The Rake's Enticing Proposal

by Lara Temple

  ‘You do know that in Aunt Ermy’s small universe, Henry marrying one of her nieces was as obvious as the sun rising in the east or two plus two equals four.’

  ‘My brother would point out that while the latter is indeed a given, there is nothing to say the sun must always rise in the east.’

  ‘Good God, I hope you didn’t make that Humean point to Aunt Ermy. Is that why you have banished yourself to the Folly?’

  Her smile flashed again and was tucked away.

  ‘I had best return now. Good day, sir.’

  She took a step forward, but stopped once more as he did not move out of the way. It was childish to be toying with her, but he was curious about Henry’s bride-to-be. His memories of his awkward but good-natured cousin did not tally well with this intelligent and curious specimen of femininity.

  ‘I must return to the Manor, sir.’

  ‘In a moment. Since there is no one here to help us follow convention, shall we break with it and introduce ourselves? I am Charles Sinclair, though my friends and quite a few of my enemies call me Chase. May I know the name of my cousin-to-be?’

  ‘Then will you stand aside and allow me to leave?’

  He bowed. ‘My word on it.’

  She huffed a little, as if considering a snort of disdain.

  ‘Miss Walsh.’

  ‘Walsh. Walsh of Nettleton.’ He shouldn’t have spoken aloud. Her eyes widened at his tone and their coolness turned to frost.

  She didn’t look anything like the Fergus Walsh he’d once met in London. That man had been a red-haired Celt with charm and a temperament to match. He’d also been a charming wastrel and inveterate gambler who’d frequented all the clubs and gaming hells until bad debts drove him to ever more dissolute establishments. He’d brought his family to the brink of ruin and then compounded his shame by drowning in a ditch outside a gambling hell off the Fleet while inebriated.

  Chase had also heard of him from Huxley who’d been bemused by his younger brother’s friendship with the man. Arthur Whelford, father to new Lord Huxley, was a vicar and possessed all the virtues of his calling. But despite these differences the Whelfords and Walshes had been the best of friends. And now the wastrel’s daughter was engaged to the vicar’s son and new Lord Huxley.

  ‘I shan’t keep you from your betrothed any longer, Miss Walsh. You may run along.’

  ‘How kind of you, Mr Sinclair.’ Resentment seethed in her deep voice, but as she moved towards the doorway something else caught his attention—a folded slip of paper held in her hand. The world shifted, both his pity and the last remnant of his enjoyment of the absurd little scene draining away in an instant, and he tweaked the letter from her hand.

  ‘I believe my cousin’s will stipulated that the contents of the Folly are mine and my siblings’, so I suggest you leave this here.’

  ‘How dare you! Return that to me this instant!’

  She reached for the letter and in his surprise he raised it above his head, just as he would when he and Sam squabbled over something as children. And just like Sam, Fergus Walsh’s daughter lunged for it. Her move was so unexpected she almost made it, but just as her fingers grazed the letter he raised it further and she grabbed the lapel of his coat, staggering against him and shoving him back on to the stack of boxes that stood by the stairway.

  He should have steadied himself on the wall, but instead he found his other arm around her waist as he toppled backwards. The top boxes tumbled down the stairway in a series of deafening crashes and he abandoned the letter to brace himself against the doorjamb before he followed them into the void. He saw the moment the anger in her eyes transformed to shock and fear as they sank towards the stairs, her hand fisting hard in his coat as if she could still prevent him from falling. The impact against the tumbled boxes and the top step was painful, but nowhere near as painful as their precipitous descent down them might have been.

  ‘My God, I am so sorry. Are you hurt?’ She was still on him, one hand fisted on his greatcoat, the other splayed against his chest. Her eyes were wide with concern and he could see all the shades of gold and amber and jade that meshed together around the dilated pupils and he had the peculiar sensation he was still sinking, as if the fall hadn’t stopped, just slowed.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she demanded again, giving his coat a little tug. Out of the peculiar numbness he noticed her elbow was digging painfully into his abdomen and he forced himself to shake his head. At last the strange sensation ebbed, but now his body woke and instead of reconnoitring and reporting back on the damage, it focused on something completely different. She was sprawled on top of him, astride his thigh, her legs spread and her own thigh tucked so snugly between his if he shifted the slightest bit he...

