The Love of a Rake

by Linda Rae Sande

  How else could a woman of her quiet confidence and pretty appearance avoid courtship? How else could she put off the attentions of marriage-minded men in Sussex? He was quite sure she’d had no intention of marrying—maybe not even to him—and had simply lived her life to avoid the situations that would have landed her at the altar.

  Had she not been ruined, she might have been married off a long time ago.

  “What did he do?” Randall asked in alarm, his voice still quiet.

  His sharp tone had Constance jerking her gaze up to meet his. “I cannot say,” she said with a shake of her head.

  Randall furrowed his brows, the stern expression obviously useful in dealing with stubborn servants and members of Parliament, but Constance merely took a deep breath, a sob causing a hiccup as she did so.

  “What did he do?”

  Constance regarded the marquess for a moment, realizing she had to tell him something. Perhaps it was time someone else knew the truth, although she had promised David she would never tell.

  But David was dead now.

  Daniel knew, though. Daniel had been there, probably even paid witness to it.

  “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” she whispered.

  Randall took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “How many people know?” He wasn’t sure why he asked, but for some reason, it seemed important.

  Sighing, Constance angled her head to one side. “Just two of us now,” she whispered. “But he was so angry when he discovered what had happened, he ... he hates me. He despises me. I will never be—”

  “Who knows!?”

  The words were so loud, Constance gave a start. “My cousin. Daniel,” she whispered. She had thought lightning might strike when she said the earl’s name, but a sense of relief settled over her just then.

  “Norwick?” Randall countered, wanting to be sure he understood correctly. At her nod, he suddenly realized what she meant when she said there were just two of them now. “Was it David who killed your ... rapist?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Constance bit her lower lip before allowing a nod. “My horse ...” She paused, the hand with the handkerchief lifting back to her face as another tear suddenly appeared.

  “Your horse?” Randall half-prompted, wondering what she had been about to say. He suddenly wondered if David had killed the man before or after he inherited the Norwick earldom. But given his age and hers—David was at least fifteen years older—Randall realized it had to have happened after he inherited the title.

  “Yes, Amasia, the mare. She was in the stables at Norwick Park because I took her there when I went to live with David and Daniel.” At Randall’s sudden frown, she added, “My mother had died that winter and father ... father was in mourning.”

  Randall imagined Edward Fitzwilliam had probably done his mourning from the bottom of a bottle of scotch, but he kept his comment to himself. “And?” he prompted.

  “She was foaling. I had checked on her before my come-out ball started, but ... And then, after the supper dance, I went back out to the stables. There was a man there. Someone I didn’t recognize. The colt—Mr. Wiggins—had just been born, and I was ... I was about to go into Amasia’s stall when ...” She let out a cry. “He was there to steal the horses.”

  Randall’s arms were around her in an instant, pulling her hard against the front of his body. He was about to quiet her, tell her she needn’t put voice to the rest of what had to be a horrible nightmare of a night, but he realized she probably wouldn’t have heard his words. She seemed truly and completely in the past.

  “David must have heard me scream. I know I screamed before he slapped me so hard, my head ...” Even now, she could remember how dazed she had felt, how stars had danced in front of her eyes so that she was nearly blinded by them. Perhaps she couldn’t remember much more than the pain she had felt when she had been pushed onto the stable floor, or the sound of her skirts tearing and of the horses’ neighs of alarm.

  “He would not be found guilty,” Randall said in a whisper, thinking she had feared for David’s welfare. He was an earl at the time, after all, and almost immune from arrest and trial.

  “He hit him with a shovel, and then he choked him to death,” she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “And if he hadn’t, I would hunt down the man and do it myself,” Randall vowed, his voice quiet as he pulled her back into his arms.

  Constance clung to him then, burying her head into the small of his shoulder. “Daniel would have,” she choked. “Which is why I think he despises me,” she said through a sob.

  Randall frowned, wondering why she thought such a thing. “He does not despise you,” he whispered.

  Pulling her head away from his shoulder, Constance stared at the marquess through tear-filled eyes. “How do you know?”

  Realizing he had to admit to having paid a visit to the Earl of Norwick, Randall inhaled. “I had to ask him for permission to marry you, of course,” he said. “And make sure you received the inheritance you had coming to you.”

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Constance stared at the marquess. “When ..? When did you speak with Daniel?”

  “This morning.”

  Constance angled her head, confusion apparent on her face. “Why? So my inheritance can become my dowry?”

  Before she could finish the question, Randall shook his head. “It is yours to do with as you please, my lady,” he assured her. “I don’t need a dowry. I just want you. I made that very clear to Norwick,” he said as he pulled her close.

  “This morning?” she whispered.

  Randall shook his head. “Yes. I went this morning,” he murmured, and then suddenly remembered Daniel’s expression when he mentioned his desire to marry Constance. Relief, perhaps. Guilt, certainly. Arranging a match for his ruined cousin had to be in his best interest, even if it meant bestowing her with the inheritance she deserved.

  And nothing had been said about the value of what was in the stables at Fair Downs.

