The Rake's Enticing Proposal

by Lara Temple

  ‘Imagine you find a book you’ve searched for for a long, long time. You want to rush through it, don’t you? Immerse yourself in it, consume it whole in one sitting. But you also want to make it last, sink into each page and let it absorb you whole. This is where you feel alive and you never want it to end, because you know that when it does you will be bereft, thrust out of that perfect place where you felt you belonged, where you were temporarily whole. You want to devour, but you also want to savour and that conflict is both torture and bliss. That is what a good kiss is.’

  The words sheered through her, around her, sharper than the wind. They heated her skin, but chilled her inside with anticipation and dread. She knew she should move back, away. She was breathing through her mouth, unable to even clamp her lips together. She felt utterly revealed, known.

  ‘Is that what you always feel when you kiss someone?’

  He shook his head. It was a slow movement, a little hesitant. Then he breathed in and answered, ‘It is very rare.’

  Into the cauldron of her confusion a new and utterly unaccustomed sensation of jealousy roared, shocking her even more than the stinging need that was chasing chill with fever inside her.

  He was thinking of someone in particular—she could feel the weight of his thoughts condense into one image. It was pathetic, but she would have preferred he said it was utterly common, that it was the same with every woman he had kissed, and there must have been dozens of them if Fen’s tales were true. She didn’t want to know what woman brought that look into his eyes, the tension deepening the shadows beneath his carved cheekbones.

  It is time to leave, said Eleanor.

  ‘How rare?’ asked Ellie.

  He moved away from her.

  ‘Come, we should return. Otherwise I will give you reason to scold me. Besides, those clouds are gathering and the weather turns quickly this close to the sea.’

  * * *

  A good kiss was like a good book?

  What on earth had possessed him to make such a fool of himself?

  Chase was grateful she didn’t speak as they left the tower and made their way back towards the stile. In his current state he would undoubtedly make an even greater fool of himself.

  ‘Oh, bother.’

  He looked up as she was halfway over the stile, reaching back to tug at her pelisse which caught on the fraying wood. She gave it a sharp tug, which dislodged it, but also her foot from the damp wood. Without thinking he caught her, but instead of steadying her he swept her into his arms, holding her to him for an all-too-brief moment, his head dipping to capture her scent, his mouth just brushing the soft hair at her temple and grazing the rise of her cheekbone, trailing downwards towards the corner of her mouth. He could feel her warm breath, sharply indrawn and exhaled, and he almost bent to capture it with his mouth when sanity returned.

  Though only a moment passed before he deposited her on the other side of the wall, the sensations stretched out to the ticking of a very different clock—the shift from the warm, faint pulse at her temple under the soft tickle of hair to the curve of wind-cooled skin over her cheekbone and the faintest brush of her eyelashes against his own cheek just as he let her go.

  It was a whole universe explored in the passage of a few breaths and with stark clarity he knew he would never rid himself of it. Like memories of the worst battles he’d taken part in—some experiences became indelible. Without rhyme or reason, they wove themselves into the fabric of who he was and could never be washed out.

  ‘Mr Sinclair!’ Her voice was shaky and her cheeks as red as Dru’s hair as she shook out the skirt of her pelisse. ‘It is not fair to make game of me.’

  He stood on the other side of the wall, every parcel of skin where her body had pressed against his was still clamouring for more, and the rest of him hummed with jealous need. He was tempted to tell her the only one he was making game of was himself.

  A good kiss was like a good book?

  He must have taken leave of his senses. Their whole conversation was a little mad, which was in line with his recent frame of mind.

  He pushed away from the wall, angry at himself, at her, at Henry, at the whole unsettled universe for not following the correct order of things.

  He groped for something to say and fell back on the old crutch of mocking gallantry.

  ‘I was merely being chivalrous.’

  ‘You haven’t the faintest notion of the concept.’ She turned away and it was the disappointment in her voice that struck him most. He vaulted over the wall and caught up with her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Walsh. That was ill done of me. I won’t trespass again. Please forgive me.’

  She nodded, but did not answer and, he walked beside her in silence, furious at himself for his foolishness.

  ‘It is second nature for you to do such things, isn’t it?’ she asked after a moment. She was calmer, but he still heard the distaste in her voice and it stung.

  ‘No,’ he answered, ‘believe it or not, but if I did something like that in London, we would either now be engaged or Henry would be challenging me to a duel.’

  ‘Are you saying it is my fault, then? Because I came walking with you?’

  ‘No, of course not! It was just...an impulse. A very foolish one. I promise you are safe with me. Believe me, after what I saw happen to my mother I would never...’

  He clenched his jaw down on the words, but it was too late. He felt as shocked as she looked at his words. He must be truly thrown off his balance to even hint at such matters out loud, let alone speak of them to a respectable young woman.

  What the devil was wrong with him? In a mere week he had crossed more lines with Ellie Walsh than he had in a lifetime. He should say something, diffuse the situation, return her to the Manor and forget this afternoon ever happened, and hopefully so would she.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she said, her voice hushed.

