Rake with a Frozen Heart

by Marguerite Kaye

  She ran the palm of her hand back over the heat of Rafe’s stomach. Shocked, but unable to stop herself, she tried to imagine her breasts, free of their protective flannel, pressed into the skin where her hand was. As she imagined, a ripple, like a tiny jolt of lightning, shivered from her belly down to the source of heat between her legs.

  Henrietta, who was well read, both in materials considered suitable for a young lady and those ostensibly forbidden to her, was none the less rather vague about what Rafe had called carnal desires. What Mama had called her definitive experience was never elaborated upon. None of the women at the Poor House who had suffered at the hands of predatory men were inclined to enlighten her, either. The limited experience Henrietta had was thus universally negative. Nothing had prepared her for the fact that she might actually find it a pleasant experience, though now she came to think about it, she supposed it must be, else why would it be so many women’s downfall? She had never been quite able to imagine how, exactly, physical contact might be pleasurable. Until now.

  Now she could quite easily understand and could quite easily comprehend how it might make a person lose their inhibitions, cast caution to the winds and behave most improperly. She could understand that this hot, shivery feeling of anticipation, this tingling in her breasts, could be wholly addictive. She could understand why a person could be easily persuaded into going a bit further, and then a bit further still, until it was far too late for a person to stop.

  She was going to stop. She was not so easily taken in. Indeed, she was truly about to stop when Rafe moved. The arm on her waist lifted, but only to tilt her chin. The arm on her bottom lifted, but only to allow his thigh to drape over hers. His mouth moved, but only to cover hers. Then he sighed. Then he kissed her.

  His mouth was warm. His lips were unexpectedly gentle, the slight grating of his stubble a delightful contrast. His kiss was delicate, the kiss of a man who is all the time telling himself that he will not. The kiss of a man who knows he should not, but cannot resist.

  Her touch, her innocent exploration, he had borne stoically. He had resisted encouraging her, though he had not stopped her. He could not have stopped her, any more than he could stop himself now from kissing, tasting, licking into the early morning heat of her. She was every bit as soft and yielding as he remembered. Her lips were even more infinitely kissable. Her body nestled into his perfectly.

  Too perfectly.

  He stopped. He did not want to, but he stopped. With a gargantuan effort he stopped—and immediately regretted it. But still he let her go and turned away to create a space. A cold space, a yawning chasm between them.

  Henrietta opened her eyes. Was he asleep or just pretending? Had he kissed her because he wanted to, or was it some instinctive response to her touching him?

  ‘I warned you about those lips of yours,’ Rafe murmured.

  So she had her answer and should have been mortified, for he had been awake all the time, and yet she was not. Virtue, Mama had always said, was its own reward. And Henrietta, despite the fact that she had always found it far more difficult than Mama to sacrifice her meagre pin money to good causes, to darn last winter’s dress rather than have a new one, to wear woollen stockings instead of silk, had nevertheless believed her. Now she discovered that it was perhaps another subject upon which Mama’s opinions were suspect. At this particular moment in time, virtue felt like a vastly overrated concept.

  ‘Rafe, I—’

  ‘Henrietta,’ Rafe said over his shoulder, ‘there are times when it is best not to attempt to explain—this is one of them. Let it suffice that I am doing the gentlemanly thing—for once in my life, and at great cost. Let me warn you that next time I will not. Now go back to sleep.’

  Next time? She opened her mouth to tell him that there would absolutely and unequivocally never be a next time, if she had anything to say in the matter, but the words, for lack of truth, froze on her tongue. Not only did she doubt her ability to resist, she doubted that resisting was what she wanted. She leaned over, saw his eyes firmly closed, his lashes soft and sooty black on his cheek. Perhaps it was best not to deny it. Perhaps he would see a denial as a challenge. She shivered at the very idea, then pretended that she hadn’t. Actions speak louder than words, she told herself firmly. There would not be a next time. Henrietta shuffled back to her own side of the lumpy bed and resolutely closed her eyes, trying to focus her mind on the not-inconsiderable issue of the missing Ipswich emeralds.