  “What about yesterday?” It made no sense. They had barely spoken to one another before their walk to Gunter’s. “Why were you at Norwick House yesterday afternoon?” Constance asked, no longer resisting his hold on her.

  The marquess sighed and kissed the top of her head. “Fate, my love,” he whispered. “Destiny.” Curiosity, really, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Destiny. Constance took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of sandalwood and starch as she considered the word. A good name for a horse, she found herself thinking. “And why didn’t you introduce yourself as a marquess?” Of all the topics they had discussed while they walked and enjoyed ices at Gunter’s, at no point had he mentioned his title.

  Randall sighed. “If I had, you would have thought me a rake based on my reputation. Based on my nickname,” he replied. “I wanted you to form your own opinion rather than that of The Tattler’s,” he added with a shrug.

  “I thought you a rake even before I knew who you really were,” Constance countered, her voice quite serious. But the gleam in her eye and her barely suppressed grin gave her away.

  “And yet you allowed me to escort you to Gunter’s,” he accused.

  Constance grinned. “I did.” She sighed. “But remember, I was hesitant.”

  Randall nodded. “I remember,” he sighed. He kissed the top of her head again. “Now will you marry me?”

  Angling her head so she could regard him a moment, she asked, “Will there be bubbles in my bath and in my champagne glass? Horses in the stables? A purple salon with roses?” she wondered with a teasing smile.

  Smiling, Randall nodded. “Yes to all,” he replied. “At least, there will be when the decorator finishes your salon at the house in Cavendish Square.”

  Her eyes widening at his response, she asked, “When will he start, do you suppose?”

  Randall shrugged. “He better have started yesterday,” he answered, his manner suggesting there would be hell to pay if he hadn’t.


  Her eyes wide, Constance realized just how serious the marquess was about making her his marchioness. “And the choker?”

  Randall nodded. “Last night. I have your ring, too,” he added with a teasing grin.

  Purring into his cravat, Constance nodded her head. “Then I will,” she murmured.

  “You will ... what?”

  Constance grinned. “Marry you, you rake.”

  Randall allowed a sigh and kissed her quite thoroughly.

  Chapter 40

  A Married Life Begins

  Nine o’clock at night, September 16, 1817

  Eleanor Merriweather Wakefield regarded her reflection in the cheval mirror, rather stunned to find she looked rather beautiful just then. Her entire body, naked and still flushed from her wedding night couplings with her new husband, made her appear rather wanton, much like the naked whores she had seen in Lucy Gibbon’s brothel her first day in London.

  The day before yesterday.

  The trunk of wedding clothes left behind by the modiste did include a night rail, but Charles had forbidden her to wear it. “Perhaps when it is a bit chillier,” he suggested with a shrug.

  Eleanor rather doubted there would ever be a chilly night in their bedchamber.

  Her gaze took in the entire bedchamber, finally falling on a card table and two chairs. At Charles’ behest, Chester had set up the furnishings during their hastily arranged wedding ceremony and left a box there for their return—a box containing a three-hundred-piece puzzle. A gift from Arthur, the puzzle’s wooden pieces now lay strewn about the table, only a few of them put together.

  There were more important things to do on a wedding day, after all.

  She slowly turned so her left side was reflected in the mirror. One of her hands slid down the front of her body, coming to rest where she hoped a baby might have been conceived with that evening’s lovemaking.

  She dared a glance toward the bed, grinning at the sight of Charles passed out on her bed, the bed linens mussed and the counterpane in a heap on the floor. There was a thought she should get some sleep—she was quite sure Charles’ insatiable appetite for her would require she succumb to his request for just one more opportunity to pleasure her before dawn lit the sky.

  A frisson passed through her entire body just then, reminding her of just how he had kept his promise. Even when he wasn’t atop her, he had her feeling sensations of pleasure she had never felt before.

  Eleanor turned so her other side was displayed in the mirror, grimacing at the sight of a slight bruise, one she had sustained when attempting to leave the bedchamber by way of the window the day before.

  What had she thought to do once she was out of the window? She might have been able to shimmy down the side of the house, gripping windowsills and finding toeholds in the clapboard siding, but she rather doubted her skills as a tree climber would have landed her on the ground in anything other than a heap of muslin and broken bones.

  But Charles had come to rescue her. Come to pull her from the window. To admonish her, as if he truly cared for her. But mostly, she thought, because he didn’t want the neighbors to see her and ruin her reputation.

  Even if she was already ruined.

  Smiling, Eleanor spun around in the front of the mirror and only stopped because she realized she was being watched. And because she was suddenly feeling a bit dizzy.

  Embarrassed, she ducked her head and moved back toward the bed.

  “You needn’t have stopped on my behalf,” Charles murmured as he sat up in the bed. His hair, tousled from his brief sleep and their lovemaking, stood out from his head. “If I had half your energy, I would be right there with you dancing about,” he claimed, his voice sounding as drowsy as he looked. “But I fear you have worn me out.” Indeed, he couldn’t remember a time when his body had felt so replete, so satiated he didn’t think he could muster enough energy to take Eleanor’s body again.

  At least, not before the morning.

