” She was probably supposed to be calling him highness, or something. But that was just one more thing that was not in the guidebook.

  “Only you,” he repeated. “Perhaps you have heard of my engagement and pending marriage?”

  This was a head scratcher. And then, she remembered her mother had been the one to suggest this leg of her journey in the first place. “Go see if you can catch a glimpse of the playboy prince,” she’d said. Or get me a picture of…”

  “Sylphine Jones.” She stared at him again. “You’re the royal who’s marrying Sylphie.”

  He looked almost pained that she was able to recognize him by his famous fiancée. Then he nodded. “It has garnered quite a bit of media attention in recent months. That is the purpose for it. There will be a resultant increase in tourism for the ceremony, a line of authorized souvenirs, and complete tabloid coverage before and after. The rights to the photos have already been sold.”

  Prince Not-so-charming was talking about the most important event in his life as if it were nothing more than a prearranged media event. “You sold the rights to your wedding.”

  He shrugged. “Royal weddings happen once in a lifetime. It hardly makes sense that others should profit from it.”

  “That is the most cold-blooded thing I have ever heard.”

  He gave her a look that was not so much cold as dispassionate. “In your country, you do not have the concept of a marriage of state. But it is an old tradition in my family. There are times when one must put the needs of one’s country ahead of one’s personal feelings.”

  “And your country needs you to marry a movie star?”

  “At one time, it would have been a princess, or some noble daughter of a neighboring country. But there are risks attached to any political alliance. And princesses are not so thick on the ground as they once were, nor are we threatened with invasion. Our current requirements are much more complex. My people need me to marry someone who will bring tourists to the country, generate interest in our products, and raise the stock prices of the things we trade.”

  “You’re marrying Sylphie to make the stock market go up.”

  He smiled. “Everybody loves a wedding. Even Wall Street. My treasurer seems most pleased with the results thus far. It will repair the financial damage. I am not adverse to it. Nor is Miss Jones. I believe she is expecting to see a benefit to her career.”

  What career? Dana was too polite to say it. But recent stories about the notorious Sylphie Jones painted her as an unstable party girl. “Marrying you is a ploy to get work?”

  “Her publicist calls it The Princess Grace effect. He plans to display her as transformed by love. Her job as Princess Consort will include charity work. When she returns to Hollywood, the title will add gravitas. It will enable her to have,” his lips gave a slight twitch of distaste, “meatier roles.”

  They had stopped in front of the castle, proper. The prince gave a nod and the limo doors were opened. The men from beside her evaporated as though they’d never existed. Then he stepped out of the car, turning back to her and offering his hand.

  For a moment, all the muscles in her body froze, allowing her to stare at his perfectly manicured nails. Then she reached out for him, letting him draw her out of the car and to her feet. Which led to more etiquette questions. Did she walk in front of him, beside him, two steps behind? Was this a ‘speak when spoken to’ situation?

  Did she even care about being polite? He had been the one to hijack her, after all. He was also the sort of creep who could auction his wedding photos to the highest bidder. Even her mother would admit that the guy was tacky, even if he was gorgeous.

  And he was holding her hand.

  Then she remembered the conversation they’d been having in the car. “So you’re getting married as a publicity stunt. What does any of this have to do with me?”

  If royalty ever looked embarrassed, the man next to her might have, at her comment. But the only change she saw was a slight stiffening of his upper lip. Then, he said, “Recently, Miss Jones met with an unfortunate accident.” He saw the shocked look on Dana’s face and added hurriedly, “Nothing life threatening. The damage to her face is superficial and will heal without a trace in a week or so. If she is not perfect for the wedding?” He shrugged, again. “A heavy application of cosmetics should cover the bruises.”

  Bruises on her face? She not so subtly pulled her hand from his grasp. In her experience, there was only one way a woman got to that condition. He might look like a suave royal who wouldn’t dirty his hands. But he was also the sort of alpha Neanderthal who thought he could slap around his fiancée.

  “Miss Jones is residing in the castle now, in seclusion. I do not feel it is my place to explain the accident. But she can assure you that I had no part in what happened.” And Dana could see for the first time, what he must look like when truly angry. Her suspicion had enraged him. There was the barest flicker of outrage in his dark blue eyes, and his words were clipped as though he had to chip them from ice to release them.

  She glared back at him. He had no right to be outraged over what she might think, after the way she had been treated. “You still have not explained your reason for kidnapping me,” she reminded him making sure that her anger was much more easy to read than his.

  He seemed to recognize that he was in no position to antagonize her. His words were marginally warmer, although his smile was forced. “I prefer to think of it as a chance to be alone with you, so that I might offer you an unusual opportunity.”

  “I suppose you would. I prefer to think of it as abduction, until you give me reason to change my mind. So spill.”

  He took a small breath before speaking, as though choosing his words with care. And in that pause she found proof that whatever was happening was difficult to master, even for a seasoned diplomat. “During the time that Miss Jones is recuperating, there are social responsibilities that need to be met. There is a planned engagement documentary. The director and crew are here, but my fiancée is in no condition to appear before a camera. It was proposed to me that I should locate a double, a woman who could stand in for Miss Jones, so that filming could continue, with the intention of shooting close ups at a later, more convenient time. In scanning recent visitors to the country, your passport information was uncovered…”

  “And you think I should be a stand in for Sylphine Jones.” She snorted. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  He was back to giving her the reasonable smile he had been using from the first, even as his bodyguards threatened her. “I am quite serious.”

  “I look nothing at all like her.”

  “True.” He was examining her closely, as though he could weigh each feature against the other. It was more than a little annoying.

  “Then what
good am I to you?”

  “You look nothing like her. And yet, you look enough like her to suit my needs. You are the right height, the right size, and your hair is blonde.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Not necessarily. It seems that most people do not see what is before their very eyes. You had seen my picture, had you not, before we met in the café?”

  “Well, I suppose. It was on the wall at the train station, and on the money.”

  “And yet, you did not recognize me.”

  “Because I didn’t expect to find a prince ordering off the lunch menu to save money.”

  “Nor will the people who see us expect to see anyone other than Miss Jones. They will see me. And at my side will be an attractive blonde wearing the ring, the right clothes, and perhaps a large pair of dark glasses.”

  “The Prisoner of Zenda?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “You have movies in your country?”

  “Mobile phones, internet access, and indoor plumbing as well,” he said, with a frosty stare.

  “What you’re describing is the plot to The Prisoner of Zenda. Which would make me Ronald Coleman.” She thought for a moment. “Or maybe Stewart Granger. I can’t remember.”

  He gave a heavy sigh. “As I was saying. You will appear with me. And we will appear to be intimately acquainted. The guards will keep the paparazzi at a respectful distance, allowing them enough access to prove to the world what I want it to believe.”

  “Hold on. Back it up a minute.” She put her hands on her hips. “Intimately acquainted? What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  He smiled at her, and she noticed his exceptionally white teeth. “Nothing so dire as you fear. We will dine together, walk together. Perhaps I shall touch your hand. We might kiss.”