Last Rake Standing

by Jayne Fresina

  Published by Evernight Publishing at Smashwords

  http://www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2011 Jayne Fresina

  ISBN: 978-1-926950-20-4

  Cover Artist: LF Designs

  Editor: Kimberly Bowman

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Sam, who has put up with more than any man should. Or so he says.

  Thanks also to my family and his, for listening to the endless whining of a frustrated writer. Thanks to the wonderful folks at Evernight Publishing and to my fantastic editor Kimberly Bowman.

  Last Rake Standing

  Jayne Fresina

  Copyright © 2011

  Prologue

  London, 1886

  He had come for her. It was the beginning of the end. When she sensed his presence in the audience for the third night in a row, the exotic, pink-feathered creature singing into the abyss beyond the footlights knew her days were numbered. Tall, lean, and lithe as a panther in his black eveningwear, he prowled impatiently before her, drawing ever nearer, watching the slender bars of her gaudy, painted cage, searching for a way inside.

  A past mistake was about to catch up with the little bird. The man who once swore to capture her and get his revenge had her in his sights as she flew across the stage on her golden swing.

  It was a very good thing indeed, she thought, her body already throbbing with excitement, that she was ready for him. Oh yes, she was ready.

  Chapter One

  That same night

  Three-thousand, one-hundred and twenty. She made the calculation easily in her head, always very good with numbers. As the family breadwinner since the age of seventeen, practical necessity had nurtured a level-head and a mathematical brain.

  Tonight was the three-thousand, one-hundred and twentieth time she had turned at the end of her final song, glanced over one raised shoulder into the blackness beyond the smoking footlights, and smiled. It was a smile carefully engineered to seem effortless; an achievement of great artistry, a balance between knowing and vulnerable, sensual and innocent.

  To some that smile said, “If only”. To others it said, “Perhaps”. But to her kohl-rimmed eyes, the world beyond that stage was fathomless space. Nothing existed for Holly O’Neil on the other side of the proscenium arch–not even Holly O’Neil.

  Three-thousand, one-hundred and twenty performances now complete, she prepared to make her exit.

  But tonight, for the third in a row, something caught her attention, alive and breathing in that great black space. He was there again, threatening the tentative balance of her existence. She knew the danger. That well-honed instinct, sharp as a razor blade, was something else she’d acquired through the trials of survival.

  Always professional, she recovered. No one watching would know there was anything amiss. With a lingering wave, she vanished behind the swathes of velvet curtain. Rowdy applause broke across the orchestra’s last note and a shower of cries shattered in the smoky air, rattling the boards of the empty stage.

  They vowed undying love for her, would do anything for her, anything to possess her. Even through grim winter weather they ventured out to prove their devotion. She was Le Petit Oiseau, a woman of mystery, fantasy, and fragile perfection, but alive only as she flew across the stage on her gilded swing six nights a week.

  In the curtain’s draft, stray feathers from her costume floated like pink snowflakes, drifting to the edge of the stage, where men grabbed at them for souvenirs, trampling one another in the rush. She watched through a small moth-hole in the curtain, still aware of him out there, his heartbeat shadowing her own like the warning drums of an advancing army. Shivering, she rubbed her arms.

  Damn him. Nobody gave Holly O’Neil goose-bumps. Nobody.

  * * * *

  In a box to the right of the stage, Marcus Craven, sixteenth Duke of Penhale–by default, as he would say, when in a particularly difficult mood–had no need to scramble for a feather. They wafted up to him on a swell of heated air, attaching to the sleeve of his evening jacket, drawn by an unseen force. Very still in the shadows, he listened to the clamor below, thoughtfully observing the stage curtain with its dingy, gold tassels and worn, scarlet plush. She wasn’t coming out again, it seemed, although the drafts made the curtain billow teasingly. Well, then, he’d just have to go and find her, because this vixen wouldn’t leave him wanting the way she did the uncouth rabble below.

  * * * *

  “Sacre bleu! How can I work under these conditions?” she demanded in a thick French accent. “I almost slipped and fell out there and the so-called conductor was too drunk again to keep the rhythm.” Allowing the frayed-looking stage manager no chance to reply, she flounced away, still complaining. “And if I lose anymore feathers, I will no longer be a woman of mystery. Can that wretched seamstress do nothing right? I told her these feathers,” slyly enjoying the act, throwing herself into the part, she shook her tail-end at several startled stage hands and fellow performers, “must be sewn on with greater care. I look like a half-plucked goose out there.”

  The hapless stage manager tried to conciliate her rapidly inflamed temper. Le Petit Oiseau was the biggest draw on the bill, had been brought over from France at high cost to the management of the theatre, and must be handled with extreme caution. A fact they all knew, especially her. “But Miss Hale came highly recommended. I’m sure she just needs a little longer to settle in and learn all mademoiselle’s likes and dislikes.” This was said in a tone that suggested there were a great many of those to be learned.

  She glared at him, lips pursed, bosom heaving with the dramatic magnificence to be expected from a consummate performer who had, so advertisements claimed, charmed kings, princes, emperors, and sultans.

