The Rake's Enticing Proposal

by Lara Temple

  ‘Dash it all, Ellie, don’t come apart at the seams now,’ Henry said, his eyes widening in alarm, but he put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her to him. ‘You’re the indomitable Eleanor Walsh, remember? Nothing is too difficult for you. So buck up, everything will come right in the end. Word of honour. I...’

  ‘Henry Giles Whelford! I will have none of that in my household!’

  They both jerked apart at the command. For such an ancient house, the door hinges were well oiled—neither had noticed the door open. Lady Ermintrude stood flanked by Drusilla and Fenella Ames, their cheeks flaming, and behind them, as out of place as a panther in a litter of kittens, stood the dark and impassive Mr Sinclair.

  Ellie’s face flamed in embarrassment and lingering misery, her pulse tumbling forward as it had when he appeared behind her in the Folly. It was not quite fear, more like the sensation of waking in the middle of a vivid dream, her mind struggling to separate fact from fiction. She had an utterly outrageous thought that he was not really there, just a figment of her imagination—that if she blinked he would disappear and all she would see were the three disapproving women.

  ‘I didn’t...we weren’t...’ Henry stammered, but Lady Ermintrude waved a hand, cutting him off as she turned.

  ‘Supper is in an hour. Do not be late.’ She sailed away and the cousins trailed in her wake, but Mr Sinclair remained, leaning on the doorjamb. As the silence stretched the absurdly fanciful sensation that he was not quite corporeal faded, but he still looked utterly out of place. He must only have entered because he was still wearing his greatcoat and Ellie noticed his buckskins were as streaked with dust and grime from their fall as her skirts.

  Peculiarly, this mundane observation reassured her a little, but when she looked up he smiled and her well-developed inner alarms began pealing once more. Instinctively she donned the supercilious look she reserved for visits from creditors and bank officials, but his smile merely deepened and he turned to Henry.

  ‘Hello, Henry. You really must train Aunt Ermy to call you by your title now. Hard to establish your authority when she’s calling you Henry Giles.’

  Henry stood and tugged at his waistcoat, his face flushed.

  ‘I don’t need to establish my authority. I’m Lord Huxley now. Why didn’t you send word you were arriving today? Will you be staying here or in town?’

  ‘Well, that puts me in my place.’

  Henry’s stiff look crumbled.

  ‘Oh, deuce take you, Chase. I hope you are staying here because we need to even the odds.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised I was being enlisted into battle again. Aren’t you planning to introduce me to the other troops, by the way?’

  The mocking edge was gone from his smile and Ellie felt her own lips curve in answer. She wasn’t surprised Henry found it hard to be annoyed at his cousin—no doubt this man was accustomed to deploying his easy humour to smooth his path. It was probably not genuine, but it was very effective.

  ‘Eleanor said the two of you already did that,’ Henry replied. ‘So, how long shall you be staying?’

  ‘I have to see what awaits me in the East Wing. If it is anything like the chaos of the Folly, it will take more than a couple of days, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, Good. Supper last night was dreadfully dull, but hopefully now you are here you will liven things up. I’m dashed glad you’re here, Chase.’

  Chase Sinclair’s gaze flickered past Henry to assess Ellie’s less-welcoming expression.

  ‘Well, that makes one of us, Henry.’

  Chapter Three

  Ellie paused halfway down the stairs, wondering how she had sunk so low that her stomach was contracting just as nervously at going down to supper as it did when facing Mr Soames at the bank. Henry called her indomitable, but she could not seem to find her balance now she was away from Whitworth.

  Now she would not only have to face the combined hostility of Lady Ermintrude and the two Misses Ames, but also the mocking and perceptive Chase Sinclair. It would be a wonder if the masquerade didn’t unravel that very evening.

  She didn’t even have any finery to hide behind. Her one good dress was pathetically dowdy compared to the cousins’ ostentatious mourning dresses and the under-chambermaid assigned to assist her had no experience being a lady’s maid, so Ellie had simply twisted her hair into a bun at her nape as she always did. At Whitworth none of this mattered, but here...

  Perhaps she should plead a headache?