  Chapter Five

  Ex-Sergeant Benjamin Forbes, the landlord of the Mouse and Vole, was a swarthy man with a sabre scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to his earlobe, the tip of which had been severed, providing a very visible memento of the Peninsular campaign. Not tall, he was nevertheless powerfully built, with burly shoulders and a barrel chest. Possessing the muscular forearms of an army infantryman, these were maintained in civilian life by the regular hauling of ale barrels and the occasional spat with an unruly customer. He kept a clean house, but located as it was, near the rookeries of Gravel Lane and Wentworth Street, it was inevitable that things sometimes became somewhat confrontational. Ex-Sergeant Benjamin Forbes’s vicious and efficient left hook ensured that any discord was quickly quelled.

  He was in the taproom when Rafe and Henrietta came in search of him, sleeves rolled up, a large leather apron wrapped round his person, watching with an eagle eye the rounding up of the pewter pots by the porter-house boy. ‘Lord Pentland,’ he exclaimed, ushering the boy out and closing the taproom door firmly behind him, ‘Meg said you was here. Sorry I wasn’t around last night. Little bit of business to take care of.’

  ‘Benjamin,’ Rafe greeted the man with one of his rare, genuine smiles, shaking his hand warmly. ‘You’re looking well. This is Henrietta Markham. Sergeant Forbes, Henrietta.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, miss, and it’s just plain Mr Forbes now, if you don’t mind, been a good few years now since I left the king’s forces,’ he said, eyeing Henrietta curiously as he ushered them both into a seat by the newly lit fire.

  A pot of fresh coffee and some bread rolls were called for. Rafe was served a tankard of frothing ale. Henrietta, intrigued as to the nature of the relationship between the two men, and self-conscious about what must seem her own rather dubious relationship with Rafe, sipped gratefully on the surprisingly good brew. As usual, curiosity got the better of her. ‘Have you known Lord Pentland for long, Mr Forbes?’

  ‘Nigh on six years now, miss. You could say I owe my livelihood to him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Rubbish, Benjamin,’ Rafe said. ‘You exaggerate.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, miss. I was in a bad state when his lordship here first encountered me. Been in the army all my life, you see. Had no idea how to look after myself when they pensioned me off.’ He laughed grimly. ‘Not that there was much of a pension to speak of. His lordship stepped in and helped set me up here.’

  ‘It was nothing, the least I could do. You’d earned it, as far as I’m concerned, and you paid me back every penny.’ Aware of Henrietta’s too-interested gaze, Rafe took a long draught of ale.

  ‘He’s a good man, that’s the truth of it,’ Benjamin said, nodding in Rafe’s direction. ‘Despite the reputation he works so hard to maintain.’

  ‘Enough of this,’ Rafe said.

  ‘Aye, and never one to take thanks, either,’ Benjamin said with a wry smile. ‘Why, even down at Saint—’

  ‘I said enough, Benjamin,’ Rafe said, curtly. ‘You’re not usually one to let your tongue run away with you. Henrietta is not interested in your eulogies.’

  Henrietta, who was, in fact, very much interested in the innkeeper’s revelations, was inclined to protest, but a warning shake of the head from Benjamin silenced her. ‘Beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘don’t know what came over me, only I thought—but there, it’s none of my business. Tell me instead now—what it is I can do for you?’

  ‘We’re interested in some emeralds. A most distinctive
set. Henrietta, here, has been accused of stealing them.’

  This information, not surprisingly, made Benjamin’s jaw drop, causing him to eye his benefactor’s unusual companion with a fresh eye. Quality she was, anyone could see that, even if she was worse dressed than Bessie the parlourmaid on her Sunday off. What she was doing with his lordship, well, he had no idea. My lord’s tastes ran to expensive bits of muslin and he’d never brought any of them here before.

