Rake with a Frozen Heart

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I don’t look like what one what would look like?’ Rafe said, fighting the urge to laugh.

  Henrietta swallowed. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. As if he might smile. As if he might not. Appraising, that was the word. If it was a word. Once again, she worried about being found lacking. Once again, she chided herself for such a pathetic response, but he was so overwhelmingly male, sitting far too close to her on the bed, so close that her skin tingled with awareness of his presence, forcing her to fight the urge to push him away. Or was that just an excuse to be able to touch him? That crop of raven-black hair. It looked like it would be silky-soft to the touch. Unlike the stubble on his cheek, which would be rough. ‘A rake,’ she blurted out, now thoroughly confused by her own reactions.

  The word jarred. Rafe got to his feet. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Henrietta blinked up, missing the warmth of his presence, at the same time relieved that he had moved, for his expression had altered subtly. Colder. More distant, as if he had placed a wall between them. Too late, she realised that calling someone a rake to their face, even if they were a rake, wasn’t perhaps the most tactful thing to say. She squirmed.

  ‘Pray enlighten me, Miss Markham—what exactly does a rake look like?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know exactly, though I would say someone not nearly so good-looking for a start,’ Henrietta replied, saying the first thing that popped into her head in her anxiety to make up for her lapse of manners. ‘Older, too,’ she continued, unable to bear the resultant silence, ‘and probably more immoral looking. Debauched. Though to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what debauchery looks like, save that you don’t. Look debauched, I mean,’ she concluded, her voice trailing off as she realised that, far from appeasing him, the earl was looking decidedly affronted. Both his brows were drawn together now, giving him a really rather formidable expression.

  ‘You seem quite the expert, Miss Markham,’ Rafe said sardonically. ‘Do you speak from personal experience?’

  He had propped his shoulders up against the bedpost. They were very broad. Powerful. She wondered if perhaps he boxed. If he did, he must be good, for his face showed no marks. Her face was level with his chest now. Which also looked powerful, under his shirt. He had a very flat stomach. She hadn’t really thought about it before, but men were built so very differently from women. Solid. Hard-edged. At least this man was.

  Henrietta chewed on her bottom lip and tried hard not to be daunted. She wouldn’t talk to his chest, but she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Slate-grey now, not blue. She swallowed again, trying to remember what it was he’d asked her. Rakes. ‘Personal experience. Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t previously met any rakes personally, at least not to my knowledge, but Mama said—my mother told me that…’ Once again, Henrietta trailed into silence, realising that Mama would prefer not to have her past held up for inspection. ‘I have seen the evidence of their activities for myself,’ she said instead. Her voice sounded horribly defensive, but little wonder, given the way he was standing over her like an avenging angel. Henrietta bristled. ‘In the Parish Poor House.’

  The earl’s expression was transformed in an instant, more devil than angel. ‘If you are implying that I have littered the countryside with my illegitimate brats, then you are mightily misinformed,’ he said icily.

  Henrietta quailed. The truth was, she had heard no such thing of this particular rake, though, of course, just because she had not heard did not mean—but really, he looked far too angry to be lying. ‘If you say so,’ she said deprecatingly. ‘I did not mean to imply…’

  ‘None the less you did, Miss Markham. And I resent the implication.’

  ‘Well, it was a natural enough assumption to make, given your reputation,’ she retorted, placed firmly on the back foot, a position to which she was most unused.

  ‘On the contrary. One should never make assumptions until one has a full grasp of all the facts.’

  ‘What facts?’

  ‘You are, as you point out, in my bed, in your underwear, yet you have been neither ravaged nor despoiled.’

  ‘Haven’t I? No, of course I haven’t. I mean—do you mean that you’re not a rake, then?’

  ‘I am not, Miss Markham, in the habit of defending my character to you, or anyone else for that matter,’ Rafe said, no longer amused but furious. He might indeed be a rake, though he despised the term, but he was very far from being a libertine. The notion that he would wantonly sire children in pursuit of his own pleasure was a particular anathema to him. He prided himself on the fact that his rules of engagement were strict. His raking was confined to females who understood those rules, who expected nothing from him. His encounters were physical, not emotional. Innocents, even if they were wide-eyed and lying half-naked in his bed, were quite safe. Not that he was about to tell this particular innocent that.