  She sighed, gathering her courage as Pruitt opened the door to the yellow salon just as the clock finished chiming the hour.

  ‘You are late, Miss Walsh. I said five o’clock.’ Lady Ermintrude announced before her foot even crossed the threshold.

  ‘But...’

  Henry raised his hands behind his aunt’s back and Ellie swallowed her words.

  ‘My apologies, Lady Ermintrude.’ She curtsied, something she had not done in years, wobbling a little on the way up. Henry stood by the window next to Mr Sinclair and the setting sun encased the two men in a red-gold halo, making Henry look more angelic than ever, in stark contrast to Mr Sinclair’s sharply hewn face, deep-set grey eyes, and black hair. Together they could have modelled for a painting of Gabriel and Lucifer.

  Though perhaps not—one wouldn’t want to have Lucifer dominating that painting and Mr Sinclair certainly took up more than his fair share of space. He had changed out of his riding clothes and was dressed in a style she would have found hard to describe, but next to Henry’s tightly nipped waist and high shirt points he looked both less fashionable and much more elegant. Perhaps it was his sheer size. He appeared even taller in the civilised pale-yellow and walnut-wood colours that dominated the drawing room than he had in the shambolic room in the Folly. Without his greatcoat she could see the impressive breadth of his shoulders had nothing to do with its many capes.

  It was strange that after the first disorienting moments of his appearance at the Folly and earlier in the parlour she hadn’t felt any real apprehension, but now in the safety of the yellow salon he suddenly looked dangerous.

  He raised his glass as he met her eyes, his mouth quirking slightly at one corner. Lady Ermintrude’s eyes narrowed and Henry stepped forward hurriedly.

  ‘Eleanor, may I introduce my cousin, Mr Charles Sinclair. Chase, this is Miss Walsh.’

  Mr Sinclair put down his glass and Ellie straightened her shoulders and waited for the man to add to her destruction in Lady Ermintrude’s estimation.

  ‘Miss Walsh.’ He bowed slightly, his voice cool and polite and nothing like the familiar tones he had employed in the Folly or with Henry. But just as her shoulders dropped a little he turned to Henry.

  ‘I didn’t know you had it in you, Cousin.’

  Henry floundered at the ambiguous comment and there was a moment’s awkward silence, but Chase Sinclair merely went to stand by the fireplace, watching them as if waiting for the next act to commence.

  There was a sudden stifled giggle from Fenella and both Lady Ermintrude and Drusilla directed a dampening look at her.

  ‘The betrothal is not yet a public fact, Charles,’ Lady Ermintrude said in her most damping tones. ‘It is hardly appropriate to be contemplating such matters while still in mourning. We would all appreciate if you refrain from referring to it in public or in front of the servants. Indeed, in any setting.’

  Mr Sinclair arched one dark brow, but he gave a slight, mocking bow. Ellie indulged in some very satisfying silent rejoinders to Lady Ermintrude, but went to sit meekly on the sofa. Henry approached the sofa as well, but at a lift of Lady Ermintrude’s veined hand he chose a spindly chair instead.

  For a moment there was no sound but the rustle and snap of the fire and Ellie battled against the absurd urge to succumb to giggles like Fenella even as she struggled to think of something, anything to say that wouldn’t make matters more uncomforta
ble. She caught sight of a book on the low table between the open fashion plates of La Belle Assemblée. She knew nothing of fashion, but surely Ovid was unexceptionable?

  ‘That is my favourite translation of the Metamorphoses.’ The words tumbled out of her and into a silence more awful than before.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Lady Ermintrude demanded. ‘You have been permitted to read such salacious blasphemy?’

  ‘I don’t think it is quite fair to call Ovid’s Metamorphoses blasphemy, Aunt Ermy,’ Mr Sinclair interjected. ‘His Ars Amatoria, on the other hand, can be safely called salacious, but I sincerely doubt Miss Walsh has read that. Or have you, Miss Walsh? If not, I recommend the third volume in particular.’

  Ellie met her tormentor’s gaze, not at all certain she should be grateful to him for drawing Lady Ermintrude’s fire.