  ‘Don’t. She didn’t... Nothing happened in the end. Well, not nothing. My father was badly wounded...’

  Her eyes widened at the implication and he cringed internally.

  ‘It wasn’t my father who...it was my Uncle John, but that isn’t the point. God, this is utterly inappropriate. We should return.’

  ‘Your uncle?’ She sounded as shocked as he felt at sharing his horrific memory. He had never spoken of this except once with his brother when they had re-entered that dreaded room at Sinclair House in London after two decades. He never even thought of it if he could help it.

  ‘He was drunk. He was always three sheets to the wind as far as I can remember.’

  ‘That cannot be an excuse for...for trying to harm someone, anyone.’

  ‘No. We knew to keep out of his way, though. Usually my mother knew to keep out of the way as well, but he came in from a night of God only knows what and found her in the Great Hall.’

  ‘You were there when it happened?’

  He hardly heard the strain in her voice. He was back in the musty darkness of the cavernous armoire, with the familiar scent of the oil used to care for the foils, his body taut with anticipation of jumping out and surprising his mother as he heard her playfully calling to him, telling him she’d already found Lucas and Sam and it was only a matter of time before...

  ‘We were playing hide and seek and I was hiding in armoire where they kept fencing gear. She was searching for us and then I heard him stumble in.’

  His mother’s light-hearted chatter as she searched stilled and he froze as they all did when Uncle John was around. But he still hadn’t been prepared for his uncle’s leering comments about bitches in heat, his mother’s choked protests, the scraping of the table on the floor.

  He must have cracked open the door because he could remember the look of his uncle’s dark clothes pressed against her pale-blue skirt, and the flash and clang of metal as the statuette of the wolf she’d reach
ed for slipped to the floor.

  And then, perhaps most shocking, she was screeching, a fury in her voice he’d never heard before or since and his uncle was stumbling back as she flailed at him, cursing so foully Chase hadn’t understood half the words.

  ‘I don’t remember much—it was all very fast and very slow. I remember my mother hitting him and he hit her and she screamed and fought him off, but then my father burst in and my uncle... Then Lucas was in the doorway holding Sam and I think he called to me and finally I ran. My father took one of the swords and my uncle...laughed.

  ‘He was right to laugh. Even drunk he toyed with my father until he slashed him across the arm. By then Tubbs was there and he stopped it and Lucas dragged Sam and me out on to the street. I remember because it was snowing. We left the house that day and never went back until after my mother’s death. They were all dead by then.’ Even with the wind rushing around them he could hear his breathing, as harsh and strained as in that dusty closet. How many times as a boy had he imagined going back to that moment and taking one of those swords and running it through his uncle’s black heart. ‘I should have helped her, but I didn’t.’

  ‘That is utterly unfair, Chase. You were a child, a little boy.’

  He straightened. ‘So what? I should have done something. I didn’t even call for help. A baby would have known to cry out. Sam screamed loud enough when she saw what was happening.’

  Ellie shook her head; she was cradling her fist against her chest, as if it hurt.

  ‘You cannot hold children to our standards, Chase. It was horrible for you to witness that, but it was neither your fault nor your role to defend your mother.’

  ‘No, it was my father’s and a sad job he made of it, the poor fool. My Uncle Oswald was the one who came to remove us from the house and made arrangements for us to stay in Gloucestershire while my father recovered and then arranged employment for him in Boston. We were meant to follow once he established himself, but instead he went and got himself killed in a duel over sins he wasn’t even culpable of. Typical of him. My grandfather used to taunt him by calling him Howard the Coward, but he was wrong. He wasn’t really a coward, just incompetent.’

  He heard the disgust in his voice, but could do nothing to rein it in. In that quintessentially English pasture, with a herd of sheep munching idly by the wall and the blustery wind flattening the tall grass, he could find no purchase to combat the seductive compassion in her eyes, as warm as cinnamon and melting honey, holding open his floodgates as effectively as a rack and thumbscrews. More effectively.

  What was wrong with him? In a matter of days she’d extracted confessions from him he never would have imagined making on his deathbed. The woman was dangerous.

  ‘Come. We should return. I only meant to apologise, not...bore on like this. You were right to be angry at me. Of all people, I should know not to cross lines.’

  He started walking, afraid of what would happen if he stayed. He almost hoped she would not keep pace with him. They were now within sight of the Manor and she would be safe enough on her own. But she fell into step beside him.

  ‘Is this also why you do not wish to have children?’

  ‘I am perfectly happy as I am. No one depends upon me and I depend upon no one. It is a very comfortable way to live, believe me. You of all people should understand the burden of having people hanging about your neck like millstones, only for you to disappoint them.’

  Her shoulders hunched and he wished he’d been more careful.

  ‘I did not mean that you disappointed them. I was referring to myself.’

  ‘Well, I have disappointed them, even if they would never say anything. I have tried everything I can think of to dig us out from under Papa’s debt and perhaps if last year’s harvest had gone well, I might have...’ She cleared her throat and again he curbed the urge to offer comfort and she continued. ‘But they aren’t millstones. They are my family and I love them.’

