The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  The sensation of her hand against the side of his face made him slowly turn his head to regard Eleanor. Even in the dim light, her face seemed to glow, her complexion flushed from their coupling. She was gazing at him in a way that made him feel far too naked—as if she could see through him. “Would you have believed me?” she whispered, her lower lip still trembling. While her fingers rested along his jaw, her thumb had moved to the edge of his mouth, threatening to cover his lips if he didn’t tell the truth. Tears had already collected in the corners of her eyes, a testament to her realization that she was most thoroughly and completely ruined.

  Wakefield closed his eyes as he lowered his head back down to her shoulder. All the signs of her innocence had been there—her clothes, her hair, her eyes—even his valet had known she wasn’t like the other whores Mrs. Gibbons sent his way.

  Had she told him she wasn’t a prostitute, would he have believed her? “Probably not,” he admitted finally, thinking he should have removed himself from her just as soon as he realized what he had done. But her other hand had moved so it rested on his back, her knees were still held firmly against the side of his thighs, and she was staring at him in a way that suggested he had better stay right where he was. Not that he had any strength to move. His entire body suddenly felt spent, his head felt as if it weighed several stones, and sleep was threatening to overcome all his senses. “I apologize, my lady,” he whispered, dozing off.

  Eleanor Merriweather felt the weight of Lord Wakefield’s body settle onto hers as he slowly fell asleep, the sensation at once comforting and a bit disconcerting and, well, a bit frightening, too. She had never in her life been this close to a member of the opposite sex. Never had she lain with a man, nor even been so much as kissed by one. Thank the gods the bed’s ropes were especially tight, otherwise she might have suffocated in the soft mattress.

  She slowly lowered her legs, her stockinged feet barely grazing the sides of his legs as she did so.

  Fighting off the sense of panic she felt—not for the first time that day given everything that had happened—she dared a glance toward the fireplace. It took a moment to read the time on the elaborate mantel clock. One-forty-five. She still had fifteen minutes before she had to be out the bed and dressed and out of his bedchamber. The earl would certainly roll off of her before then. He had to. Then she would be able to climb off the high bed and get dressed. How she would manage to get her gown rebuttoned, she had no idea, but she had a pelisse that would cover her back if she could not. At least her stockings were still on; she had no idea where her slippers had landed.

  At this last thought, she chastised herself. Here she was, concerned about finding her slippers when she had just lost her virtue to Charles Goodwin, Earl of Wakefield!

  Of all the men in the ton, why, oh why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be one of the most well-known rakes in the ton? And the brother of the one man she had secretly wished to do this very deed with during one more than one sleepless night?

  Be careful what you wish for ...

  Eleanor closed her eyes and tried to envision Arthur Goodwin’s face, tried to remember his lean, muscled body. Instead, the vision of the Earl of Wakefield appeared as he was when he was lit by the fire. She had never imagined that thighs could be so large on a man whose waist was so trim and not the least bit fleshy, and whose chest was so broad she wondered how he passed through doorways. And his upper arms—she was sure she wouldn’t have been able to span their circumference with both her hands spread out two times over. His phallus, quite large when he had removed his robe, wasn’t at all like those on the Elgin marble statues at the British Museum. She found it rather repulsive at first, but then a shiver that wasn’t fear had gripped her body and sent a rather pleasurable feeling coursing through the core of her body. A faint version of it passed through her body even as she relived the past few minutes, a sense of foreboding filling her when she felt his manhood still inside her.

  She had known exactly where that organ was supposed to go in a woman. Had just learned that very afternoon and been rather appalled at the thought of it. Had this happened only the day before, she would be sobbing uncontrollably, screaming in fear and using her fists to fight off the earl.

  But after the events of this afternoon, she found herself feeling rather defeated. Feeling like such a fool, since she had been the one to make the mistake so many innocents made when they decided to venture to London without benefit of a chaperone. Without benefit of a protector.

  She had trusted a sign in a window shop.