  Henrietta cowered against the pillow, taken aback by the shift in mood. If he was the rake common knowledge called him, then why should the earl take such umbrage? It was well known that all rakes were unprincipled, debauched, irresponsible… .

  But here her thoughts stuttered to a halt, having come full circle. He might be a rake, but he hadn’t—though perhaps that was because he didn’t find her attractive enough? A strangely deflating thought. And a ridiculous one! As if she should mind at all that a notorious rake thought so little of her that he hadn’t tried to seduce her. Which reminded her. ‘How did I come to be in your—I mean, this bed?’ she asked, grasping at this interesting and unanswered question with some relief.

  ‘I found you quite unconscious. I thought you were dead at first, and despite what you have been imagining, Miss Markham, I much prefer my conquests both compos mentis and willing. You can be reassured, I made no attempt to molest you. Had I done so, you would not have readily forgotten the experience. Something else I pride myself upon,’ Rafe said sardonically.

  Henrietta shivered. She had absolutely no doubt that he was entitled to boast of his prowess. His look told her he had once again read her thoughts. Once again she dropped her gaze, plucking at the scalloped edge of the sheet. ‘Where did you find me?’

  ‘In a ditch. I rescued you from it.’

  This information was so surprising that Henrietta let fall the bedclothes shielding her modesty. ‘Goodness! Really? Truly?’ She sat up quickly, forgetting all about her aching head, then sank back on to the pillows with a little moan as the pain hit her. ‘Where?’ she asked weakly. ‘I mean, where was this ditch?’

  ‘In the grounds of my estate.’

  ‘But how did I come to be there?’

  ‘I rather hoped you could tell me that.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’ Henrietta put her fingers carefully to the back of her head where a large lump was forming on her skull. ‘Someone hit me.’ She winced at the memory. ‘Hard. Why would someone do that?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Rafe replied. ‘Perhaps whoever it was found your judgemental attitude tedious.’ The hurt expression on her face didn’t provide the usual sense of satisfaction he experienced when one of his well-aimed barbs struck home. On this occasion something more like guilt pricked him. She really was looking quite pale, too. Perhaps Mrs Peters was right, perhaps he should have summoned the local quack. ‘Apart from the blow to the head, how are you feeling?’

  The true answer was awful, but it was obvious from the falsely solicitous tone of his voice that awful was not the answer he wished to hear. ‘I’m quite well,’ Henrietta said, striving and failing to keep the edge out of her voice, ‘at least I’m sure I will be directly. You need not concern yourself unduly.’

  He had been ungracious, not something that would normally bother him, but her not pointing it out somehow did. Rather too quick with her opinions she most certainly was, but Henrietta Markham was not capricious. Her frankness, when it was not rude, was refreshing.

  The memory of her curves pressed against him as he had lifted her from the ditch crept unbidden i
nto his mind. Awareness took Rafe by surprise. It irked him that he remembered so clearly. Why should he? ‘You may, of course, take as long as you require to recuperate,’ he said. ‘What I want to know right now is who hit you and, more importantly, why they abandoned you on my land.’

  ‘What you really mean is, why didn’t they pick somewhere less inconvenient to dump me?’ Henrietta retorted. She gasped, pressed her hand over her mouth, but it was too late, the words were out.

  Rafe laughed. He couldn’t help it, she was amusing in a strange kind of way. His laugh sounded odd. He realised it was because he hadn’t heard it for such a long time. ‘Yes, you are quite right,’ he said. ‘I would have happily seen you abandoned at the very gates of Hades instead, but you are here now.’

  He had a nice laugh. And though he might be ungracious, at least he was honest. She liked that. Henrietta smiled tentatively. ‘I didn’t mean to be quite so frank.’

  ‘You are a dreadful liar, Miss Markham.’