  But as he listened to Henrietta describing the circumstances of the theft, a tale so unlikely as to test his credulity to the limit, Benjamin began to see just what it was that had attracted his lordship to Miss Markham. It wasn’t so much the way she looked, as the way her whole face came alive when she spoke. Those eyes of hers, the way they sparkled with anger as she described the accusations against her. The way she talked with her whole body, her hands, even her curls flouncing with indignation, the softer look on her face when she spoke of the shame it would cause her parents. And the way she looked at my lord, too, with something more than admiration as she described his coming to her rescue, and something much less respectful when she forced him to admit that he hadn’t believed her story, either, at first. If my lord was not very careful…

  But my lord was always careful, which made it all the more inexplicable. Maybe it really was a case of impulsive chivalry? ‘So how can I help?’ Ben asked when the interesting Miss Markham had finished her extraordinary tale.

  ‘Come, come, Ben, it is surely obvious. A man such as Henrietta has described must surely be known to one of the cracksmen and receivers who frequent your taproom. And the Ipswich emeralds are themselves not exactly run of the mill.’

  Benjamin scratched his head. ‘Describe him to me again, miss.’

  She did so and Benjamin stroked the line of his scar thoughtfully. ‘Well, he certainly shouldn’t be too hard to trace, a rum-lookin’ cove like that, presumin’ you know where to look, that is. And the emeralds?’

  Henrietta wrinkled her nose. ‘The setting is antique, linked ovals of wrought gold, each with a stone at the centre surrounded by diamond chips. The stone in the necklace is very large, and there are in addition two bracelets and a pair of earrings.’

  Benjamin shook his head. ‘Such distinctive jewellery is nigh on impossible to sell on without arousing suspicion.’

  ‘So it should be quite an easy thing to track him down, then, shouldn’t it?’ Henrietta said eagerly. ‘You will find him for me, Mr Forbes, won’t you? Rafe—Lord Pentland was so sure you would and it would mean the world to me.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Benjamin said, patting Henrietta’s hand reassuringly, ‘but we’ll need to be discreet. People who stick their noses into other peoples’ business in the rookeries tend to get them bitten off, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘I would not wish to put you in any danger.’

  Benjamin laughed heartily at this. ‘I can take care of myself, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Well, if you are sure, then I really am extremely grateful,’ Henrietta said fervently.

  ‘It’s Lord Pentland you should be thanking, miss. I wouldn’t do this for any other man in England. It could take a few days, though.’

  ‘A few days!’

  ‘That is not the end of the world,’ Rafe said. ‘Provided Ben can continue to put a roof over our heads, you are safe from the Runner here.’

  ‘He’s right, miss,’ Benjamin said. ‘Nobody would think to look for you here. You’d both best stay at the Mouse and Vole until I track down that housebreaker. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve things to do.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben,’ Rafe said, holding out his hand.

  ‘You save your thanks until you’ve got something to thank me for,’ Ben said gruffly. Shaking his head, wondering what on earth Meg would make of the unlikely couple, he left the taproom in search of her.

  Alone, Rafe turned back to Henrietta with a quizzical look. ‘So, it appears we are condemned to a few more days of each other’s company. Do you find the notion tolerable, Henrietta?’ He captured her wrist, forcing her to meet his gaze. ‘For my own part, I’m more than happy to act as your chaperon.’

  She flushed. She wished she didn’t flush quite so easily or so often in his presence.

  ‘Now would be a good time for you to reassure me that you feel the same, Henrietta.’

  She risked a quick glance, saw that unsettling look in his eyes, then dropped her gaze again, but already she could feel it, that sparkling feeling. Heat spread from her wrist, where his fingers were wrapped around it. Her skin seemed to tug, as if it wanted her to move closer. The image of him, created by her touch this morning, flashed into her mind. ‘What would we do?’ she asked, then blushed wildly. ‘To pass the time, I mean? We can’t stay here all day, can we?’

  ‘Cooped up together, you mean? Don’t you trust yourself, Henrietta?’

  He knew it was unfair, but he could not resist teasing her. He liked to watch the flush steal up her neck and over her cheeks; it made him wonder where it came from. He liked the way she sucked the corner of her bottom lip, just showing the tip of her pink tongue. He liked the way the little gold flecks in her eyes glimmered, the way she looked shocked and excited and tempted—definitely tempted—at the same time.

