Rake with a Frozen Heart

by Marguerite Kaye

  He did not take his eyes from the road. ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘And when we have spoken with him, shall we—shall you—what do you intend to do then?’

  Having negotiated a safe path between a dray heavily laden with beer barrels and a small gig, Rafe risked a glance over at her. ‘I have no intention of abandoning you, if that’s what you are worried about.’

  ‘It’s not that. Only partly. But you will want to go to your London home, will you not?’

  ‘I sent no word ahead. Besides, I can’t go there, not yet, just in case the Runner, finding me not at home in Woodfield Manor, decides to come to London to try to obtain an interview with me at my town address in Mount Street. They are dogged fellows once on the scent, apparently. So you see, I have no option but to stay with you and keep you company.’

  ‘I suppose. When you put it like that,’ Henrietta said, telling herself firmly that the relief she felt was everything to do with having a familiar face around and nothing at all to do with the excitement of it being that particular face.

  * * *

  As they crossed the river it was dusk, and quite dark by the time they pulled up outside the Mouse and Vole in Whitechapel. The inn was small, but surprisingly well kept, with its bedrooms facing on to a central courtyard and a large, busy taproom from which the hum of male conversation emanated into the cool night air. Rafe drove the carriage directly round to the stables, leapt agilely from the high seat and helped Henrietta down, removing her bandbox and his own portmanteau before handing the reins to a waiting groom, slipping him a coin and leading Henrietta not to the front, but to a small side door of the inn where she followed him through what appeared to be a boot room, and down a dimly lit corridor.

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, this seems a rather strange place for a man such as yourself to frequent.’

  ‘But surely, Henrietta, a man such as I would be expected to hobnob with low life?’

  For once, she failed to rise to the bait, being quite overcome with nerves now that they had actually arrived in London. A burst of song came from the taproom. A servant girl scurried by with a large bucket of coals. Rafe pushed open a small door under the stairs, and, telling her curtly to wait, not to leave the room until he returned, and on no account to speak to anyone, he dumped their luggage at her feet and left without another word.

  Compared to the open carriage, it felt warm in the musty little parlour. Pushing back her cloak and stripping off her gloves, Henrietta pressed her forehead to the dusty window pane. Outside, she could hear the clump of horses’ hooves in the stable yard. In the corridor, a muffled giggle, a male voice calling for someone called Bessie to fetch a mop. Where was Rafe? She idly drew a question mark on the glass. Why was he so unhappy? She drew another. Why was he so secretive about his wife? One more. And why—?

  The door creaked open. Henrietta jumped. Rafe appeared before her, holding aloft a well-trimmed lamp. ‘I thought you’d forgotten all about me.’ Henrietta scrubbed at her question marks with her glove, flustered by just how quickly her heart began to beat at the mere sight of him.

  Rafe closed the door and leant against it. ‘There’s good news and bad. I’m afraid Benjamin is away tonight, but Meg, his wife, assures me he’ll be back tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You mentioned good news?’

  ‘Despite the fact that there is a much-anticipated mill—a fist fight—taking place less than a mile from here in the morning, Meg has managed to secure a room for us.’

  ‘A room. You mean just one?’

  Rafe nodded. ‘We’re lucky to get anything at all. That’s the other bit of bad news, I’m afraid. We’re going to have to share.’

  ‘Oh. Cannot one of us spend the night here?’ She indicated the empty parlour. Save for a rickety table and a narrow settle, there was no furniture. ‘I’m sure I could…’ she said dubiously.

  ‘No. There is no lock on the door, it would not be safe given some of the clientele this place attracts. Besides,’ Rafe said, levering himself away from the door and holding out his hand, ‘you are exhausted. It’s been a very long day. You need to rest and you shall do so in a bed. If it is your virtue you are worried about, let me assure you that I am far too tired to make any attempt to relieve you of it,’ he said, ushering her out of the door. ‘Tonight, at least.’

  ‘I assume that is a poor attempt at a jest.’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  Giving her no time to reply to this ambiguous comment, he led the way down the hallway and up the stairs. The room was small, but clean, with a wooden chair, a cupboard and a night stand upon which stood a spotted mirror.