  Eleanor moved toward the bed and climbed onto the mattress. “Are you telling me you’re too old for this?” she asked in mock despair.

  Charles chuckled. “Perhaps.” He reached over to wrap an arm around her waist so he could pull her next to his body. “But if you sleep next to me, I promise I shall resume our marital bliss in the morning.”

  Stretching out next to him, she reached over and kissed his lips. “I look forward to it,” she replied in a whisper, suddenly feeling rather tired. Her eyes closed despite her desire to lay and simply watch him while he slept. Lie there and wonder why she had ever thought herself attracted to his brother, who was no doubt enjoying his own brand of marital bliss in the townhouse he shared with his new wife and lover somewhere in Piccadilly.

  Lifting her left hand to regard her wedding ring by the light of the one candle lamp that was still lit, she studied the round diamonds with their filigrees of white gold in between. Surprised her husband hadn’t simply given her a ring from the Wakefield collection—she figured the earldom probably possessed several beautiful and expensive pieces—she rather liked that she was the first countess to wear this ring.

  Countess.

  The word brought another grin to her lips as she snuggled closer against Charles’ body and closed her eyes.

  Having watched her admire the ring he had given her earlier that morning when they had said their vows, Charles closed his own eyes and decided he would have to give her the matching earbobs. A wedding gift, he thought as he allowed a grin.

  He might even allow her to wear them tomorrow night. Them, and nothing else.

  Chapter 41

  Followed by Another

  Eight o’clock at night, September 17, 1817

  Randall lowered that day’s issue of The Times and dared a glance at his wife. Holding an embroidery hoop so the light from a candle lamp illuminated the fine white fabric, Constance poked a needle threaded with green silk into the floral design. “How are you this evening?” he asked as he leaned in her direction, curious as to what she was creating with her even stitches.

  Constance grinned. “I am well, husband,” she replied, her grin widening into a smile. “The same as I was the last time you asked ...” She paused a moment to check the time on the elaborate clock above the fireplace. “Fifteen minutes ago,” she added with an arched eyebrow.

  The newspaper forgotten, Randall followed his wife’s gaze to the clock. “Has it been that long already?” he asked, an impish grin forming on his face.

  Lowering her embroidery to her lap, Constance gave her husband her full attention. “You’re missing your club, aren’t you?” she said, a sense of disappointment settling over her. As much as Randall had assured her he wanted to be settled with a wife, the marquess had never struck her as a man who would be content spending his evenings at home by the fire, especially now that they had taken up residence in his Cavendish Square mansion. Too large for just the two of them, she had to feel grateful for the army of servants it took to run the place.

  Randall frowned. “I am not,” he countered, wondering how Constance could say such a thing. “I am merely ...”

  Horny.

  Now that he was finally married, and well before Christmastime, he found he rather liked waking up next to his wife. He knew he would, her warm body nestled next to his in the master suite bed. In fact, he hadn’t wanted to get out of bed that morning, but the day’s duties—a meeting with his solicitor and another with his secretary—forced him to leave her side and ring for his valet. Even before Castor could get to the master suite, Constance had climbed out of their marriage bed, donned her silk wrapper, given him a kiss on his cheek, and made her way into the mistress suite through their shared dressing room.

  The quick glimpse of her bare bottom and the side of one of her breasts in the morning light had Randall wishing he could simply pull her hard against his body so that he might continue what they had been doing all night.

  Did she have any idea how much he wanted her back in that bed?
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br />   Right now?

  “I am merely wishing we could ... continue what we were doing at this time last night,” he finally finished, his hardening cock forming a bulge behind his doeskin breeches.

  Not wanting to wait a minute more than necessary—it had been their wedding night, after all—he had kissed her senseless and then carried her to the bed in the master suite. He couldn’t remember another time he’d had to slow his ardor, practice patience, and delay his release as he had done last night. But, oh the ecstasy! Over and again, he had pleasured her until she begged for him. Over and again, she had used the pads of her fingers to explore his body, inciting ripples of pleasure in places he didn’t know could feel that way.

  He dared a glance at the inside of his elbow, an involuntary shudder passing through his body as he remembered how first her fingertip and then her tongue had him considering his arm in a whole new light. And then she had moved her attention to his other arm and done the same to him there. It could have had something to do with how her breasts were pressed against his chest at the time, or perhaps how the fingers of her other hand were busy stroking his other shoulder and upper arm, or perhaps it was the heady scents of jasmine and sex that had him so aroused, but whatever it was, he wanted more. Much more.

  He shifted a bit in the upholstered chair, hoping she wouldn’t notice his discomfort.

  She noticed.

  “Oh!” she said, suddenly setting aside the embroidery hoop and standing up. She shook out her skirts.

  Caught off-guard by her sudden rise from her chair, Randall struggled to get up when Constance used a hand to push him back down into the chair. “Where do you think you’re going?” she murmured, positioning herself so one of her thighs was propped on his chair’s arm. She leaned down so her lips hovered near his. When he didn’t make a move to kiss her, she pulled away a bit. “As I recall, this time last night, you were kissing me,” she whispered, one of her fingers lightly trailing down the side of his face.