The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  Randall shook his head. “Not at all. I went to bed before one and found myself wide awake at seven. Figured a walk in the park would do me good.”

  At that moment, a footman wearing the colors of Worthington House hurried up to them. Breathless, he said, “Pardon me, my lady, my lords,” with a hastily performed bow. “Lady Torrington has requested Lady Norwick’s presence at her earliest convenience.” Before anyone could give him an answer, he gave another bow and hurried back the way he came.

  Clarinda dared a quick glance in Daniel’s direction before turning her attention to the marquess. “Forgive me, but it seems Grandby’s baby is about to make its debut.”

  Randall’s eyes widened. “Now? Well, that seems rather inconvenient,” he replied with a frown.

  Suppressing a grin, Clarinda said, “Babies rarely come at the most convenient time, actually. Please do excuse me. I must be going,” she said, taking a step back and giving the marquess a curtsy.

  Daniel gave an apologetic nod. “As must I,” he said, motioning to the perambulator. “Do have a good walk, Reading.”

  And with that, the Norwicks were hurrying off toward Worthington House.

  Randall watched the couple take their leave, rather touched that an earl would accompany his wife on a walk with the children—with babies that were not even his own but rather his nieces.

  Despite his own father never having done such a thing, Randall thought perhaps he would go on walks with his wife and children. He imagined strolling around Cavendish Square, pushing a perambulator, a woman’s arm on his as they made their way.

  He rather liked the image.

  Sighing, he continued his daydream as he made his way into Hyde Park.

  By eight-thirty, the fog had lifted and a hint of morning sun lit the park in a golden glow. Randall paused to regard a series of rose bushes, their blooms still brilliant despite the early fall temperatures. Lowering himself to sniff a particularly red rose, he closed his eyes and was reminded of Lady Lily.

  Well, this won’t do, he thought as he glanced about and headed for the nearest park bench. Until he read the rest of her missive, he wouldn’t be able to leave thoughts of her where they belonged.

  He removed the note from his pocket and carefully unfolded the corners. Holding it out until his eyes could focus on the feminine script, he took a deep breath and began to read.

  Dear Marquess of Reading,

  I am writing to give you my answer regarding your marriage proposal. As you may recall, you asked me to marry you whilst we attended Lord Weatherstone’s ball in June. If in the event you do remember, let me inform you I was honored a marquess would consider an illegitimate maid for his wife ...

  What?! Did she think I had forgotten her? Randall wondered, at first offended by the chit’s words before forcing himself to remain calm. In her defense, she knew he was a rake. Perhaps she believed he proposed to every woman he managed to get into the gardens behind Lord Weatherstone’s mansion as a means to have his way with them.

  Little did she know she was the first to ever have him considering marriage. The first woman to whom he had promised fidelity should she consider his suit. The first woman to ever kiss him first, even if it was just on the corner of his mouth.

  He reached up to touch the spot with a gloved hand, remembering the feel of her soft lips as they had made contact, the scent of her suddenly more enticing than all the floral scents in the garden surrounding them.

  He shook his head, determined to erase the image from his mind. Taking a breath, he resumed reading the missive.

  Although I am led to believe no fewer than four aristocrats wanted my hand in marriage, yours was the only formal proposal I received. My heart, however, already belonged to a young man I met many years ago in Vauxhall Gardens.

  I married him yesterday.

  Well, the chit certainly didn’t waste any time! But the fact that she had penned a letter to the marquess after only a day of marriage said she must have held him in some regard.

  Frowning, Randall continued to read.

  During your proposal, I truly believe I heard more in the words you did not speak than in those you did. Perhaps I am being presumptuous, but I do believe you are a lonely man who has come to the conclusion his life can only be complete with the addition of a wife and a necessary heir. As a marquess, I also believe you think you must pursue a wife from those women who are daughters of others like you.