  ‘I love my brother and sister, too, but that does not mean I would actively choose to add to my list of dependents. My life suits me as it is. No home, no ties, no responsibilities beyond those I choose and, believe me, I only choose those I can resolve and walk away from.’

  She directed him another uncertain, compassionate look and he forced a smile.

  ‘This is altogether too maudlin a topic. Can you please forgive me? And forget I was an as—less than chivalrous?’

  Her mouth hovered into a reluctant smile.

  ‘I could hardly forget that you are an ass, Mr Sinclair, since you make such an effort to remind everyone. But I will forgive you none the less. Especially since you are a useful ally here.’

  ‘That is the least forgiving forgiveness I have witnessed in a long time,’ he answered, relieved she was meeting his invitation to return to their light-hearted banter.

  ‘That is all I am offering at the moment.’

  ‘Then I thank you. By the way, now that we are about to re-enter the halls of gloom and will probably have no chance to speak until the morrow, what was that thought that was burdening your overcrowded mind? About the conundrum.’

  She looked away, her laughter dimming.

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow...’

  ‘You seemed excited enough to share it earlier. Are you still angry at me?’

  ‘No, no...it isn’t that. It is merely...it regards your mother, you see.’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘Yes. I was thinking of the missing notebooks and it occurred to me there might be something that ties them together.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘It was that story about the bazaar—I noticed that the notebooks preceding a missing one often end with reference to a story involving your mother. He refers to her either by name or simply by the use of the letter T.’ She faltered at his silence. ‘I should not have mentioned it now, but you asked. I am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I am not quite so fragile.’

  ‘I know you aren’t. But perhaps I should have followed your advice and allowed your conundrum to stew a little more before I spoke.’

  ‘No, I am glad you unburdened yourself. Now you had best run along or you will be late and I shall have to rescue you from Aunt Ermy’s tongue lashing by throwing myself into the line of fire.’

  She sighed.

  ‘Hopefully there will be no need for that. Not that a tongue lashing would make much difference to the horrors of the yellow salon.’

  ‘The horrors of the yellow salon. That sounds like a tawdry Gothic novel.’

  ‘The Manor is a fine setting for a Gothic novel, but we lack a credible villain.’

  ‘I would have thought I make a fine villain. Lady Ermintrude certainly thinks so.’

  ‘Oh, no. I am the villain in her tale. The conniving, unscrupulous and opportunistic young woman come to prey upon the hero. That is Henry, by the way, not you.’

  ‘That was clear without your elucidation. Then Dru and Fen are the heroines, no? Not quite my kind of novel, I am afraid. What role do I play, then?’

  ‘In every great tragedy there is always an element of comedy. You are clearly the jester.’

  ‘And you are shameless. I would hazard a guess you would not be so impertinent if I weren’t determined to be on my best behaviour after my transgression.’

  ‘Of course. I am a dreadful opportunist. I am taking advantage of your temporary remorse—I know it shan’t last long.’

  Not just an opportunist but rather alarmingly adorable, he thought with regret as he watched her hurry up the stairs, grateful she had allowed him to retreat with more dignity than he deserved both from his transgression and the embarrassing outpouring that followed.

  Lucky Henry.

  Chapter Nine

  Another day, another dismal dinner.

  Ellie climbed the stairs in the wake of Lady Ermintrude and her niec
es and thought of the fanciful visions she and Susan and Anne sometimes had of being invited to a grand house party. There would be scintillating discussions at the supper table and then, after the men had their port or whatever they did when the women withdrew, everyone would meet for music or charades, or perhaps even some dancing...

  Usually Chase added a dash of humour and warmth to these dinners. He met all of Lady Ermintrude’s quelling efforts with the subversive wit that Ellie knew infuriated Aunt Ermy without her quite knowing why. But tonight he’d been as subdued as the rest, swamping Ellie both with regret and guilt that she had brought back all his dreadful memories.

  If only she’d not reacted like a scalded cat when he caught her on the stile.

  If only she hadn’t felt so right in his arms she might not have reacted like a scalded cat.

  Because she still felt scalded. Several times during dinner it took an act of will not to reach up and touch the places his mouth had brushed her skin as she watched him sunk into his distraction.

  Why, oh, why had he stopped just short of her mouth? If she had had an ounce of sense, she would have demanded he complete the gesture and kiss her instead of confirming all his taunts that she was as prim as a schoolmistress. Fen would probably have acted more maturely than she.

  She reached her room at the end of the corridor and sighed. She should be grateful there was at least a fire waiting for her, which was much more than she allowed herself at home. A warm fire might not solve all her problems, but it was worth more than a dashing ball and a soul-searing kiss, wasn’t it?

  As if to answer her question, the single candle shivered in the sconce that lit the corridor and Ellie reached to pull her shawl about her, only to realise it wasn’t there.

  ‘Oh, bother,’ she muttered. She wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and into the Desert Boy book she was rereading and escape the world, but years of discipline turned her around. By the time she reached the dining room the house was quiet and she was grateful she would at least not have to face the servants in her quest.