by Gaelen Foley
“Oh, Lizzie, come, you know full well Alec’s real father was only an actor,” Jacinda scolded tenderly, petting her shoulder.
“Where is Alec now?” Rackford asked gently.
“White’s,” Lizzie whispered through her tears.
“I will go and talk to him.”
“There is nothing more to say.”
“Let him try, Lizzie,” Jacinda cajoled her. The look in her big, brown eyes as she raised her gaze hopefully to his filled Rackford with resolve. Just once, he longed for the chance to be her hero.
Determined to put all the chivalry the girls had taught him to good use, he led Lizzie over to a nearby chair and bade her sit, then left her in Jacinda’s keeping and went out to try to shake some sense into that infernal rakehell.
Since White’s Club was just down the street, he arrived shortly. He quickly spied Alec sitting with some other young bucks drinking brandy. He walked over to their table by the bow window. Alec met his hard gaze, and at once, a flicker of guilt passed behind his dark blue eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t Lord Rack-and-Ruin.”
“Would you gentlemen kindly excuse us?” he ordered Alec’s scoundrelly friends.
They bristled at the request from a presumptuous newcomer, but Alec waved them off with a languid flick of his hand, and they withdrew.
“So,” he drawled as Rackford planted his hands on the shiny oaken table and leaned on it, staring at him in stern warning. “Baby sister has sicced her wolf-dog on me. Are you going to call me out, Rackford?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Don’t know. That’s the problem. No one knows what to make of you, how you might react. You are quite the wild card.”
“Coming from a gambler of your reputation, I shall take that as a compliment.”
Alec smirked. “A gambler of my former reputation, you mean. My luck has left me, Rackford. All I can seem to do these days is lose.”
“Your luck is not all you will have lost unless you go home immediately and make things right with a certain young lady.”
“Make things right? What in God’s name do you think I’ve just done?”
“Broken her heart. She is crying her eyes out.”
He said nothing for a moment. “Lizzie Carlisle can do a hell of a lot better than me.”
Taking a clean brandy snifter from the tray in the center of the table, Rackford poured himself a draught. “I may be able to help. If it’s a matter of money, I can give you a loan—”
“Thank you, but I’ve got a new situation. Hadn’t you heard?” he cut him off in razor-edged cynicism.
“Pleasant work, if a man can get it.”
“Aye, and if a man can live with himself afterwards.”
“You won’t see me complaining.”
“Why do you want to be rid of a girl who genuinely loves you?”
Alec dropped his head back with a vexed groan and stared at the ceiling. “Bitsy is a first-rate, bona fide, doe-eyed innocent, Rackford. She’s all brains and no common sense.”
“That’s not true. Miss Carlisle is a very intelligent young woman.”
He snorted. “Not if she loves me, she ain’t. She’ll wise up now, I warrant.”
Rackford slowly straightened up, holding Alec’s defensive gaze. “Sober up, man. Don’t be a fool. If you let that girl slip through your fingers, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
The bravado seemed to leave Alec all at once. He slouched down in his chair, stared at nothing, then shook his head with a resigned sigh. “Tell her I’m sorry, would you?”
“Tell her yourself.” Giving the man a hard look, Rackford turned and walked away.
“You should not be alone right now,” Jacinda insisted even as she and Rackford escorted Lizzie toward the waiting stagecoach the next evening.
“I have to, before I lose my nerve. Who knows what waits for me out there in the world? Besides, I’m only going as far as York,” Lizzie reassured her, just as she had ever since Jacinda had been a wee thing. She hugged her hard, then braved a smile. “It is time for me to leave the Hawkscliffe nest.”
“Only for a little while,” Jacinda insisted. “Promise you’ll write.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t change his mind, Miss Carlisle,” Rackford said softly. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s mad, and blind, and an addle-pated fool.”
She laughed and winced and hugged him. “Oh, Lord Rackford, if only all the male species could be like you. You tried, and for that, you are a knight in shining armor, as far as I’m concerned.”
Chastened by her kind words, he kissed her cheek before helping her up into the coach. Jacinda fretted, glancing at the other passengers. The stubborn Lizzie wouldn’t even let her hire a proper post chaise for her journey, but was resolved to take the mode of transport suitable, as she had put it, to her station.
“You two take care of each other,” Lizzie ordered them softly, squeezing Jacinda’s hand through the open window.
“We will,” Rackford assured her, tugging Jacinda back a few steps from the wheels of the coach as the driver made ready to go.
As Lizzie’s coach pulled out of the innyard, the two of them stood together, waving at her. When it was out of sight, Jacinda felt Rackford studying her.
She turned to him with a dismayed attempt at a smile. “Well. She’s off.”
“She’ll be all right,” he murmured, taking her gloved hand and lifting it to press a kiss to her knuckles. “Come.”
He helped her into his curricle and took her to Gunter’s for ices to try to cheer her up, but noting her still-distracted mood, at length he drove her away from the hubbub of the city to Primrose Hill. At the base of the slope, he left the carriage with the groom.