  From my recent lessons in history (my brother, Lord Trenton, insisted I be educated), and should your marquessate be at war with another, or should your coffers be in need of funding, I would agree you should consider a marriage for political or economic gain ...

  Faith! The young woman was writing of strategic marriages!

  Randall lifted his head and glanced around to ensure he was still relatively alone in the area of the park in which he sat. He held out the note and resumed reading.

  ... However, I do not believe you require such a union. Given the circumstances, you have a distinct advantage over your peers, my lord, for you can do what most of them cannot.

  You can marry for love.

  Stunned at the words, Randall straightened on the bench. Aristocrats didn’t marry for love. That’s what their mistresses were for!

  Although, to be fair, he did know of some who were quite fond of their wives—perhaps even in love with them. Anyone who had been at a soirée at Carlington House had to know the Marquess of Morganfield and his marchioness were in love. They seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in the company of the nearest potted palm, believing they were hiding their affection for one another from their guests as they engaged in a good deal of kissing and other fondling pursuits. Just a few minutes ago, he had been in the company of the Fitzwilliams. Why, the newly minted earl and his wife seemed rather fond of one another. But then, Clarinda had been in love with the older twin, he remembered, and Daniel was the spitting image of his brother. He wondered if she sometimes forgot her husband had died. She certainly hadn’t spent much time in mourning before marrying his brother, but given how the two behaved when he came upon them that morning, he had to believe they were in love.

  Intrigued by the thought of marrying for love, Randall relaxed back onto the bench. He searched and found where he had left off reading.

  You can marry for love.

  Having spent over two months in the company of my brother, Trenton, and his countess, Sarah, I can tell you their marriage is one such. And as such, they are a happy couple, engaging in spirited conversation and shared responsibility and public displays of affection I find most embarrassing.

  I can imagine you in such a union, my lord. Your marchioness at your side, sneaking kisses whilst at the theatre and singing your praises in the parlors of Mayfair, a public face for your favorite charity and your one (and only, dare I say it?) lover.

  I do believe she would make you a very happy man.

  So in your pursuit of a wife, I would remind you there are hundreds of young women—commoners, yes, or those on the fringes of the ton, but many educated and not looking to marry for money—who would strive to make a happy marriage with you. I implore you to consider one of them to be your wife.

  Yours most sincerely, Lady Lily Overby.

  Post Scriptum: Had I not given my heart to another, please know I would have accepted your most generous offer.

  Randall glanced about again, stunned by the young lady’s words. She spoke of marriage as if she had been married her entire life, and yet she made her point so plain.

  Marry for love.

  How hard could that be? he wondered as he sighed.

  Nearly impossible, he reasoned. For to marry for love meant he had to be in love with someone, and he couldn’t think of a single woman he knew for whom he might somehow develop a tendré. Someone with whom he could fall in love.

  Which meant he probably hadn’t yet met the woman, he reasoned.

  Which meant another Season of balls and soirées and musical
es and evenings at Almack’s.

  Damn!

  Groaning, Randall carefully arranged the pages and refolded the note, his gaze directed at the lawn beneath his feet. Although he was tempted to feel sorry for himself—Lily had seen through his façade of confident rake and guessed at his loneliness—he also felt a bit emboldened by her words.

  You can marry for love.

  He didn’t have to pursue a daughter of the aristocracy to be in his wife. He could court whomever he wished.

  Taking a deep breath, he stood up from the bench and was about to take his leave of the park when he realized he was no longer alone. A startled young woman regarded him from the crushed granite path, her maid several steps behind her.

  Randall stared at the young woman for a full five seconds before he realized he was staring. “Good morning, my lady,” he finally managed to say as he gave her a deep bow. The sunlight illuminated one side of her face, making her porcelain skin even more luminous than it probably was in the midday. Her hair, although mostly hidden by a rather stylish hat festooned with large flowers and a bright red bow, was definitely blonde, and her eyes were a shade of blue. Or green, perhaps. The color of the ocean, Randall thought briefly.

