Rake with a Frozen Heart

by Marguerite Kaye

  * * *

  Standing in front of the mirror in his dressing room, Rafe was thinking much the same thing. In the two weeks that had passed since he had knocked upon her chamber door to summon her for breakfast and discovered Henrietta gone, he felt as if he had been to hell and back.

  Stark disbelief had been his first emotion as he looked round the empty bedchamber, at the chair that no longer had her cloak draped over it, the nightstand bereft of her brushes, a scraping of dust on the floorboards where her bandbox had been, the neatly made bed, even the pillows plumped clean of any sign of their passionate lovemaking. He’d found himself, rather preposterously, looking under that bed, as if she might have been hiding there, but all he’d found was the stocking she had been mending. He had it still, in his own portmanteau.

  Neither Benjamin nor Meg had any idea what had happened. No one had seen her leave. Disbelief had given way to fear. She had no money. She had nowhere to go. The thought of her without a roof over her head, perhaps wandering the streets of Whitechapel, was terrifying. He’d combed those streets that night, stopping hackney drivers and night watchmen and anyone who would listen, asking them if they’d seen a young lady in a brown cloak, but no one had.

  She’d mentioned an aunt, but he had no idea where that aunt might be. He waited in vain for word from her, a note, a letter, an offer to reimburse him for the expenses he had incurred on her behalf, anything. In Mount Street, with the knocker still removed from the door, fear gave way to anger. Didn’t she realise how worried he’d be? Time dragged inexorably. He missed her smile and her laughter and her enthusiasm and her blurting out anything and everything the minute she’d thought it; and he missed her big brown eyes, and the way she looked at him, and kissed him and… He realised, though it cost him dear to admit it, even to himself in the dark of night, that he missed her like a part of him was missing.

  Devil take it, how dared she do this to him!

  Dammit to hell, where was she? Closeted in his town house, the dark cloud of depression that was his customary companion returned with a vengeance, but now there was no prospect of it lifting. Finally granting his butler permission to have the house opened up, Rafe paid his long-overdue visit to his grandmother, who took the news of his absolutely confirmed bachelorhood better than expected, being rather more concerned by the state of his health than his marital status. The victory that would have granted him a small crumb of comfort before he met Henrietta now meant nothing to him.

  Allowing his valet to help him into his black evening coat, standing listless while that man gave a final finicky polish to his shoes and handed him his hat, gloves and cane, Rafe felt as if his life were one long, endless trek through an interminable tunnel without a glimmer of light at the end.

  * * *

  Walking the short distance to Grosvenor Square, he listened with half an ear as Lucas recounted some tedious on dit about his sister Minerva’s husband’s brother’s attempt to race one of the new hobby-horses against the real thing in Hyde Park at promenade time, a feat that resulted in the bolting of the latter and the destruction of the former.

  At Grosvenor Square, there was the usual crush of coaches and sedan chairs. Flambeaux lit the wide set of steps. A plethora of footmen in scarlet livery relieved the gentlemen of their outerwear, and Rafe and Lucas joined the queue of people waiting to be greeted by their hosts. Automatically returning greetings, nodding curtly, shaking the occasional hand, bowing when necessary, Rafe was already counting down the minutes until he could escape. Two dances at most, he thought. He would leave it up to Minerva to find him appropriate partners. At least he would be spared a waltz, which Lucas’s sister thought improper.

  The greeting line was long, comprising Minerva, her husband, various relatives and hangers-on. The girl, Lucas’s niece, for whom all this rigmarole was in aid, had inherited the Hamilton stature and was, like her mother and uncle, thin and bony and too tall. She appeared to have none of Lucas’s wit and unfortunately all of Minerva’s basilisk stare, but she’d go off all the same, Rafe thought cynically, as he waited impatiently while she wrote down his name on the card dangling at her wrist, for the first country dance.

  The crush was unbearable. It was too hot. Too bright. Too noisy. And the tray of claret was too far away. Pushing his way through an ante-room into the ballroom in search of one of the elusive waiters, Rafe was accosted by a formidable woman, resplendent in lavender, a mauve turban with purple feathers on her head, and a silver lorgnette held to her eyes, giving her a haddock-like appearance.

  ‘Lord Pentland.’

  Rafe bowed. One of his grandmother’s younger cronies. A Whig. Husband was a friend of Fox. Tedious son. Clutch of daughters. He remembered now that the youngest had been rather amusing. ‘Lady Gwendolyn.’

  ‘I thought you were in the country.’

  ‘As you see, I am returned.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here. You so rarely bless us with your presence.’

  ‘I came to oblige a friend.’

  ‘Oh, Minerva’s brother, of course. Lanky fellow, what’s his name?’

