by Anne Barton
To All the Rakes I’ve Loved Before
Anne Barton
New York Boston
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Table of Contents
An Excerpt from When She Was Wicked
An Excerpt from Once She Was Tempted
Newsletters
Copyright Page
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For Selina,
with my heartfelt thanks
and best wishes always.
Chapter 1
Miss W. displayed an appalling lack of decorum at dinner this evening, insisting on a menu comprised entirely of pastries, creams, and jellies.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
London, Fall 1815
Freedom.
Miss Amelia Wimple reveled in it, finding inordinate pleasure in little things, like poring over stacks of old gossip sheets at two o’clock in the morning as she was now. There was no one to scold her for having a glass of sherry on her bedside table or cluck in disapproval at the dark circles that would rim her eyes come morning, because her mother was gone.
Not permanently—heaven forgive her for even entertaining the thought—but at least for a fortnight or so. And it was lovely.
Amelia’s mother was taking the waters in Bath in hopes of curing an intolerable shortness of breath and a rather mortifying sort of digestive ailment. Mrs. Wimple attributed her symptoms to anxiety brought on by her daughter’s ungrateful attitude and willful disposition. However, Amelia suspected the true culprit was her mother’s overly ambitious corset that she refused to remove—even when she slept.
Just moments after Mama’s departure last week, small changes had occurred in their Mayfair town house. An upstairs maid whistled a merry tune as she dusted. The butler, Giles, who was seventy if he was a day, went about his duties with a spring in his step. Amelia drew back the heavy curtains in the drawing room—which Mama kept dark to ward off headaches—and sunlight bathed the room in a warm glow.
Amelia wasn’t fond of the social whirl and had done her very best to avoid it for the past two years, but for once she could entertain a few friends without her mother’s overbearing presence. Amelia’s second cousins, Olivia and Rose Sherbourne, had visited earlier in the week to help her mend cast-off clothing for a charity school—a project Mama viewed with disdain because it distracted Amelia from her ostensible goal in life: snaring a titled husband.
A rap on her bedroom door made her jump. Sherry sloshed over the rim of her glass as she leapt out of the four-poster bed to answer.
Cicely, her lady’s maid, stood in the corridor, her bed cap askew. “There’s a gentleman downstairs to see you.”
Amelia gasped. “Who?” Gentlemen didn’t call on her during regular calling hours, much less after midnight.
The maid hesitated just long enough to sound warning bells in Amelia’s head. “Lord Verrington.”
Samuel. The tips of her ears heated, but she tried to appear cool as she arched a brow.
“Mr. Giles tried like the devil to send him packing, but he was quite insistent.” Cicely handed Samuel’s calling card to Amelia—an absurd formality, given the lateness of the hour. “He begged for the chance to speak with you.”
How ironic. Just two years before, on the night he was supposed to propose, Samuel had eloped with another woman. He hadn’t been inclined to talk with Amelia then.
Of course, the prudent thing to do now would be to turn him away, but Amelia didn’t want Cicely to assume the Jilting (as she’d come to think of it) still hurt her, because it didn’t.
Much.
Besides, she was curious. Samuel was married now—happily by all accounts—and his wife was expecting. She couldn’t imagine what would bring him to her doorstep tonight.
Trying for a cheerful, I-suppose-it-couldn’t-hurt kind of tone, she said, “Very well.” She quickly donned a modest robe, twisted her unruly curls into a pile at her crown, and speared the mound with a few pins. Cicely eyed the results critically, but Amelia shrugged. This was no ball, after all.
She’d expected to find Samuel in the drawing room, but as she flitted down the stairs, she spotted him pacing the foyer, twisting the brim of his hat. Something was very wrong.
“Amelia,” he began before she’d even reached the landing, “I can’t imagine what you must think of me, calling at this hour.”
She’d intended to remain aloof, detached. But the worry etched on his face and the fear lurking in his eyes made her feel for her old friend. “I think you must have a good reason for coming. Is everything all right? Please don’t say you’ve had bad news from home.”
“I need your help.”
Giles grunted. The butler hovered near the front door as though he’d dearly love to open it, apply his boot to Samuel’s backside, and shove the gentleman out onto the street.
Amelia shot the butler a “stand-down” look. To Samuel, she said, “I’m happy to assist in any way I can.”
“I didn’t know where else to turn. This is about Brookes.”
“Lord Brookes?” She’d just read something about him. His roguish escapades were regularly featured in the society papers.
Samuel nodded. “He’s out front, in my coach. In bad shape.”
Amelia blinked, and understanding dawned. “He’s foxed.”
Giles snorted.
“No, not drunk. He’s been beaten. I think he needs—rather, I know he needs—medical attention. And he wouldn’t let me take him to his house, which is where I’ve been staying while in town, because Lady Greystone… well, she’d faint away at the sight of him.”
Ah. If anyone understood highly squeamish mothers, it was Amelia. She also happened to know there was a bit more to Lord Brookes than the gossip papers revealed.