  He would have spent more time deciding on their color except that the young woman blinked and dared a glance back at her companion. It was then he realized she was probably a bit older than he first surmised. Thirty, perhaps?

  The maid was definitely younger than her mistress, but probably not by much, he figured, and she was much more comely. She was staring at him as if she recognized him. He was quite sure he had never seen her before. But then, who noticed servants?

  A sense of panic settled over him as he wondered if the maid knew of him from one of his trysts with a widow. Or a matron who had invited him to her bed because she was lonely. Or one of his younger conquests who pretended not to want his attentions but were just as enthusiastic as his older lovers once they were undressed and beneath him on a bed.

  But the woman before him wasn’t a woman with whom he had ever shared a bed. He was quite sure he would remember her. Positive, in fact.

  When the young lady returned her attention to him, she gave a curtsy. “Good morning to you, sir,” she replied, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “Have ... Have we met?” she asked, as if she might or might not recognize him.

  Randall shook his head. “I’m quite sure I would remember you ...” and your maid, he almost said, “...if I had, my lady.” He hesitated before introducing himself. “Randall Roderick, at your service, my lady,” he finally managed, stepping forward to take her hand.

  He brushed his lips over her ill-fitting white linen glove, noting how her hand seemed to quiver in his hold. Was she frightened of him? Or cold, perhaps? Although the morning had started out rather chilly, the sun was now clear of the clouds and the air was warming nicely.

  The woman seemed to deflate a bit at hearing his name, but she quickly recovered. “Miss Constance Fitzwilliam,” she said before daring another glance back at her maid. “So good to make your acquaintance,” she added as she pulled her hand from Randall’s gentle grasp.

  “And yours,” he countered, rather surprised at hearing her name. Goodness! How unusual to come across so many Fitzwilliams in one morning! He was about to ask if they might be related when he realized he needed to offer his arm. “May I ... escort you somewhere?” he asked. “I seemed to have interrupted your morning walk. I do apologize,” he added, hoping she would accept his invitation. He needed a bit more exercise and an opportunity to practice what he realized might be one way to court a lady—walk with her whilst engaging in conversation.

  Another backward glance at the maid, who merely gave her a curt nod and a look of impatience, was followed by the young woman’s own nod in his direction. “Yes, thank you,” she replied.

  Randall gave the maid a nod of thanks and offered his arm to the young woman. “Where would you like to go this morning, Miss Fitzwilliam?” he asked then, turning so he was headed in the same direction she seemed to be heading when he spotted her.

  “I ... I’m not sure,” she replied, turning once again to the maid. “Simmons?” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  The marquess was aware of the maid’s audible sigh of what sounded like frustration. “Back to the carriage, my lady,” the servant replied, as if she were growing impatient with the chit.

  “Of course, thank you, Simmons,” the young woman said before turning around. She was about to repeat what the maid said when Randall angled his head in her direction.

  “I heard,” he said with a grin. “Perhaps if we walk this way, the path will lead us back to where your carriage is parked,” he suggested, not wanting to turn around just then. With the sun at their back, he could better see the woman who barely touched her hand to his arm. “I will not bite, my lady,” he said sotto voce. “Unless you wish me to do so, and then ...” He stopped himself and nearly cursed. Good God! What was he saying? It wasn’t as if she was a typical widow looking for a bit of companionship and a tumble!

  He cleared his throat as he placed his other hand over the one on his arm. “Tell me, Miss Fitzwilliam. Why the ... uncertainty?” he asked outright. The chit was so nervous, he thought she might faint.

  “Oh, Simmons, this isn’t working,” she said suddenly, pulling her arm from his.

  Frowning, Randall turned his attention from Miss Fitzsimmons to the maid. “What, pray tell, is going on?” he asked the servant directly.

  Giving her mistress a quelling glance, the maid stepped forward and, keeping her voice low, said, “Miss Fitzwilliam recently inherited some funds and has been elevated in Society as a result. She ... She is practicing everything she needs to learn.”