  ‘I won’t have you discussing such topics in front of my dear Drusilla and Fenella, Charles Sinclair! And you may take that book and put it with the rest of Huxley’s belongings. I do not know why it is here at all.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Ermintrude.’

  Mr Sinclair obediently took the book and went to sit on a chair across from Fenella. Fenella giggled again, but subsided under her aunt’s glare.

  ‘How long do you believe it will take you to sort through the East Wing, Charles?’

  ‘I will try to be as quick as possible and not allow myself to be distracted by any salacious antiquities, Aunt Ermy,’ he replied and her ladyship snorted.

  ‘I sincerely doubt Huxley had anything salacious there aside from those horrid books. You will need help. I suggest that since Henry is engaged in estate matters and since Miss Walsh appears to be proficient in Latin and all that heathenish nonsense, she may be of some use in helping you sort through Huxley’s belongings. I do not believe in sitting idle.’

  Ellie stared at her and Henry roused himself.

  ‘But Aunt, surely...’ His voice dwindled under her gaze.

  ‘Surely what, Henry? Speak up! I detest mumbling. Drusilla and Fenella are hard at work helping me with the embroidering for the parish’s Poor Widows and Orphans Society and do not have time to entertain your...betrothed. And since she so charmingly admitted she cannot set a stitch she will hardly be of use to us in our duties.’

  ‘Surely I could help with the housekeeping; I am...’

  ‘I oversee the housekeeping,’ Lady Ermintrude snapped. ‘You are not yet wed and until that day I see no reason to upheave Mrs Slocum’s routine. Meanwhile you may either be of use assisting the clearing of the East Wing or entertain yourself while Henry is engaged elsewhere. Now it is time for supper.’

  ‘Sorry, Eleanor,’ Henry whispered as they stood to follow Lady Ermintrude into supper. He looked so miserable she smiled and patted his arm.

  ‘Never mind, Henry. We shall laugh about it later.’

  ‘You might. This is my destiny.’ He sighed.

  ‘Coming, Henry?’ Lady Ermintrude barked and Henry took Ellie’s arms and propelled her after his cousins.

  Inside the supper room Ellie realised Lady Ermintrude had taken another step in her battle to separate her from Henry. Leaves had been added to the already impressive table, lengthening it by several yards. Now Henry sat at one end, flanked by Dru and Lady Ermintrude, while she was seated at the other end with Charles Sinclair and Fenella. At least that meant she was far from Lady Ermintrude’s sharp comments and Drusilla’s brooding silences, but she felt sorry for Henry. If he’d hoped Mr Sinclair would swell the ranks of his supporters, he’d underestimated the superior tactical skills of his enemy. Though Ellie was a little surprised Lady Ermintrude felt Fen was safe in her sinful cousin’s presence, especially given Fen’s rather mischievous streak. This was immediately in evidence as Fen demanded ‘Cousin Chase’ regale her with London gossip, though she kept her gaze demurely on her plate, hiding her giggles behind her napkin.

  * * *

  In the end supper was not as horrid as Ellie had expected. She listened idly to the fashionable nonsense Mr Sinclair offered his cousin, rather in the manner of a man tossing a stick to a puppy. She herself had no interest in gossip about fashionable fribbles, but at least he was amusing and neither of them appeared to want her to contribute which suited her, leaving her to stew in her own concerns.

  When these became too depressing, Ellie turned her attention to the dining room. It was very grand, but from experience she recognised the signs of economy in the draughts whistling faintly past the warped window frames, in the threadbare carpet and in the creaking of the uncomfortable chairs. Lady Ermintrude might be a wealthy woman, but it was evident she kept the household on a short string. Ellie’s hopes that Henry might be able to save Whitworth, already sinking since her arrival, sank further—what were the chances of Lady Ermintrude giving Henry funds merely for the asking?

  She was deep in her morose calculations, but her ears perked up when Fen leaned towards Mr Sinclair and asked in a whisper, ‘What was that book you mentioned, Cousin Chase? Is it very wicked?’

  Ellie glanced at Mr Sinclair. Surely he wouldn’t? He met her gaze with a slow, speculative smile that drew her into full alertness. Just as in the Folly she was suddenly utterly present, her senses absorbing everything—the sound of cutlery on china, the whisper of the draught just touching her nape, the flicker of the fire piercing the ruby-rich liquid in his wine glass.