  He stroked her wrist with his thumb and felt the pulse jump beneath him. He slid his hand a little way under the sleeve of her gown, caressing the fragile skin of her forearm. She closed her eyes. Her lips parted. He stroked the crease of her elbow, wondering that he had never before realised what an erotic crease it was, thinking how delightful it would be to lick it, to find other such creases. ‘The thing is, Henrietta, you need to be able to trust yourself, because for certain you cannot trust me,’ he said, pulling her towards him over the table and claiming her lips.

  Henrietta let out a soft sigh as he took her mouth; she shivered as his tongue slid along her lips and moaned as it touched the tip of hers. Velvet soft, darkly illicit, infinitely tempting, his mouth, his kisses, his taste. He deepened the kiss and she softened under the pressure, then returned it. That feeling again. Longing. Deeper this time, in her belly. She tried to move closer, but the table was in the way; she hit her hand on the half-drunk tankard of ale, which tipped over, making them both leap back.

  She was breathing too fast. Looking over at Rafe, she noticed with some surprise that so, too, was he. His chest was rising and falling quite rapidly. There was a flush staining the sharp lines of his cheek bones. His eyes were dark, a night storm, the slant of his brows emphasised by his frown. His sleek cap of hair was ruffled—had she done that? She didn’t remember. He looked every bit as darkly enticing as his kiss. Every bit as dangerous as his reputation. Not unleashed, not out of control, but as if he could be, and it was that, the idea of that, that was more exciting than anything.

  Her lips were tingling. Her nipples were throbbing. There was a knot pulled tight in her belly. She had never felt like this. She hadn’t realised she could feel like this. She’d never imagined this, whatever it was, existed. A clawing desire for something, a burning need for something. For someone.

  She put a hand to her throat, feeling the pulse jump and jump. She watched wide-eyed as Rafe pushed the table away, then pulled her to her feet. The door flew open and the startled screech of the maidservant made her pull herself free; he shrugged and straightened his necktie as if nothing had happened, then nodded casually to the astonished maid before taking Henrietta’s hand and leading her out of the room.

  She followed him automatically back up to their bedchamber. She assumed he was going to kiss her again, but instead he pulled her cloak from the back of a chair and draped it around her, putting her poke bonnet firmly on her head.

  He’d been right about that passionate nature of hers. It would be the easiest, most delectable, most desirable thing in the world to take her now, but he could not. Dammit, he would not. ‘I think we have just proved that it would be most unwise to stay cooped up together. What we both need
is a distraction and some fresh air,’ Rafe said firmly, tilting her chin to tie the knot, trying not to look at her lips, focusing on the ugliness of her bonnet in the hope that his persistent erection would subside.

  ‘It was just a kiss, Henrietta,’ Rafe said curtly, ‘and one of your first. When you have sampled a few more, you will, I’m sure, like all other young ladies, grow more blasé about such things.’ Rafe picked up his hat. ‘Now, do you want to see the sights of London or not?’

  ‘Aren’t you worried that you’ll meet someone you know?’ Henrietta asked, as they emerged from the forecourt of the Mouse and Vole on to the main thoroughfare.

  Rafe grabbed her cloak to pull her clear, just in time, from the muddy splash made by the cumbersome wheels of a passing milk cart. ‘London is a large city, I am sure we can manage to avoid my acquaintances easily; it is not as if we are planning on visiting anywhere particularly fashionable. Don’t you wish to see the popular sights?’ Even as he asked the question, Rafe wondered if he had gone a little mad, for the sights Henrietta would consider worth seeing would undoubtedly be those he made a point of avoiding, forcing them to mingle with Cits and bumpkins.

  ‘Of course I do, but I doubt you have much interest in them,’ Henrietta replied, with her usual frankness.

  And as usual, it made him contrarily set upon a path he would never normally have followed. ‘It will be enlightening to see the metropolis through your eyes,’ Rafe said.

  ‘You mean you will be able to laugh at my expense.’

  ‘No.’ He tilted her chin up, the better to see her face, which was in the shadow of that horrible bonnet. ‘I may find your views amusing because they are refreshingly different, but I never laugh at you or mock you.’

  ‘I know that. At least, most of the time I do.’