  And a bed. A solitary bed. And not a particularly wide one at that, Henrietta noted. ‘I’ll sleep on the chair,’ she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Or the floor. I could be perfectly comfortable on the floor, if you could ask Meg for some more bedclothes.’

  ‘Henrietta, I can only speak for myself, but the events of the last twelve hours, while fascinating, have left me completely drained. Carnal thoughts are the last thing on my mind. Let me assure you that even Helen of Troy would not tempt me tonight. And you must be utterly exhausted yourself, after all you’ve been through.’

  She nodded uncertainly.

  ‘Then it is settled. There is no need for anyone to sleep on the floor. We will share the bed, I will refrain from undressing, and, to satisfy your maidenly modesty, we will place a pillow between us.’

  Serious or teasing? On balance, she decided he was being serious. On balance, Henrietta decided, she was relieved because she was exhausted.

  A tap on the door heralded a maidservant bearing a jug of hot water. Rafe, who was used to bathing daily and felt sweaty and dusty after the whirlwind carriage journey to London, nevertheless forced himself to do the gentlemanly thing, for he could see that Henrietta was eyeing the jug longingly. Not for the first time that day, he put her needs before his own. It was less difficult than he might have imagined. ‘I’ll leave you to freshen up,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and organise some dinner for us.’

  Alone, Henrietta stripped off her hat and cloak, her shoes and stockings, and made as good a toilette as circumstances would allow. Rummaging in her bandbox, she drew out her faded-red flannel nightgown, which, she thought, pulling it over her head, was voluminous enough, and practical enough to deter even the most determined of rakes. Not that she knew what determined rakes like Rafe did, exactly. Nor did she really know what Rafe meant specifically when he referred to carnal desires. It was, she had been led to believe by Mama, an exclusively male province. And yet, when she thought about the way he had kissed her, how it had felt when she had licked the strawberry juice from his finger, the shivery, tingly feeling came back and the goose bumps, too, and another feeling, a sort of indefinable longing—was that carnal desire?

  Rafe, returning, bearing a tray upon which was their dinner, interrupted these thoughts. ‘It’s just the half-crown ordinary, meagre fare, I’m afraid,’ he said, looking in vain for a table, eventually placing it carefully on the bed.

  ‘Half a crown for an ordinary! Good heavens, I had no idea things were so expensive. I am afraid I cannot— The thing is, running away as I did, and I do not get paid until the end of the quarter—I’m afraid I don’t have enough money,’ Henrietta said. ‘Actually, I don’t suppose I’ll get paid at all now.’

  ‘There is no need to worry about money. I have more than sufficient.’

  ‘There is every need. I am already enough in your debt.’

  Rafe sighed. ‘I might have known you would be contrary in this as in all other matters. Very well, if you insist, you can reimburse me when your parents return, but there is really no need.’

  ‘There is every need,’ Henrietta said determinedly. ‘It is only right and proper.’

  It amused Rafe that it didn’t seem to have occurred to her that it was very wrong and even more improper that they should be sharing
a room, never mind a bed. It should be refreshing, to encounter a female set on paying her way. It was certainly a novelty, yet Rafe was irked, for rather irrationally, the more she asserted her independence, the more he wanted to take care of her. ‘I really have no interest in disputing the repayment of a paltry few shillings at present. Come, our dinner is getting cold.’

  They perched on the edge of the bed to eat, Henrietta with her toes curled under her flannel nightgown, terribly aware of Rafe’s proximity, trying desperately not to think of what was to happen next, and as a result unable to think of anything else.

  Determined to put her at her ease, Rafe kept up a stream of inconsequential conversation. He was rewarded by seeing her making a reasonable meal, relaxing enough at the end of it to yawn. He, on the other hand, was anything but relaxed. In her faded, frumpy nightgown, with her curls corkscrewing wildly down her back, Henrietta aught to be quite unappealing, but he was finding her positively alluring. How came it about that such thick and opaque material somehow served to make him wonder all the more about what delights lay underneath?