  Earlier that evening, she had spent nearly an hour locked in a cabinet with a peephole, peering onto a bed in one of the rooms at Lucy Gibbons’ brothel. Within minutes of Mrs. Gibbons’ departure from the room, one of the prostitutes entered with a rather rotund gentleman on her arm. Eleanor kept one hand over her mouth as she was forced to watch (and listen) as Lord Edward Sinclair repeatedly shoved his cock into the redheaded whore. He did so from several different angles, all the while grunting and moaning as if he were about to die. And when he was finally finished—she had thought the man would never tire—and the room was vacated, Mrs. Gibbons had come for her.

  The overweight madame instructed her on how she was to behave with Lord Wakefield. “If I get no complaints from him, I’ll see to it you get my better paying clients,” she said with a grin, as if that was some kind of favor Eleanor should appreciate. “And if he likes ya, I’ll send you his way again next week.”

  This was not how it was supposed to be, Eleanor thought as she reviewed the events of the past two days in her mind. She had seen the posting at the mercantile’s shop in Epping. Wanted: Young ladies to help display the newest fashions from Paris to London’s finest gentlemen! One evening show every week! Dozens of new gowns! The advertisement promised that some gowns could even be kept by the model. The gentlemen were apparently shopping for their wives or mistresses, she supposed.

  Eleanor wrote down the Covent Gardens address along with the list of days the offer was valid, and then, when no one was looking, simply removed the advertisement from inside the window and tucked it into her reticule.

  Once home, she plotted how she would tell her mother of her plan to visit her father in London to arrange her come-out, never mentioning to her that she planned to meet the Lucy Gibbons mentioned in the posting.

  But she never had a chance to share her plan with her mother. Opportunity had presented itself early that morning, and she had embraced it.

  She closed her eyes and wished it was all just a bad dream.

  Oh, how I wish I had never seen the advertisement!

  Chapter 5

  A Country Chit

  Four days ago

  Eleanor Merriweather took a deep breath before stepping over the threshold of the breakfast parlor. As she expected, her mother, Laura Merriweather, Countess of Middleton, sat opposite her uncle at a table just a bit too large for their morning meal. There were just the three of them on any given morning, and except for the fact that sunshine actually streamed into the room from the east window instead of the gray gloom that had been omnipresent for the past three weeks, this morning’s breakfast might have been the same as all the others.

  That is, if Eleanor hadn’t decided that very morning to insist her father’s promise to her be kept as an excuse to get to London. She had another reason for wanting to go; an advertisement she had seen posted in the mercantile window the day before was folded up and tucked into her reticule.

  “Good morning, mum,” she said brightly, leaning over to give her mother’s upturned cheek a quick kiss. “Uncle,” she added before taking the chair a footman held for her.

  Henry Tuttlebaum, Viscount Whittingham and older brother to Laura Tuttlebaum Merriweather, gave a quick glance over the top of that morning’s The Times to acknowledge his niece’s greeting. “Morning,” he managed before returning his attention to the newspaper.

  At least three footmen scurried about, filling the serving trays o
n the sideboard and the coffee cups in front of the countess and viscount. A plate of toast, coddled eggs and a rasher of bacon appeared in front of Eleanor, the steam hovering above it a testament to how quickly a footman had managed to get it from the kitchen. “Thank you,” Eleanor spoke quietly, knowing her mother might admonish her for thanking servants. “It’s their job to serve you, so there’s no need to thank them,” she had said on more than one occasion. But Eleanor had been in enough households to know that the best service was provided by servants who were well treated by their masters. Saying ‘thank you’ seemed the least she could do in her mother’s household.

  “And what have you planned for the day?” Laura wondered, turning from her own breakfast to acknowledge her daughter. One dark eyebrow arched up at the sight of the amount of food on Eleanor’s plate. “A very long walk, I would hope,” she added with a nod toward the breakfast.