  “I ought to sack the useless woman,” she shouted, ripping off her long silk gloves. “I’ve never worked with such an amateur.”

  “Miss Hale is most eager and does work very hard. Mademoiselle agreed upon a trial period and it has not yet come to the end.”

  “Very well then, but she will improve if she wants to keep this job.” Tossing her lush, auburn waves, the feathered tornado stormed away to her dressing room, scattering yet more fluff as she went, yelling for the seamstress, who wisely hid from all the furor. In fact, Miss Hale could never be found when she was needed.

  Holly swung through the door, slamming it hard behind her, sliding the bolt across. “Lucette,” she called for her maid, who also appeared to be absent from the dimly-lit dressing room. “Where the devil is everybody?” Forgetting her purloined French accent, she cursed broadly, now much less little French bird, more cockney sparrow. “This bleedin’ corset is killing me.” Reaching for the gas lamp beside her dressing table, she turned it up, and then sat before the mirror to remove her velvet choker.

  She paused, hands at her nape. Was that a movement she saw behind her reflected in the looking glass? Something lurked in the shadowy corner. A spark of light moved in the darkness.

  “Hope you liked the earrings, Miss O’Neil.”

  Over her shoulder, she caught the sparkle again, a gleam of diamond cufflinks, as he moved his hand. It was a man in evening clothes, sprawled in the corner chair, his face in shadow, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle. His casual repose raised her hackles.


  “I didn’t invite you into my room.”

  He shifted forward. Soft, amber light from the gas lamp caressed his long, narrow nose, dark brows, and thin lips; a lean, tanned, aristocratic face.

  “Don’t be cross with your maid.” There was a flare of gleaming white when he smiled crookedly, the wolf that tricked Red Riding Hood. “She very obligingly agreed to leave us alone for a few minutes while you thanked me for those diamond earrings I sent you today.”

  In a flutter of feathers, she swiveled to face him, fingers trembling too much now to fuss with the clasp on her choker.

  “I’m sure it was an oversight on your part,” he added calmly, “not to wear them for me tonight.”

  “Those ghastly, big things?” She wrinkled her nose. “You can have them back.”

  For the last three nights, he’d haunted her on stage, then appeared in her dressing room, waiting for her like this. It was a mistake letting him in, she realized, eyeing his lounging, arrogant sprawl. He looked as if he owned the place, as if he owned her. And no man owned Holly O’Neil.

  Not even the blasted Duke of Penhale.

  On fire, her nerves stretched so thin they were ready to snap. Her fingers clawed across the dressing table, searching for the unwanted gift. “I don’t want them.” She never accepted jewelry from men. It was a rule of hers. One of many.

  He stood, unraveling his lengthy limbs, filling the corner of her untidy room, making everything else seem miniature, the space too tight for air. Before he took a step toward her, she was up, facing him, her fingers clasped around the wooden chair-back, ready to use it as a lion tamer would. “I’ll return them in the morning, when I find them. Lucette must have moved the box.”

  If he reached up with his hands, he could press his palms flat to her ceiling and very probably rip her room apart at the seams. “Why are you so angry with me?”

  She tossed her hair over one shoulder, chin high. “Because you’re an arrogant bugger.” Her fingers tightened around the chair-back as he approached slowly, until he towered over her. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I’m the one you’ve been waiting for, Miss…O’Neil.”

  His gall was breathtaking. Eyebrow arched, she exclaimed pertly, “You mean you’re the chimney sweep who was supposed to come on Tuesday?”

  He paused, eyes narrowed. There was a very slight twitch in his jaw.

  “Or are you the man about the rats in the attic?”

  When he began to crack his knuckles, a frisson of anticipation leapt along her spine.

  “Don’t tell me.” She held up one hand, small palm in his face. “You’re a brush salesman and you’re going to offer me the bargain of a lifetime.”

  He grabbed her wrist, his firm fingers wrapped tight around it, bringing her hand to his lips. “I can be all those things. Whatever you need.”

  “I’m sure.” She barely restrained her eyes from rolling.

  Against her clenched knuckles, his lips were very warm and insistent. Many men had kissed her hand, but never did she feel so much raw danger in that gentlemanly gesture. His free hand wrestled her for the chair she held between them. “Where shall I begin? With your chimney that so desperately needs sweeping?”

  Her tone was sarcastic, “Or the wondrous bargain I’m sure you’re about to offer me, like any other toff.”

  The chair wrenched from her grip, he tossed it aside like a piece of firewood and his long, lean thighs crushed her to the dressing table. He was too hot; the steam from his body dampened her flimsy costume. And his arousal, pressed hard against her, might best be described, she thought mischievously, as ungentlemanly and distinctly unapologetic.

  “Oi! You’re wilting my feathers,” she complained.

  “I’ll pluck them all off, shall I? One by one.” His voice softened, breaching her defenses, trickling through her like heavy drops of warm rain, settling deep inside, pooling in some very inconvenient places. “As I did last night and the night before.”