  * * *

  When they had finished their repast, Rafe placed the tray outside the door and turned the key in the lock. Then he pulled back the covers of the bed, placing one of the pillows in the middle. ‘Try to get some sleep,’ he said, carefully averting his gaze as Henrietta clambered into the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Exhausted as he was by his sleepless night and the long day that had just passed, Rafe was beginning to wonder if he might be better off sleeping on the settle downstairs, after all.

  Lying in bed, Henrietta tried to do as he had bid her, but the sleepiness that had enveloped her had melted away. She tried not to watch as Rafe stripped off his coat and waistcoat, removed his fob and snuff box and carefully wound his watch, before placing them under the pillow. She tried not to look as he splashed water on to his face, fastidiously scrubbed his hands, cleaned his teeth. He seemed indifferent to her presence.

  She peeped out from under her lashes as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his topboots, cursing under his breath as he did so. She supposed he must be accustomed to having a valet do such things for him.

  His hose were next. He stood to take them off, then tossed them carelessly on to the floor beside his portmanteau. In which, no doubt, were at least two or three more clean pairs. The simplest of movements, pulling his shirt out of his buckskin breeches, only served to emphasise the muscles and sinews of the masculine body underneath. As he tilted his chin up to remove his neckcloth, which followed his hose on to the floor, the strong line of his jaw was revealed, the hard plane of his cheekbone, the straight nose in profile, without even a tiny bump to mar its perfection. Bending over to wipe the dust from his boots, she saw the long line of his leg, the perfectly muscled rear contoured under the leather of his buckskins.

  Then he picked up the oil lamp and padded barefoot over to the bed, and Henrietta screwed her eyes tightly shut. The lamp was turned down. The bed creaked, the lumpy mattress sinking under his solid bulk. She lay rigid, hardly daring to breathe, never mind move. Beside her, Rafe sighed, shifted and sighed again.

  He wasn’t much closer to her than he’d been when sitting on the seat of the phaeton. He wasn’t wearing that much less and she had on her all-encompassing flannel, but still it felt incredibly intimate. Illicit. She could hear him breathing, taking deep regular breaths. She could smell the soap he had used. The scent of his linen. A faint trace of leather from his buckskins. And something else. Something distinctively male, making her sensitive to her own distinctively female smell.

  His hard, solid weight made her aware of her own soft curves. She was lying in bed with Rafe St Alban, whom she had met only this morning. Rafe St Alban who, in the space of just over half a day, had rescued her twice. Rafe St Alban, who was the most formidable, attractive, cynical, fascinating and very male man she had ever met. Not that she’d met many. But still, Henrietta thought, clinging to the sheet as Rafe turned away from her, on to his side, no matter how many more she met, she doubted she’d meet another quite like him. Her eyes gradually grew heavy. Rafe’s deep rhythmic breathing was hypnotic. Though she could have sworn she would find sleep impossible in such circumstances, Henrietta nonetheless fell fast asleep.

  Beside her, Rafe lay awake, wholly conscious of the soft bundle in faded-red flannel lying next to him. He never shared his bed. He visited his mistresses in their rooms, just as he had visited his wife in hers.

  Julia. He allowed himself to think about her for the first time in years. It was like conjuring up a ghost. He could hardly even remember what she had been like in life, though he had no trouble at all recognising the customary combination of humiliation and guilt her name conjured up. The familiar litany of what ifs paraded through his mind with the order and precision of a well-drilled regiment. If his father had not died so prematurely. If he himself had not been so steeped in duty. If he had not been fresh from the excitement and romance of his Grand Tour. If Julia had been younger. If he had been older. If he had tried harder. If he had not enforced the separation. If he had not taken her back. If he had—or if he had not—it was always the same. The outcome was always the same. The deep wells of guilt were always the same. The heaviest of burdens, but one he carried so habitually as to have become accustomed. It would never go away.

  Beside him, breathing softly, smelling sweetly, lay a delectable, yielding bundle. Henrietta had neither Julia’s beauty nor her lineage, but she was neither cold nor weak. Her flaws did not stem from vanity or selfishness. She never prevaricated. What Henrietta thought, she said. What she felt, she said, too. And what she lacked in inches, she made up for in pluck. Any other lady would have resigned herself to her fate, would have accepted with alacrity his offer of help, but Henrietta was made of much sterner stuff. She was like a pint-sized crusader.