She placed a hand on Samuel’s arm. “Bring him inside, and we’ll try to make him comfortable. Then, if you think it’s necessary, we can call for a doctor.”
Giles growled under his breath, and for the space of a heartbeat Amelia feared he’d send Samuel and Lord Brookes away, but he grudgingly said, “I’ll rouse a few of the staff to help.”
Amelia shot him a grateful smile. Both men hurried off, and before she’d had the chance to fully comprehend what she’d just agreed to, Samuel and two footmen carried Lord Brookes, bloody and crumpled, into her foyer.
His arms swung lifelessly. Someone had wound his cravat around his head in a makeshift bandage, which was now more crimson than white.
A knot formed in her throat. To see anyone in such a pitiful state would have been alarming, but to see Lord Brookes that way… well, it chilled Amelia so deeply she could hardly breathe. Belatedly, she realized the men awaited her direction.
Pulling herself together, she said, “Take him upstairs, to the last bedchamber on the right.” As they hobbled up the staircase, she turned to Giles. “Send someone for the doctor and have a maid take up some bandages, hot water, and… whatever else might be helpful.”
The loyal butler nodded, resignation softening the lines on his forehead.
Amelia gave Giles an encouraging smile, wrapped her robe more tightly around her, and headed to the guest bedroom. Cicely and Samuel tended to the patient as best they co
uld; one of the footmen lit the fire. Amelia slipped inside the room but stayed close to the wall, out of the way.
The infamous Lord Brookes was a guest in her house… and her mother wasn’t even there to witness it. All things considered, probably for the best.
His long, muscular legs were sprawled across the counterpane, and Cicely struggled to remove one of his fine boots. It was shocking to see such a virile man so helpless. He bore little resemblance to the dashing rogue Amelia had met two years ago.
Samuel walked to her side and nervously ran a hand through his hair. He stood inches from her, this man whom she’d once thought would be her husband, and oddly, she felt no pull toward him, no sense of loss. As Cicely and another maid worked to gently remove Lord Brookes’s expertly tailored jacket, Amelia watched with great interest.
Probably more than was seemly.
To Samuel, she said, “The doctor should arrive shortly.”
“Thank you. For everything. You look wonderful, Amelia.” His gaze was appreciative, without being improperly so.
She knew he referred to the weight she’d lost and hoped he didn’t imagine she’d been starving herself for his sake, when she hadn’t been starving herself at all. She’d merely begun standing up to Mama. But she didn’t wish to discuss any of that with him. Not when the gentleman lying on the bed in the guest room was infinitely more interesting. She gestured toward the bed. “How did this happen?”
“I have no idea. We were supposed to meet at our club. When he didn’t show, I made the rounds to a few of his other favorite haunts. On my way back to Watier’s I spotted him lying in a heap on the side of the road. I can’t imagine who’d do this to him.”
Amelia just barely refrained from rolling her eyes as she thought of her gossip sheets and all the beautiful women with whom Lord Brookes had associated over the years. “A jealous gentleman? Perhaps a husband?”
Samuel chuckled softly. “That’s possible. Could be hard to narrow the list.”
Amelia nibbled on the tip of her index finger, a horrid habit Mama was forever trying to rid her of. “Did he say anything when you found him? That is, was he able to speak?”
“He threatened me bodily harm if I took him home. He didn’t want to alarm his mother.” Samuel sighed. “I had no right to impose on you this way, though. I remembered your mother was away, and so I thought I could get him patched up here and figure out what to do with him. But he’s in worse shape than I feared. I’ll need to come up with another plan.”
“Hmm.” Amelia was slightly distracted by the tanned V of skin displayed above Lord Brookes’s loosened collar, and she was unduly disappointed when a maid pulled a blanket over him, covering most of his chest. Blinking, she forced herself to pick up the thread of conversation. “Why don’t we wait to see what the doctor says? Maybe he looks worse than he really is.”
“I hope so,” said Samuel.
Having situated Lord Brookes as best they could, the maids lingered near the bed, fussing with the linens and adjusting his pillow.
Almost as though they were reluctant to leave their handsome patient.
When there was nothing more to be done, Cicely sighed and pulled the other maid along by her elbow. “Come on then. You can help me bring the water up.”
Amelia glanced at Samuel, who looked pale and unsteady on his feet.
She waved at a chair in the corner of the room. “Would you like to sit? Perhaps a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you. Would you mind if I waited for the doctor downstairs? It’s rather unmanning to have to admit, but I’ve never been much use in sickrooms… particularly when there’s”—he swallowed—“blood.”
Amelia immediately ushered him toward the door. “Think nothing of it. I’ll remain here until the maids return. Go on.”
And just like that, she was alone—in a bedroom, of all places—with the most notorious rake in London.
Chapter 2
Miss W. has once again demonstrated abominable judgment
in receiving two gentleman visitors well after normal calling hours.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
A moan came from the bed—or more precisely, the man on the bed.