  ‘You are hurt,’ she stated, her fist tightening further in his coat, her gaze running over him as if trying to locate his wounds and, though he hadn’t felt a blow, he wondered if perhaps he had after all struck his head on the wall and that accounted for this strange floating feeling.

  ‘Not hurt. Just winded,’ he croaked and managed a smile and thankfully her brows drew together into a frown.

  ‘Serves you right! That is my letter. Not Lord Huxley’s.’

  She struggled to rise, her thigh dragging against his groin with startling effectiveness and his normally obedient body shocked him by leaping into readiness. Instinctively his arm tightened around her and with a cry she slipped and fell back against him, leaving him doubly winded, her hair a silky cushion under his chin. Perhaps if he had not been so surprised and not a little embarrassed by his body’s perfidy, he might have kept quiet. But instead of helping her as a gentleman should, he kept his arm where it was and succumbed to the urge to turn his head to test the softness of her hair with his lips.

  ‘Don’t go yet...we’ve just got comfortable,’ he murmured against her hair, absorbing the scent of lilies and something else, sweet and tempting... Vanilla? Her elbow sank even more painfully into the soft flesh under his ribs, but he felt the pain less than he noticed the rest of her anatomy as she wriggled off him and shoved to her feet.

  ‘Henry is utterly right about you!’

  He levered himself into a sitting position and watched as she picked up the letter with a gesture that was a perfect reflection of her scold. She didn’t even glance at him as she stepped over him and stalked down the stairs.

  ‘And you may tidy up that mess you made.’ Her scold echoed up the stairwell the moment before the slamming of the wooden door sent a whoosh of cold air up towards him. He heard Brutus’s shrill whinny and hauled himself to his feet with a spurt of fear only to hear her voice, faint but all too clear as she admonished his sixteen-hand fiend of a horse.

  ‘Out of my way, you great lug. You’re as ill mannered as your master!’

  Chase inspected the tear in the seat of his buckskins where the shattered box had ripped through the sturdy material. It stung and throbbed and he began laughing.

  His brother Lucas would love that he found himself flat on his backside with his head handed to him within minutes of arriving. What a fitting beginning to what was likely to prove a dismal week.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Ellie, wait.’

  Ellie stopped halfway up the stairs, indulging in a string of mental curses. She didn’t wish to speak to anyone in her present state, not even Henry.

  ‘I’ve escaped the steward and was just about to set off in search of you, Ellie. There is tea in... Good Lord, what happened to you? Have you fallen down a coal chute?’ Henry’s eyes widened as they took in the state of her skirts and the uncharacteristic anger on her face.

  ‘I must change, Henry.’

  ‘First come into the parlour and tell me what’s about before the three witches find us. Come, tea and lemon seed cake are just what you need...’ Henry coaxed.

  The smile and the concern in his sky-blue eyes were a balm
after the look of distaste that had doused the laughter in Mr Sinclair’s grey eyes the moment he realised who her father was.

  Though how someone with his reputation had the gall to look down upon a fellow reprobate...

  She shouldn’t be surprised—it was the way of the world that even rakes and rascals felt superior to those of their breed foolish enough to sink into debt and disgrace. Apparently the notion of there but for the grace of God go I didn’t occur to the likes of Charles Sinclair. Chase, Indeed! She would like to chase him off with a croquet mallet!

  ‘You’re looking fierce, Ellie. Is this Lady Ermintrude’s fault?’

  ‘No. I had an encounter with your cousin,’ she said and he grinned, looking even more angelically boyish.

  ‘Dru or Fen did this? Over me? Good lord, I wouldn’t have thought they had the pluck!’

  ‘Not them, you vain popinjay. Your cousin The Right Honourable Charles Sinclair. Though I saw nothing very honourable about him.’