  Eleanor fought the urge to cringe. Couldn’t her mother see she was wearing her newest riding habit, the fit of which was quite snug and meant to display her trim figure to it best advantage? “A ride, in fact,” she responded, taking up a fork in defiance of her mother’s implication. “Mr. Greaves has agreed to accompany me,” she added before her mother could ask, remembering how enthusiastic the head groom’s response had been when she wondered if he might act as her chaperone on that day’s ride.

  At first, she had thought he was being facetious with his reply, but his smile seemed genuine, especially when he made a comment about how beautiful the day would be for a ride. If the rays of sunshine still illuminating the breakfast parlor were any indication, the day would be glorious, indeed.

  “Well, don’t be too long. We should pay an early afternoon call on Lady Winstead. The gossip has it she just learned of her husband’s new mistress, and I should like very much to see how she is faring.”

  Eleanor resisted the urge to scold her mother, knowing full well Laura Merriweather felt no fondness for Lady Winstead. She merely wished to call on the poor viscountess at a time when the woman was no doubt most embarrassed.

  Or most relieved, perhaps.

  Penelope Winstead had never voiced much in the way of fondness for her husband.

  “I was thinking I might take a trip to Mayfair,” Eleanor replied, continuing to eat her breakfast as if mentioning a trip to London was something she did every day.

  “Mayfair?” Henry repeated, folding his paper and setting it aside as if he was suddenly interested in the women’s conversation.

  Eleanor swallowed. “Yes. To visit my father. It’s been some time since I saw him,” she managed to get out before reaching for her coffee. “He promised he would help me arrange my come-out.” Although she was sure she sounded confident in her announcement, her stomach threatened to cast up her accounts. “Of course, I would have to meet with a modiste to have an appropriate gown made for my presentation to the queen,” she added, mostly to hide her nervousness.

  “You’ll do no such thing!” her mother replied suddenly, the look of shock on her oval face quite at odds with her otherwise elegant appearance.

  As the daughter of a marquess, Laura had spent her entire childhood in Mayfair amongst the ton, her own come-out a rather lavish affair in the form of a ball given in her honor by her parents. She had met her future husband that night, dancing with him just the one time but obviously impressing him enough that he would eventually ask for her hand in marriage.

  Exacting George Merriweather’s proposal of marriage during her first Season was considered quite a coupe. The older earl was handsome, rich, politically important in the House of Lords, and not the least bit interested in living the life Laura had imagined for them. Of course, she didn’t discover this last bit until she was expecting their first son and was forced to spend her confinement at the Merriweather country estate. Before she could resume London’s busy social life the following Season, she was with child once again, this time presenting her husband with a spare heir during the hunting season.

  A year later, Eleanor was born.

  Having missed three Seasons in a row, and three years of London theatre, fashion and soirées, Laura Merriweather realized life as a young matron in the ton would be difficult to resume. She loathed the London gossips, afraid of what they might say about her extended absence and well aware of the damage that could be done should their suppositions be believed. A night at the theater meant many expected more entertainment to be had from the audience than from whatever was taking place on the stage. The crush of carriages and horses made a shopping excursion in New Bond Street a chore. She despised the way the omnipresent soot turned falling snow to black slush.

  Despite a childhood spent living in the city, or maybe because of it, life in London no longer appealed to the countess.

  Instead of rejoining her husband in Mayfair the following Season, Laura remained in his Surrey estate home, opting for a smaller social circle and the slower pace of country life.

  Eleanor gave her mother her best look of surprise. “Why ever not? You had your come-out when you were seventeen,” she countered, suppressing the urge to allow her sudden anger to show. As it was, she was sure her cheeks had turned a splotchy red.

  “I lived there,” her mother replied, one shoulder lifted as if a come-out was expected of a London-based chit. “I would hope to spare you the ordeal of a London Season and see you settled with some young gentleman from around here,” she added before taking a sip from her coffee cup.

  “Spare me?” Eleanor repeated, stunned at her mother’s words. “But, I don’t wish to be spared!”