  ‘Lucas.’

  ‘That’s it. No doubt Minerva will have engaged you to dance with that daughter of hers. Unfortunate gal, favours her mother rather too much and has even less conversation—you’ll be bored to tears.’ Rafe smiled tightly and made to bow his leave, but Lady Gwendolyn tapped his arm with her closed fan. ‘Just a moment, I’ve got someone I’d like to introduce you to. I think you’ll find her a much more amusing dance partner. Has a refreshing habit of speaking her mind, just like you. You’ll like her. She’s my niece.’

  ‘You are very kind, but I fear…’

  ‘My sister’s child, she is come to visit me for a few weeks. Where is— Oh, there you are, my dear, what were you doing lurking behind the pillar like that? Come here and make your curtsy. Lord Pentland, may I introduce my niece, Miss Markham.’

  ‘Henrietta!’

  ‘Rafe!’

  Lady Gwendolyn looked from one to the other. Both were white as sheets. ‘Surely you two cannot be acquainted?’ But she was speaking to thin air.

  * * *

  Rafe pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the curious eyes that followed them, keeping a firm grip on Henrietta’s wrist, which left her no option but to follow him, no time to draw breath nor to protest nor to shake off the rush of blood to her head, which made her so dizzy that she couldn’t be sure it was actually him.

  But it was unmistakably him, pulling back a heavy curtain to reveal a large window embrasure, dragging her behind him into the space, where she blinked and shivered in the relative dark after the blaze of the brightly lit ballroom, in the relative cool after its oppressive, near-tropical heat. Rafe released his grip and Henrietta sank gratefully on to the padded window seat, staring blankly up at the imposing figure resplendent in full evening dress.

  She was shaking. Her brain was refusing to function. Her mouth was opening and closing, but no sound was coming from it. He was here. Standing right in front of her, looking every bit as tall and dark and unfairly handsome as he always did. He was here; her heart was pounding and her breathing wasn’t functioning properly and she had been wrong, so wrong to think she could cure herself of him, because here he was and all she wanted to do was hurl herself into his arms.

  ‘Rafe. I didn’t expect—I thought…’

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  For a few brief moments he had been simply, overwhelmingly, relieved. For something less than the minute it took him to drag her into this relative sanctuary, Rafe felt a surge of joy that picked him up like a huge wave. Then he tumbled from zenith to nadir as reality broke over him. She was not dead. She was not hurt. She had not been arrested and she had clearly not attempted the journey to Ireland alone. What a complete fool he had been to worry so much about her!

  Cold fury rent him, the fury of a man who realises he has behaved completely out of character to no purpose at all. After these two wee
ks of not knowing, after two weeks of cursing her for making him miss her, and two weeks of nights tortured by dreams so vivid he woke up sweating and hard and aching, what he wanted was to vent his spleen on the person responsible. ‘Well? Have you nothing to say to me? I came to your room to find you gone. Not a trace, save a stocking. No one knew what had happened. Not Benjamin, not Meg, no one.’

  Henrietta could only stare at him in amazement. His anger was so unexpected. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would need to explain. ‘It was over between us,’ she said faintly. ‘I thought my going in such a way was for the best. To say goodbye would be too painful. For me, at least. I thought that was obvious.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Henrietta, I’d no idea what fate had befallen you. Did it not occur to you that I would be beside myself with worry? Well?’

  His hands were on her arms now, dragging her to her feet, his firm grip bruising the exposed flesh between the tops of her long kid gloves and the delicate puffed sleeves of her gown, but she hardly noticed. Her teeth were chattering so much she could hardly speak. ‘I didn’t think I’d see you again. I didn’t want to see you again.’ She wriggled free from his grasp and slumped back down on to the window seat. ‘Of course it didn’t occur to me that you’d look for me, Rafe. Why would you? We had nothing more to say to each other.’

  ‘You didn’t think I’d look for you? God almighty, Henrietta! I knew you had no money. I thought you had nowhere to go. I know your opinion of me is not high, but surely you do not think me so heartless as not to care what happens to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I was not thinking straight. I should have let you know I was safe and well. I did not mean to cause you any more upset, quite the contrary. For that I beg your pardon.’

  Rafe sank down on the window seat beside her. His thigh brushed hers, warm through the silk of her gown. Henrietta tried to move away, but he tilted her chin and scrutinised her blatantly. ‘You scrub up very well, Miss Markham. I’m surprised. You led me to believe your aunt was some impoverished spinster who lived in the country.’

  ‘I never said that. I hadn’t ever met Lady Gwendolyn; it was you who assumed she lived in the country.’