  ‘Is it, Miss Walsh? Wicked?’

  The single word twisted out of its mould and became an entity in itself. She had read several Greek and Latin tomes from her father’s library that might be considered fast for a proper young woman, but she had never thought they deserved the label wicked. Now, under the force of that smile, she was no longer certain. Of anything.

  ‘No! Have you read it, Miss Walsh? Is it one of those books?’ For the first time there was a glimmer of respect in Fenella’s eyes as she turned to Ellie.

  ‘I don’t think your aunt will approve you discussing such matters, Miss Fenella; certainly not with Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘You have read it. Do you think there is an English copy in the library?’

  ‘If I remember correctly there is one in Latin, Fen,’ Sinclair answered. ‘It would do you good to apply yourself to something other than embroidery and gossip.’

  Fen wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Aunt never allowed us to study Latin. Only a little Italian so we can sing. She says German rots the mind and French enlarges the heart.’

  ‘Good Lord. I had no idea Ermy was a student of medieval medicine. I’m afraid to ask what she thinks about Greek. Something unmentionable in polite society, no doubt.’

  Lady Ermintrude swivelled in their direction, causing Fen to stifle her giggle and apply herself to her syllabub. Chase motioned to Pruitt to refill his glass, then turned to Ellie.

  ‘I was wondering what it would take for you to smile again,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t let Ermy see you do that too often. Her hopes to scuttle your plans will only intensify if she sees that smile.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern on my behalf, Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘Being called Mr Sinclair always reminds me of my uncle. Not a nice man. Call me Chase, or, if you must, Cousin Chase like Fen does.’

  ‘It would hardly be proper for me to call you Chase and we are not cousins.’

  ‘We will be soon and since we are apparently to work together over the next few days, I suggest you try. I don’t answer to Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘Oh, good. That means our time together is likely to be very quiet and I much prefer working without interruptions.’

  He laughed.

  ‘I see your weapon of choice is the sharp rebuke of silence. I cannot remember if that is among Ovid’s suggestions to women in his Art of Love. Did you really read it or is that merely bravado?’

  ‘Did you really read it or is that merely braggadocio?’

  ‘My
God, Henry has no idea what he is in for. And you are quite right—I only read the interesting parts and skimmed the rest. I particularly liked the segment where he suggests women take a variety of lovers of all types and ages...’

  ‘Cousin Chase!’ Fen gasped, her spoon halfway to her mouth and her eyes as wide as saucers, darting from him in the direction of her aunt.

  ‘You are quite right, Fen, this is not a suitable topic to be discussed at the supper table, certainly not while such horrible pap is being served. Miss Walsh and I will discuss it later.’

  ‘Miss Walsh would as soon spend her day practising cross-stitches, Mr Sinclair.’ Ellie replied.

  ‘Is that a euphemism?’

  Ellie did her best not to smile. The more he talked, the more her discomfort faded. He might be the irreverent rogue Henry said, but to regard him as a threat was ludicrous. In fact, she could see the wisdom of Henry’s hopes that at least with him in the house Lady Ermintrude’s fire would not be directed solely at her. And helping him in the East Wing would be an improvement to further demolishing her fingers with embroidery.

  ‘All that energy you expend trying not to smile could be better spent, you know?’ he said and behind the humour she saw the same speculation as in the Folly. It was a strange combination. Discordant. As if he were two wholly different people, like the two-faced god Janus—half-rogue, half-jester. And something else as well...

  ‘What then could be said about all the energy you expend in maintaining your rogue’s mask?’ she asked, curious which aspect would respond to her thrust. He didn’t answer immediately, watching her as he raised his glass.

  ‘A mask implies something to conceal. I am not so complex a fellow. Just like Lady Ermintrude I possess no hidden depths, I’m afraid. Fen could tell you as much. She has known me for dogs’ years, right, Fen?’

  He flashed his cousin a smile and she shook her head.

  ‘He is hopeless. Aunt says it is only a matter of time before he and Lord Sinclair end in gaol or debtors’ prison or worse.’