  She lifted her head and their eyes met. Gentle gaslight flickered under his half-lowered lashes. A slight, wary smile tugged on his lips. He hadn’t shaved today, she noted. Had he slept since last night? Probably not. The man was a dissolute rogue.

  He needed someone to take care of him. Quickly she shook off the idea. Let some other foolish woman assume that thankless task. After all, she’d made up her mind to take care of herself now. And about time too.

  “I can’t believe this is happening. Again.” She didn’t want him to think it was a habit of hers. “I don’t know what came over me last night, or the night before.”

  “I did,” he whispered wickedly in her ear. “And I’m about to do it again.”

  Nobody ever made Holly O’Neil blush. Why, then, were her cheeks scalding hot? “Don’t ever come unannounced to my dressing room like this again.” She gasped as his hands pulled on the hooks of her corset, almost breaking them off in his haste. Dimly, she wondered why she said unannounced when she should have said uninvited. He didn’t realize Lucette only let him bribe her because she had permission to do so. He thought he was getting away with something, that he was in control. By now she should have corrected the misunderstanding.

  Too late. She would soon be too breathless to speak, in any case. “I can’t do this with you again. I never—”

  His lips descended to hers, closing over them, grinding his kiss to her mouth. The sparks were instant, the desire couldn’t be helped. Simply put, she craved him; so attuned to his strong heartbeat and the merest hint of lemon and bergamot shaving soap that she knew the moment she entered her room he was there. In her bones she’d known, they sang for him. Outside the theatre it was snowing. Inside, in his arms, the sun shone, warming her feathers. She basked in his rays.

  But it was all wrong. Holly O’Neil was supposed to be impervious to men. She never let them take control and she never ever opened her heart.

  Hands on her bottom, he lifted her to the dressing table, scattering hairpins and jars of face cream. She pulled on the arms of his evening jacket until it slid from his shoulders to the floor. Their lips never broke contact until he had her corset half undone, and then he bent his head to her bare breast, his rough bristles scratching her skin.

  She gasped, arching her back. His warm, wet tongue lapped at her, toying with her puckered nipple, then taking full, greedy possession. His hands tugged on her frilly pantaloons, sliding them down as she wriggled and writhed. Briefly, his mouth left her nipple while he slipped the pantaloons to her ankles, where she hurriedly kicked them free.

  How long did they have before Lucette returned? Not long enough. She wrapped her stockinged legs around his hips. Her fingers wound in his dark, wavy hair, knowing she should never succumb to him like this. Yet she did. It was raw, elemental, the recognition of a mate pre-destined. She’d sensed it, even twelve years ago, when she was pointing a gun at this man, yelling at him to stand still so she could shoot him. Only sixteen at the time, she’d mistaken the feeling for fear and horror, emotions for which she had names back then. Now, she knew what it was between them. Sheet lightening, a rapid pulse of brilliant blue, blanketed the air whenever he was close.

  Like all violent storms, it must surely wear itself out, eventually.

  It had to end.

  Holly O’Neil had too many secrets and couldn’t afford to have this man, the one with the power to destroy her, hiding in her dressing room, waiting to jump out on her. But how did she end something that hadn’t officially begun? And as long as he didn’t recognize her as the girl who once shot at him…

  Once more wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  His mouth moved down her body, his large hands pressing her thighs apart. Head back, eyes closed, she flung out her arms. An expensive jar of perfume fell to the floor breaking the stopper, filling the air with a sweet, sticky fragrance. She returned her fingers to his hair, needing something to hang on to as a delicious, wanton sensation trembled through her body.

  The rake might
at least bother to unhook the rest of her corset, but he was only concerned with what he needed access to. Now between her thighs, arranging her legs over his shoulders, he lapped at her like a starving man suddenly invited to feast. He was reckless, impertinent, tireless. Unstoppable. She climaxed violently, jars and brushes rattling on the shelf behind her. Her screams, had she unleashed them instead of biting down on her tongue, would have brought rescuers to her door.

  Tugging on his hair, she pulled him upright. He moved in, feet apart, keeping her thighs resting on his thick forearms while she freed the raging arousal from his black evening trousers.

  It was a sight that would undo the most tightly laced spinster.

  “Are you always this bleedin’ eager?” she exclaimed hotly, wondering how many other women he handled like this. She ought to take umbrage. She ought to do a lot of things, if only she might recover her usual sterling common sense and stop looking at him as if he was a big, sticky, sweet lollipop, and she a spoiled child being bribed to behave.

  He chuckled, tightening his hold under her bottom, jerking her forward again to the edge of the dressing table, her legs swinging over his strong arms. “Only for you, little bird,” he muttered. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me.” On the last word, the broad, pulsing head of his organ pushed against her damp, roused flesh and she gasped, inhaling with excitement. “But you can do it again,” he added with a sly wink. “Anytime. Anywhere.”

  “Aren’t I honored?” she chirped, arms sliding around his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex as he held himself in readiness.