  A naïf, Julia would have called her, looking down her straight, little aristocratic nose. But she wasn’t naïve, just innocent. There was something about Henrietta’s lust for life, her joie de vivre and those kissable lips, that hinted at a latent sensuality. Those delightful curves would embrace him. Those sweetly curved lips he had so tantalisingly tasted would succour him.

  Rafe turned restlessly on the pillow, which he was now convinced was filled with not-very-fresh straw. If only it were Helen of Troy, and not Henrietta Markham lying beside him, he would find sleep easily. He still didn’t understand it. No matter how many times he told himself she was out of bounds and therefore undesirable, his body would not be told. Rafe’s erection strained against the soft leather of his breeches. Damned uncomfortable things to sleep in, breeches. It didn’t seem to occur to Henrietta that no rake worth his salt would be doing so. Damned uncomfortable bed. Damned uncomfortable pillow. Damned uncomfortable and totally inexplicable desire. He would never sleep. Never…

  * * *

  Henrietta drifted awake. Through sleep-laden lids, she could sense the dawn light filtering in through the thin curtain. Already, the Mouse and Vole was sparking into life. The rumbling of a coach preceded the loud call of the driver for his passengers. A clanging bell and a shout of dust-ho announced the arrival of the rubbish cart. Outside in the corridor someone was whistling. She tried to move, but could not. Something lay heavy on her waist. Another noise, a soft thudding in her ear. She opened her eyes, then screwed them tight shut again. An arm it was, anchoring her. A chest it was, cushioning her head. Rafe’s arm. Rafe’s chest. And not a sign of the pillow that he had promised would separate them.

  She was practically sprawled on top of him, like a limpet clinging to a rock. Her left knee was trapped between his legs. Buckskin-clad thighs. Rough hair on his calves. Bare skin. Male skin. How on earth had this happened?

  Her breasts were crushed against his ribcage. Rafe’s right arm pinned her securely to him. Her own left hand seemed to be curled into the opening of his shirt and her right arm was somewhere underneath them both. She tried to shift, but Rafe mumbled and tig
htened his grip. She wriggled and his arm left her waist, found her bottom and pulled her tighter against him. He felt—he felt—he felt…

  Hard. Muscled. Solid. Powerful. Safe.

  Not that safe. He was a man. She was acutely aware of him as a man. So very, very different from herself. She tried to move, just a little, just enough to detach her body from his, but her wriggling merely made his hold tighten, and when his hold tightened, though she knew she should put up more of a fight, what she really wanted to do was to submit. So she lay there quietly, telling herself that soon, very soon, she would move. Just not quite yet.

  He smelled of sleep. She lay there, with her eyes closed, and let her body relax. Except her body didn’t want to relax. Her body felt alive. Curiosity, her besetting sin, took hold. Why did he feel different? What did a man feel like? What did this man feel like? Questions, questions and more questions.

  Idly, telling herself it wasn’t really she, keeping her eyes closed tight so that she could maintain the self-deceit, Henrietta embarked on a tentative exploration. Her left hand was already there under his shirt, after all; she just had to let it drift a little. Up to his shoulder, down to the hard wall of his chest. Well-defined contours peaked by nipples that were hard but flat. Down next, along the concave line of his ribcage, into the dip of his stomach. She could feel him breathe under the palm of her hand. Feel the heat of his skin. Firm, taut stomach. The indent of his navel, the roughness of hair below.

  She hastily withdrew her hand, shocked by her own boldness. She told herself she’d felt and seen enough. Then she started again. Back to his stomach, where she let her fingers linger, enjoying the contrast between smooth skin and rough hair that feathered a path for her hand to follow, down from his navel, disappearing under the barrier formed by the top of his breeches.

  A droplet of sweat trickled down the valley between her breasts. She realised her nipples were as hard as hazelnuts, pressing against the cotton of her flannel nightgown. Not just hard, they were tingling, as if clamouring for some sort of attention. Still without allowing herself to think what she was doing, she pressed herself into his chest. A delightful frisson shot through her. Now she was even hotter.