  Henry straightened in his chair, the sound of his throat clearing a warning shot across the table. Eleanor forced herself to sit back in her chair, sure he would admonish her for arguing with his sister.

  “She makes a good point, Laura,” Henry stated, much to Eleanor’s surprise. “Every young woman wants to spend at least one Season attending balls and such. And it would do you some good to spend some time in the city. When was the last time you bought a new gown?”

  Laura regarded her brother with a look of surprise—and perhaps a bit of annoyance. “Are you implying my gowns are unfashionable?” she countered, her attention no longer on her daughter. “I just had this one made last month. Mrs. Stader assures me the design is straight out of the latest La Belle Assemblie.”

  The viscount let out a sigh. “That wasn’t my point, sister,” he replied carefully. “I just think you may need to spend some time with your husband. Show the ton you two are still ...” He paused, one eyebrow lifting suggestively.

  “Still ... what?” Laura wondered, her face suddenly pale.

  Eleanor held her breath for a moment, realizing her uncle’s meaning right away. She had read the same gossip he had in last week’s The Tattler. Although she didn’t believe her father would ever consort with a courtesan, someone thought they had seen the earl in the company of one at the Drury Lane Theatre. She was quite sure the rag had been wrong; her father had assured her on several occasions that he held her mother in high regard and would never do anything to embarrass his countess.

  When Eleanor wrote to him about the incident, he sent word the very next day assuring her he hadn’t attended the theatre in years, nor did he spend time with courtesans. Besides, I love your mother, he had explained in his even script, nary an ink droplet staining the parchment. There is no other woman for me.

  “That you’re still married,” Henry finally said, a bit too harshly.

  Before Laura could respond to her brother’s comment, Eleanor placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Father loves you. He wrote to tell me that it was not him at the theatre, and that he does not employ a mistress.”

  Laura’s eyes widened. “He wrote to you of mistresses?” she whispered, glancing about to be sure no servants were within earshot.

  Sighing, Eleanor nodded. “Only because I wrote to him about them first,” she said, sotto voce. “He is devoted to you, Mother. Perhaps you should pay him a visit, t
hough. A dinner together at the Clarendon Hotel will put to rest any doubts about your marriage.”

  Tears welled up in Laura’s eyes, her expression still one of shock. “So the wags have been speaking of him again?” she whispered, her attention entirely on her daughter. She knew Eleanor read everything about the ton she could get her hands on in Epping. If there were gossip regarding her husband, Eleanor would know.

  Henry, too, perhaps. Damn him.

  “Mistaken identity,” Eleanor replied as she shook her head. “You’ve nothing to worry about when it comes to Father.”

  Settling back into her chair, Laura used the corner of her linen napkin to dab away a tear that had escaped the corner of one eye. “I should forbid you to read those awful gossip sheets,” she said, suppressing a sob.

  “Probably,” Eleanor agreed, a mischievous grin lighting her face until she remembered the odd comment made in the latest issue of The Tattler. She wasn’t sure it had anything to do with a certain man for whom she had felt a growing affection since the last dinner party she had attended in London. But she was at a loss as to figure out anyone else who fit the initials used in the article.

  A certain knight, AG, had better take himself a wife, or he’ll be forever known as a molly. We shouldn’t want him arrested. Guilt by association is still guilt.

  Try as she might, the only knight she could think of with those initials was Arthur Goodwin. Handsome, debonair and ever so refined that night she had sat across from him at Worthington House, Sir Arthur was hardly one she could imagine in the company of a man, at least in that way. Especially given some of things she had imagined him doing to her many a night in her bed. Especially on cold nights. Well, any night really, but cold nights were quickly made tolerable when she imagined her body pressed against his, imagined her head tucked into the small of his shoulder and her legs tangled with his. Even now, the thought of Arthur Goodwin made her feel warm all over. Almost uncomfortably so. Hot, really. Her cheeks seemed almost on fire.