  ‘I know. I mean— Oh dear.’

  ‘Hoist with your own petard, I think you would call that.’

  The band of pain around Henrietta’s head tightened, making her wince. ‘Touché, my lord. You want me gone, I am sure you have things to do. If I could just have a moment to collect myself, I will get dressed and be out of your way directly.’

  She had turned quite pale. Rafe felt a twinge of compassion. As she had so clearly refrained from pointing out, it was not her fault she had landed on his doorstep, any more than it was his. ‘There is no rush. Perhaps if you had something to eat, you might feel a little better. Then you may remember what happened to you.’

  ‘I would not wish to put you out any more than I have already done,’ Henrietta said unconvincingly.

  Once again, he felt his mouth quirk. ‘You are as poor a prevaricator as you are a liar. Come, the least I can do is give you breakfast before you go. Do you feel up to getting out of bed?’

  He was not exactly smiling at her, but his expression had lost that hard edge, as if a smile might not be entirely beyond him. Also, she was ravenous. And he did deserve answers, if only she could come up with some. So Henrietta stoically told him that, yes, she would get out of bed, though the thought of it made her feel quite nauseous. He was already heading for the door. ‘My lord, please, wait.’

  ‘Yes?’ She had dropped the sheet in her anxiety to call him back. Long tendrils of chestnut hair, curling wildly, trailed over her white shoulders. Her chemise was made of serviceable white cotton. He could plainly see the ripe swell of her breasts, unconfined by stays. Rafe reluctantly dragged his gaze away.

  ‘My dress, where is it?’ Realising that she had dropped the sheet, Henrietta clutched it up around her neck, telling herself stoutly there was nothing to be ashamed of to be found to be wearing a plain white-cotton chemise which, after all, was clean. Nevertheless, clean or no, she couldn’t help wishing it hadn’t been quite so plain. She wondered who had removed her gown.

  ‘My housekeeper undressed you,’ the earl replied in answer to her unasked question. ‘Your dress was soaking wet and we did not wish you to catch a chill. I’ll lend you something until it is dry.’ He returned a few moments later with a large, and patently masculine, dressing gown, which he laid on the chair, informing her breakfast would be served in half an hour precisely, before striding purposefully out of the room.

  Henrietta stared at the closed door She couldn’t fathom him. Did he want her to stay or not? Did he find her amusing? Annoying? Attractive? Irksome? All or none? She had absolutely no idea.

  She should not have mentioned his reputation. Though he hadn’t exactly denied it, she could very easily see just how irresistible he could be, given that combination of looks and the indefinable something else he possessed which made her shiver. As if he was promising her something she knew she should not wish for. As if he and only he could fulfil that promise. She didn’t understand it. Surely rakes were scoundrels? Rafe St Alban didn’t look at all like a scoundrel. Rakes were not good people, yet he must have some good in him—had he not rescued her, a noble act?

  She frowned. ‘I suppose the point is that they must be good at taking people in, else how could they succeed in being a rake?’ she said to herself. So was it a good thing that he hadn’t taken her in? She couldn’t make up her mind. The one thing she knew for certain was that he was most eager to be rid of her. Henrietta tried not to be mortified by that.

  Perhaps he just wanted to know how she had come to be on his estate in the first place? She’d like to know that herself, she thought, touching a cautious finger to the aching lump on her head. Last night. Last night. What did she remember of last night?

  That dratted pug dog of Lady Ipswich’s had run off. She’d entirely missed her dinner while looking for it, no wonder she was so hungry now. Henrietta frowned, screwing her eyes tightly shut, ignoring the dull ache inside her skull as she mentally retraced her steps. Out through the side door. The kitchen garden. Round to the side of the house. Then…

  The housebreaker! ‘Oh, my goodness, the housebreaker!’ Her mind cleared, like the ripples of a pool stilling to reveal a sharp reflection. ‘Good grief! Lady Ipswich will be wondering what on earth has happened to me.’