This was no secret, darkened bedchamber in the middle of a ball—it was broad daylight, and she had no chaperon present, she thought, but with Lizzie gone, propriety seemed like a petty irrelevance. Somehow, all in one day, life had become so much more serious. She had to get her thoughts straightened out. She only knew she was ever so glad of Rackford’s calm, strong, steadying presence. Together they walked up through the flowery meadows to the summit.
The sun was setting. Near an old, massive, whispering oak tree they sat side by side in the overgrown grasses and gazed at the prospect of London in the distance, sharing their pensive silence.
A chubby shopkeeper’s family was picnicking near the bottom of the hill. They had a blanket laid out upon the grass with countless baskets of food and a trio of children tumbling riotously down the hill. Their screeches of laughter floated to Jacinda and Rackford faintly on the evening air.
Other than that, they had Primrose Hill to themselves.
Jacinda looked over and found Rackford watching her in intimate silence. The ruddy light of sunset illumined his tanned skin, softened the hard planes and angles of his face, and brought out the gold dust in the mysterious green depths of his eyes.
“How are you?” he asked quietly.
“I’m all right. I’ve still got you, haven’t I?” She reached for his hand and gave it a fond squeeze, smiling ruefully at him.
His tawny eyebrows flicked upward in momentary surprise at her words. “Of course,” he said, but a manly blush crept into his cheeks.
It charmed her. On an impulse she reached over and caressed his cheek. “My dear Lord Rackford,” she sighed, then paused. “There is something…I have been meaning to tell you.”
He lifted his eyebrow in wordless query.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“Must I say it?” she exclaimed, laughing and blushing a bit self-consciously.
“Ah, you mean for the other night?” He took a bite of the red apple he had been polishing on his coat.
Her blush deepened as she watched him eating it. “No—though it was sublime.” She paused. “I wanted to say thank you for stopping me from running away from home.”
&n
bsp; He stopped chewing and stared at her. He swallowed in a gulp. “Pardon?”
She dropped her head, picking a blade of grass as her curls fell forward, veiling her face. “You were right. It’s not easy to admit it, but I owe you that.” She forced herself to look at him, smiling despite her chagrin. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but my running away would have been a disaster.” Her expression sobered. “You stopped me from doing possibly permanent damage to my relationships with my family, and there’s nothing more important to me than that. Oh—I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, catching herself too late. “Forgive me….”
“For what?” he asked with a blank look.
“It’s thoughtless of me to go on about how much I love my family after what yours has done to you.”
“Truro and his wife?” He shrugged it off with a frank snort, leaning back on his elbow in the grass. “We may share the same blood, but they’re not my family.” He looked at her for a long moment. “You are.”
Staring at her, he took another matter-of-fact bite of his apple. It made a loud, juicy crunch.
His words had made her catch her breath slightly. She held his gaze, not sure how to react, but she was, all of a sudden, intensely aware that without Lizzie or a chaperon or a roomful of eagle-eyed guests in some ballroom below, no one stood between the two of them and their suppressed desire.
Watching the play of emotions on her face, Rackford held out his apple, offering her a bite. Her heart beat faster as she leaned forward and opened her mouth, tasting the sweet, wet fruit.
He stared at her mouth as she chewed it. She had barely swallowed it when he leaned closer and claimed her mouth in a deep, luscious kiss. He tasted of the apple’s sweetness and of warm, masculine need. All thought reeled away, flying out of her grasp as his lips urgently coaxed hers apart. She laid her hand on his shoulder to steady herself against the whirling sensation, like the first time they had danced the waltz.
Her arms slid around his neck as she returned his kiss in ardent longing; then he eased her back into the deep, soft grasses, laying her upon a bed of daisies, primroses, and tiny buttercups.
They moved together in the long grasses, every sinuous stroke of his body lighting fires in her blood. She curled her hands passionately around his shoulders, then raked her white-gloved fingers down his back. His low groan of pleasure at her touch emboldened her. She kissed him more urgently, caressing his muscled chest, savoring his strength and power.
Did she really want to be like Lady Campion? Living only for herself, for her selfish pleasures, without a care for who she hurt along the way?
Just like Mama.
She was running her fingers through his hair when he suddenly winced and whispered, “Ow.”
She stopped at once. “What is it?” she panted.
“Nothing. Kiss me.” He reached for her again, but she stopped him, drawn back regretfully to her senses.
“Darling, we really shouldn’t.”
“Yes, we should.”
She smiled. “What if someone sees?”
He scowled. “Oh, very well.”
“Did you hurt your head or something?” she asked as they sat up again.
“It’s nothing. Absurd, really.” He fingered the back of his head with a look of boyish chagrin.
“Oh, Rackford, what have you gone and done to yourself now? Let me see.”
He muttered something under his breath that it was of no consequence, but when she riffled through his dark gold hair and found the newly healing gash on the back of his head, she gasped aloud.
“Billy! Oh, my darling!” She wrapped her arms around him protectively. “Tell me this instant what happened to your poor head!”
“It’s nothing,” he protested, stealing a soft kiss from her lips.