  His grin vanished.

  ‘Oh, lord, is Chase here already? And what the devil do you mean you had an encounter? I’ve heard he’s a devil with the ladies, but...’

  ‘Henry Giles Whelford!’

  ‘Sorry, Eleanor. I was funning... Never mind. I thought you were at the Folly escaping Aunt Ermintrude.’

  ‘I was. He appeared there while I was trying to read Susan’s letter. And he is a hundred times worse than you said.’

  ‘Is he? I mean...what on earth did he do?’

  ‘He accused me of stealing! And then he took my letter and when I tried to take it back we almost fell down the stairs.’

  ‘No! Ellie, are you hurt? Do let me see.’

  Her anger fizzled at the concern in her friend’s voice.

  ‘I’m not hurt, but I never should have allowed you to convince me to masquerade as your betrothed. I knew everything would go wrong.’

  ‘Hush!’ Henry flapped his hands, glancing at the closed door. ‘You never know when that sneaky Pruitt might be hovering about listening at keyholes. If I am to protect your reputation, the engagement must remain just between us, Lady Ermintrude and her nieces.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve already blurted it out to Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘What? Why on earth...?’

  ‘I don’t know. He looked at me so suspiciously and the words were out before I could think. I warned you I am dreadful at subterfuge. If I had not been so desperate...’

  ‘We are both desperate, remember?’

  ‘My problems are slightly more serious than yours,’ she replied sharply. ‘If I cannot find the funds to prevent the banks from foreclosing on Whitworth, Edmund and Susan and Anne and Hugh will lose their home at best and end up in debtors’ prison at worst. I think that is a little more fateful than whether you can withstand Lady Ermintrude’s pressure to wed one of her nieces. I did try to recover my mistake by telling him it was to remain a secret while you were in mourning.’

  ‘Well, that should be enough—Chase was never one to spill. Matters are a little more complicated here than I thought, but once I untangle the accounts I am certain to find a way to raise the funds to prevent the banks foreclosing on Whitworth. And then in a few weeks you may jilt me and I will mope around, declaring myself inconsolable and determined never to wed and that will put an end to Aunt Ermintrude’s plans to force me into marrying Dru or Fen. By the time she overcomes her scruples I will hopefully have the Manor sufficiently on its feet so I can dispense with her funds.’

  ‘I still think this is madness, Henry. I don’t know if I shall uphold this masquerade for days, let alone weeks. Besides, the children never had to manage without me...’

  ‘Well, high time they did. Susan and Edmund wouldn’t thank you for calling them children. Why, Susan is almost on the shelf herself.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, Henry. I’m well aware of my advancing years.’

  ‘You’re still a year younger than I so listen to a wise old man—it will come right in the end. I promise. All you must do is be precisely who you are—the indomitable Miss Eleanor Walsh. If you could keep Whitworth afloat for the past five years, beating back bankers and creditors from the doorstep, you can take on one ill-tempered spinster. Well, three of them. You’ve already made grand progress last night, admiring Aunt Ermintrude’s brooch. Now she is convinced you are a scheming golddigger.’

  ‘I was trying to make polite conversation!’

  ‘Well, some more of that politeness and she’ll be mighty pleased with me when you jilt me. It’s deuced uncomfortable that Uncle Huxley allowed the estate to become dependent on her funds, but I suspect that was her doing, trying to make herself indispensable. No doubt she wished it was her and not her sister Hattie my poor uncle married.’

  ‘I feel rather sorry for her...’

  ‘Well, don’t be. There isn’t a shred of kindness in her.’

  ‘It was kind of her to take Drusilla and Fenella in when their parents died.’

  ‘That isn’t kindness. She brought them here like two dolls and treated them just the same. If they weren’t so annoying, I would feel sorry for them. Why, Dru is twenty-three and has never had a true Season even though she is an heiress in her own right. It’s shameful.’

  ‘There, that is something for you to do. Really, you led me to believe they were much worse than they are. Once I break your heart, I suggest you take your cousins to town and find them husbands.’