  Randall blinked. The scenario sounded ever so familiar. Lady Lily had been a maid when she was suddenly elevated in Society when her brother, the Earl of Trenton, had claimed her as his sister. “Elevated?” he repeated quietly as he dared a look at Miss Fitzwilliam.

  The maid sighed. “She recently reached her majority, my lord,” she replied, her brief explanation expected to answer his question.

  Well, it did to some extent. For a woman to reach her majority meant she wasn’t married, wasn’t betrothed to be married, and had probably inherited some funds kept in escrow for just such an occasion. “Congratulations, Miss Fitzwilliam,” he said with a nod, still wondering if she were any relation to the Fitzwilliams he had come upon earlier that morning. Although Norwick’s father had died years ago and his twin brother had perished in a traffic accident earlier that year, Randall wasn’t sure about the earl’s uncle. A simple comment would help determine if he had guessed her familial relationship correctly. “I suppose I should offer my condolences,” he said suddenly.

  The young lady’s eyes widened. “How ... How do you know about ... Did you know my ... father?”

  Of all the times to have guessed right, Randall rather wished it wasn’t this time. But at least he had the young woman conversing. “Norwick’s uncle?” he ventured.

  At her slight nod and sideways glance toward the maid, he took a deep breath. “I knew him in passing. We both had horses on the racing circuit.” He nearly stopped talking when he heard the maid’s soft gasp behind him, but decided to continue. “As I recall, his Thoroughbred won most of the races a few years ago. Did Edward die ... recently?” Randall asked, hoping she wouldn’t begin crying at being reminded of her father’s death.

  She shook her head. “It’s been three years ago now. Now I am ...” She paused before daring a glance back at the woman who followed them. “I feel a bit lost whilst attempting to learn what it is to be out in Society. And I’m making a cake of it,” she added in a whisper.

  Even though he agreed with her self-assessment, the marquess shook his head. She certainly looked as if she were lost. Why else would she continue to look to her maid for guidance? Especially when the maid was definitely younger than she was? For when he dared another glance back at the maid,
he was quite sure there was at least five years difference in their ages—perhaps even ten. “Hardly, my lady,” he said as he lifted her hand back to his arm. “At least you were not a maid suddenly elevated to the position of an earl’s daughter,” he offered when he noticed her look of surprise and then wondered at why her eyes widened even more at the comment.

  She apparently didn’t need to think about the scenario for even a moment. “You’re referring to ... to Lady Lily, aren’t you?” she guessed, a nervous smile forming on her lips.

  Randall gave some thought as to what it might be like to kiss those lips, but he didn’t find the thought as enchanting as he should have. Now a quick glance back at the maid, and he found he rather liked the idea of kissing her.

  What the hell? he wondered.

  Had he suddenly developed a desire for lady’s maids given what had happened with Lady Lily? He dared another glance back at Miss Fitzwilliam’s chaperone and wondered at the woman’s apprehension. Then he wondered when he might kiss the maid.

  “I am,” he finally replied with a nod in response to her question about Lady Lily. “She is married now.”

  This news seemed to surprise the Norwick cousin. “But, when did this happen?” she asked in disbelief.

  Randall gave it some thought. “The day before yesterday, I believe,” he replied. “She married a commoner. A clerk.” When he noted her continued look of surprise, he added, “It was for the best. She married for love, you see.”

  “Oh,” the woman who had introduced herself as Constance breathed, and once again Randall was left wondering if he should kiss the woman, just to discover if he could get away with it, and if he did, if she might consider him for matrimony.

  If Constance Fitzwilliam had reached her majority, then she was probably five-and-twenty, Randall figured. Much older than most debutantes, but certainly not a spinster—at least, not yet. “How is it you have managed to avoid marriage?” he asked then, not realizing how personal the question sounded until he heard the maid’s gasp behind him.