“William.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“William Spencer—”
“I backed into a…nail.”
“A nail?”
He nodded innocently. “In the stable. My horse nudged me and knocked me off balance. There’s the post with a big nail sticking out where the groom hangs the bridle. I fell into it. I told you it was stupid.”
She stared at him very hard for a second. “Did your father do that to you?”
“What?”
“Your father.”
“No! Nothing like that.”
“Do you promise?”
“My father had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, you silly boy.” She cuddled him; then he laid his head in her lap with a sigh of contentment. “You must mind those mean old nails in future.” Gazing down at him, she trailed her fingertip down the lordly slope of his slightly crooked nose, then leaned down and kissed the scraggly star above his eyebrow.
He closed his long-lashed eyes, smiling faintly.
As he lay in her arms, she thought of that night in the alley and could only marvel at how much he had lowered his defenses toward her, like a wild stallion gentled to her touch only. It was no small honor, for she knew how the rough school of experience had hardened him, yet he had opened himself to her. Even now, she could feel his vulnerability and it made her tremble inside to see how much he trusted her when she wasn’t even sure if she could trust herself. As much as she desired Rackford, she did not take his needs lightly, knowing, especially, how he had suffered. Though her feelings for him were changing, her fear and uncertainty remained. Who was she to try to love such a man? So much responsibility. What did a silly, rather spoiled debutante like her know about emotional sacrifice? Most insidiously, her fears whispered, what if she turned out to be like Mama? What if she hurt him, just like Mama had hurt Father?—hurt her darling Billy, knowing his need for love, knowing how rare and fragile his trust?
But when she looked anxiously at him, her fears eased, and all she felt was tenderness. In the nearby tree, a nightingale warbled, but all she heard was her heart’s promise assuring her she never could, never would, hurt this man. How could she ever stray, when he himself was all that she desired?
She chased her confused thoughts away and twined her arms more closely around him, resting her chin on his shoulder.
Together they watched the sunset’s glow fading where its swirling colors reflected on the lazy river.
As night fell, London disappeared amid the stars. The crickets sang around them in the field.
“Jas?”
She smiled softly to herself at the sound of his soft, deep voice speaking her nickname. “What is it, Billy-boy?” she murmured, glancing down at him and stroking his head more gently, careful of his injury.
“I—” He stopped himself, searching her face.
She smoothed back his golden forelock. “Hmm?”
“I think we’d better get you home,” he muttered, quickly sitting up. “It’s getting late.”
She knitted her eyebrows together, for it seemed as though he was going to say something else, but he remained silent. She took his hand when he stood and offered it to help her up. She caught a glimpse of soulful longing in his eyes before he looked away almost shyly. With a most touching degree of reverent solicitude, he walked her back down the long hill.
I daresay I’ve made a gentleman of him, after all, she mused in fond, wry humor as he handed her up into his curricle. He got in, took the reins, and clucked to the horses, driving her home.
Pity, she thought in amusement, her gaze trailing over him, from his smart top hat to his flawless cravat and elegant tan-colored tailcoat. I rather liked him as a heathen.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The lie he had told her gnawed at him, but nothing could have convinced Rackford that last night on Primrose Hill had been the time or place to tell Jacinda about his forays into the rookery. She had been upset enough by Lizzie’s farewell; he was determined to treat her with extra care and gentle consideration. What she needed right now was all the solid strength that he could give her, not the shocking revelation that he was breaking Sir Anthony’s rules and still fighting by n
ight like a savage. And she certainly did not need to know that he had fled capture with his tail between his legs.
Though he was hungry to even the score, he waited to let his injuries heal a bit before returning to the rookery. In truth, now that he had Jacinda to himself, he was in no great hurry to go, for there was always the chance that he might not come back.
Over the next couple of days, they were almost constantly in each other’s company, brought closer together by Lizzie’s departure. He knew she was in a tumult over her plan to marry Lord Drummond and was questioning her deepening feelings for him, as well.
Rackford was fully aware that Jacinda, in her innocence, had idolized the glamorous, widowed baroness, but Lady Campion’s taking Alec as her lover and the unintentional hurt this had caused Lizzie had obviously stricken her with doubts about her scheme—though she tried to hide them behind her usual blithe self-confidence.
And well she should doubt, he thought, trying to keep his impatience under control even as his own need for her deepened, it seemed, every hour. He’d be damned if he’d let her turn into a slut like Eva Campion, who had propositioned him twice since his arrival in the ton—a fact he wisely opted not to tell Jacinda. There was no predicting how she might react. She was too mule-headed to be influenced by anyone and would have to come to the truth on her own.
For his part, he had troubles enough with Daphne Taylor.
He was fortunate that Jacinda had tutored him so carefully on the rules of the ton, or he’d have been forced to marry Miss Taylor weeks ago. The redhead had attempted on several occasions to get caught alone with him. She wanted his title, he supposed, and a lusty spanking—neither of which he intended to give her. She had even tried to lure him into a kiss, but he had smoothly dodged her enticements, repeatedly foisting her off on Acer Loring.