Amelia rushed to Lord Brookes’s side. He groaned, a ghostly, chilling sound. His eyes were closed and his head lolled back and forth, loosening the coils of the cravat that covered what must be the worst of his wounds.
Staring down at his cut, bruised, and yet undeniably handsome face, she whispered, “You’re safe. The doctor is on his way.”
But he grew more unsettled, pushing away the blanket and straining as though he wished to sit up. Amelia glanced at the door. If he began thrashing in earnest, she wouldn’t be able to restrain him—she doubted three men could. But she could try to soothe him.
Boldly, she placed her hands on either side of his face. She was careful to avoid the worst of the cuts as she held his head still. “Shhh,” she said softly. “You’re going to be all right.”
Gently, she smoothed her thumbs over the sides of his jaw, marveling at the warm, abrading feel of his skin. He quieted a little, and as some of the tension left his body, his lips parted. Even though the lower one was split and swollen, she found herself staring at those lips, wondering what they might feel like if she touched them with her own, and what it might feel like to be properly kissed—or rather, wickedly kissed—by a man like him.
These were purely hypothetical questions of course, as she had no intention of kissing anyone, but even the thought stirred something warm and lovely in her belly.
And then, because her amateur attempts at nursing seemed to have the desired effect on Lord Brookes, she continued lightly stroking his face… and the smooth skin below his ears… and the brown curls at his nape. Though unaware of his surroundings, he sighed contentedly.
Well. Apparently, she was quite good at this… this comforting thing. The knowledge not only pleased her, but emboldened her further. She’d noticed the skin exposed by his loosened shirt, of course—any warm-blooded girl would have. Her gaze took in the small hollow above his collarbone, the breadth of his shoulders, and the light sprinkling of hair across the smooth planes of his chest.
Never one to waste an opportunity, Amelia let her hand glide down his sinewy neck and over the taut muscles of his shoulder, barely breathing as she did so. She traced his collarbone with a fingertip, then, ever so lightly, placed her hand flat on the upper part of his chest, letting the springy hairs tickle her palm. The angelic smile playing around his lips almost made her regret her decision to remain unmarried for—
“Cock.”
She couldn’t have jumped back more quickly if the bed had been infested with snakes. Lord Brookes had uttered the word so clearly that there could be no mistaking it. Even worse, there could be no mistaking the way in which he’d said it.
As a plea.
Dear Jesus. His eyes were still closed, and Amelia desperately hoped they’d remain so until she could remove herself from the room. Lifting the hem of her robe, she turned and began to tiptoe toward the door.
“Amelia? Er, Miss Wimple?”
Blast. As she slowly spun around to face him, heat crept up her neck. He’d lifted his head a few inches off the pillow, and confusion clouded his eyes. Well, at least the eye that wasn’t swollen shut.
“Ah, Lord Brookes,” she choked out. “You’ve returned to the realm of the living.”
“If you say so.” He let his head drop and winced. “What am I doing here?”
“Samuel brought you. Because it was convenient, I suppose, and he knew Mama was in Bath.”
“You should have sent us away.”
“Undoubtedly.”
He smiled at that, and Amelia’s belly fluttered. She started to nibble on her finger again, but stopped herself and clasped her hands tightly behind her back. Clearly, her hands were not to be trusted. “Can I get you anything? Another blanket? Some water perhaps?” Anything at all that would pr
ovide a reasonable excuse to flee the room?
He did not respond, merely studied her. After an uncomfortable silence—uncomfortable for her at any rate—he said, “Were we…?”
“No!” A ridiculous giggle rose in her throat. “Of course not. You were probably having a nightmare.”
His gaze traveled the length of her neck to her silk robe—thank heaven she hadn’t worn her shabby one—to her toes. “Not a nightmare. Not even close.” He paused as though he’d let that sink in. “Where’s Samuel?”
“Downstairs. We’ve sent for the—” Hushed voices, laced with concern, carried down the hallway, flooding her veins with relief. “Why, that must be Dr. Wescott now. I’ll just leave you in his capable hands.”
“But you’ll come back later, won’t you, Miss Wimple?”
“Perhaps,” she said, darting toward the door like the coward that she was.
“I’d like it if you did.”
Amelia mumbled a few words to the doctor just outside the door, then went directly to her room, where she doused her face with chilly water. Blinking at her reflection in the looking glass, she patted her cheeks dry and silently scolded herself for letting Lord Brookes fluster her so. Her steady diet of gossip rags should have made her immune to the shock of scandalous behavior.
But this time, Lord Brookes was not just a name printed in ink on paper. He was here, in her home, in the flesh. Lots of exposed flesh.
Finally—something of import to write in her diary. She pulled the leather-bound journal out of her desk drawer, opened it, and ran her hand over a creamy, smooth page. Ever since the Jilting, writing had been a comfort, for she could write things that she’d never dream of saying out loud. She often expounded on the many advantages of remaining single. But she also enjoyed reimagining the admittedly mundane activities of her life—in gossip paper style. It amused her and was infinitely more entertaining than, well, the truth.