  Gingerly, Henrietta inched out of the luxurious bed and peered at the clock on the mantel. The numbers were fuzzy. It was just after eight. She opened the curtains and blinked painfully out at the sun. Morning. She had been gone all night. Her rescuer had clearly been out and about very early. In fact, now she had a chance to reflect upon it, he had had the look of a man who had not yet been to bed.

  Raking, no doubt! But those shadows under his eyes spoke of a tiredness more profound than mere physical exhaustion. Rafe St Alban looked like a man who could not sleep. No wonder he was irritable, she thought, immediately feeling more charitable. Having to deal with a comatose stranger under such circumstances would have put anyone out of humour, especially if the aforementioned stranger looked like a—like a—what on earth did she look like?

  There was a looking glass on top of the ornately inlaid chest of drawers in front of the window. Henrietta peered curiously into it. A streak of mud had caked on to her cheek, she was paler than normal and had a lump the size of an egg on her head, but apart from that she looked pretty much the same as always. Determinedly un-rosebuddish mouth. Eyebrows that simply refused to show even the tiniest inclination to arch. Too-curly brown hair in wild disorder. Brown eyes. And, currently in the hands of the aforementioned Mrs Peters, a brown dress.

  She sighed heavily. It summed things up, really. Her whole life was various shades of brown. It was to her shame and discredit that no amount of telling herself, as Papa constantly reminded her, that there were many people in the world considerably worse off than her, made her feel any better about it. It was not that she was malcontent precisely, but she could not help thinking sometimes that there must be more to life. Though more of what, she had no idea.

  ‘I suppose being thumped on the head, then being left to die of exposure, to say nothing of being rescued by a devastatingly handsome earl, counts as a burst of genuine excitement,’ she told her reflection. ‘Even if he is a very reluctant knight errant with a very volatile temperament and an extremely dubious reputation.’

  The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter-hour, making her jump. She could not possibly add keeping the earl from his breakfast to her other sins. Hastily, she slopped water from the jug on the nightstand into the prettily flowered china bowl and set about removing the worst of the mud from her face.

  * * *

  Almost precisely on time, Henrietta tripped into the breakfast parlour with her hair brushed and pinned, her body swathed in her host’s elegant dressing gown of dark green brocade trimmed with gold frogging. Even with the cuffs turned back and the gown belted tightly at her waist, it enveloped her form completely, trailing behind her like a royal robe. The idea that the material that lay next to her skin had also lain next to his naked body was unset
tling. She tried not to dwell on the thought, but it could not be said she was wholly successful.

  She was nervous. Seeing the breakfast table set for just two made her even more nervous. She had never before had breakfast alone with a man, save for dear Papa, which didn’t count. She had certainly never before had breakfast with a man while wearing his dressing gown. Feeling incredibly gauche and at the same time excruciatingly conscious of her body, clothed only in her underwear, handicapped by the voluminous folds of the dressing gown, Henrietta tripped into the room.

  He didn’t seem to notice her at first. He was staring into space, the most melancholy expression on his face. Darkly brooding. Formidable. Starkly handsome. Her pulses fluttered. He had shaved and changed. He was wearing a clean shirt and freshly tied cravat, a tightly fitting morning coat of dark blue, and buff-coloured pantaloons with polished boots. The whole ensemble made him look considerably more earl-like and consequently considerably more intimidating. Also, even more devastatingly attractive. Henrietta plastered a faltering smile to her face and dropped into a very far from elegant and certainly not, she was sure, deep enough curtsy. ‘I must apologise, my lord, for being so remiss, I have not yet thanked you properly for rescuing me. I am very much obliged to you.’

  Her voice dragged Rafe’s thoughts back from the past, where he had once again been lingering. Be dammed to the precious title and the need for an heir! Who really cared, save his grandmother, if it was inherited by some obscure third cousin twice removed? If she only knew what it had cost him already, she would soon stop harping on about it. He gazed down at Henrietta, still smiling up at him uncertainly. Holding out his hand, he helped her back to her feet. ‘I trust you feel a little better, Miss Markham. You certainly look very fetching in my robe. It is most becoming.’