  ‘Fen might enjoy it, but Dru prefers the country. You should have seen her today when she came with me and the steward out to the pastures, the two of them rattling on about sheep and wool and lambing until I was ready to cry. I can’t see her enjoying the brouhaha of London any more than I would.’

  ‘I think it a good sign Dru made such a gesture of goodwill. You should encourage her to come out with you more often, knowing she will enjoy it more than embroidering with her aunt.’

  ‘It feels more like a cross between a lecture and a scold than a gesture of goodwill.’

  ‘Well, she is rather shy...’

  ‘Shy? Dru? The girl tore strips out of me that time I put frogs in her bed. Had me carry them all the way back to the pond in the dark.’

  ‘Well, you were a horrid little boy and I would have done the same.’

  Henry laughed, his freckled cheeks a little pink, and not for the first time since her arrival at Huxley, Ellie wondered if he was being quite honest with himself. His tales of Huxley Manor over the years led her to expect a household of scheming harpies, but it was clear only Lady Ermintrude merited that title.

  She decided to toss one more stone into the well.

  ‘Once the period of strict mourning is over, you should hold a ball here at the Manor and bring all the landed gentry so she can find a nice country squire. Then settling Fen would be her and her husband’s task.’

  ‘I don’t fancy playing matchmaker, if you don’t mind. But perhaps I should ask Dru to help with the da—the darling sheep. I might as well derive some benefit from her superior airs. But even if Dru isn’t...well, you know...that doesn’t mean my aunt wouldn’t try to force my hand with her. I told you about that time three years ago when Aunt Ermintrude arranged matters so that we were left stranded in a carriage on the way back from an assembly. If the Philbys had not come along we’d have been long married, believe me. I left the next day before the old witch could try something else. You’re my only defence, Ellie.’

  Ellie sighed. She might think Dru rather suited Henry, but she could not argue against his aversion to being coerced into marriage. She knew enough about being coerced into situations not of one’s choosing.

  ‘It’s only a few weeks, Ellie. In fact, it’s dashed good news Chase has come. My aunt always resented Huxley’s strong ties to the Sinclairs. After his wife passed, he spent much more time with them and their widowed mother in Egypt than he ever spent here and when t
hey did come to visit they always managed to rub her the wrong way. Perhaps you could flirt with him and then...’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, very well. It was only a thought.’

  ‘A typically noddy-headed one, Henry! Though if I were at all sensible I should encourage anything that will hasten your plan. I couldn’t bear it if Edmund lost everything because I failed. I had it all planned, you know. All we needed were a few more years of decent harvests and for nothing terrible to go wrong with the livestock or the tenants, then poor Mr Phillips fell ill so of course we could not press for rents and then there was the drought last year and...’

  Her voice cracked as she recalled the last summons to meet with Mr Soames at the bank. He’d been regretful, but very clear. They’d shown far too much leniency already. Problems of their own... Pressure from the board... Fiscal duty... Three months...

  Three months...

  Her head and stomach had reeled and halfway back on that endless walk from town she’d hurried into the bushes and been viciously ill. She’d only told Henry because he’d been waiting at Whitworth to tell her of Huxley’s passing and somehow the truth tumbled out of her. So when he said it was fate and proposed this mad plan she’d agreed. For once, just for once, she wanted someone to swoop in and save her, like a sorcerer in a story.

  She’d forgotten that most swooping-in sorcerers tended to exact a hefty price for their services.

  But three months...

  She felt another wave of weariness and fear beat at her embattlements. It was even stronger now that she was away from Whitworth where she didn’t have the constant reminders of her duty. Even coming here felt like a betrayal despite the fact that this was her only hope of saving her family’s home. She didn’t know what to think any longer.

  Just that she was so very, very tired. And scared.

  ‘Oh, God, Henry, I’m so frightened,’ she whispered and the tears began to burn. She would not cry. She hadn’t cried since her mother and baby sister died that horrible day five years ago and she would not begin now.