  ‘And you who made no effort to contradict me. I know what I offered you was not to your taste, but I did not deserve to be treated with such contempt.’

  ‘Rafe, I did not—I would not! If you only knew,’ Henrietta said wretchedly. ‘It is not the improper nature of the proposal you made, it is what it implies of your feelings for me. Or lack of feelings.’

  ‘You know nothing of my feelings.’

  ‘I know you don’t have any.’

  ‘You think I don’t care? What possible grounds have you for making an assumption like that?’

  ‘I think you won’t allow yourself to care. I think you are afraid to care!’

  ‘You’re damned right I am. If you knew—if you had any idea…’

  ‘That’s my point entirely, Rafe, I don’t. Despite what you told me of your marriage, I still don’t. Why are you so determined to deny yourself any chance of happiness?’

  ‘Because I don’t deserve it!’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘I can’t offer you more than I already have Henrietta. You’ve made it perfectly clear it’s not enough and I respect your decision. But I have reasons.’

  ‘What reasons?’

  ‘Good reasons, or rather horrible reasons.’

  ‘Then tell me. Make me understand. At least that would be something. Please, Rafe.’

  He stared at her for long moments. Make her understand. It would indeed be something. At least then she might not think so ill of him. He didn’t like her thinking ill of him. ‘Dammit, why not?’ he said abruptly. ‘In fact, I’ll do better than that, I’ll show you.’

  ‘Show me what?’

  ‘Not tonight, tomorrow. I’ll call for you at ten.’

  ‘But, Rafe…’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ He made a sketchy bow and left, pushing his way through the crowd, oblivious of the resentful looks aimed at him by his hostess and her daughter, who was now bereft of a partner for the next dance, of Lady Gwendolyn’s gimlet gaze, or Lucas’s infuriated one.

  * * *

  By the time Henrietta had sufficiently recovered from the shock of the encounter, he was gone. The room seemed to be full of tall men in black evening coats. It didn’t help that the second dance was already forming. She edged her way forwards, only to have her toes trampled by a young lady in dusky pink, practising an over-energetic change. Desperately, she began to work her way round the perimeter of the floor, certain that if she could just reach the main staircase she would catch him before he left, quite uncertain of what she would say if she did, but there were just too many people in her way. It was impossible.

  ‘My dear.’

  ‘Aunt Gwendolyn!’

  A firm hand on her back propelled her into a salon set aside for the rest and recuperation of the ladies. ‘Sit here, my dear, while I summon the carriage.’ Her aunt pushed her gently into a chaise-longue. ‘My niece is overcome with the heat,’ she said to the other two occupants of the room, one of whom was pinning up the lace ruffle of the other’s ball gown.

  Henrietta did as she was bid. When the carriage was called, she protested weakly that she was perfectly capable of going back to Berkeley Square alone, but Aunt Gwendolyn, whose nose for scandal was by now positively twitching, and whose genuine concern for her niece’s welfare was matched only by her desire to hear her niece’s account of her acquaintance with the aloof Lord Pentland, would not hear of it.

  * * *

  She held her tongue for the duration of the coach journey. Once home, she allowed Henrietta time to go upstairs to dispense with her finery while she herself removed her jewellery and replaced her ball gown with a wrapper. Only then did Lady Gwendolyn tap lightly on the door of her niece’s chamber.

  Henrietta was sitting at the dressing table, staring sightlessly at the mirror, but upon her ladyship’s arrival she jumped to her feet and fixed a smile upon her face. ‘Dear Aunt, I have been thinking that perhaps London does not suit me, after all. I have been thinking that—’

  ‘Never mind that, child. How came you to be acquainted with Rafe St Alban?’

  ‘Oh, it is nothing,’ Henrietta said airily. ‘Merely he was Lady Ipswich’s neighbour and we came across one another in—in passing. The acquaintance is not of longstanding. It is—it is nothing.’

  ‘It didn’t look like nothing to me. The pair of you were staring at each other as if you’d both just seen a ghost.’

  ‘Rafe was— Lord Pentland was not expecting to see me, being unaware of my relationship to you. I expect that was it.’

  ‘Henrietta, has anyone ever told you that you are the most appalling liar, my dear? Just exactly like your mother. Her face is an open book, too.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Precisely. Now, stop prevaricating and tell me what Rafe St Alban is to you.’

  Henrietta opened her mouth to speak, but found she could not utter the polite lies which she knew she ought. Her mouth trembled. Tears filled her eyes. ‘Everything,’ she sobbed. ‘Rafe St Alban is everything to me and I am absolutely nothing to him and— Oh, Aunt Gwendolyn, I love him so much.’

  It was not to be expected that such an admission would fill her ladyship’s heart with joy. In fact, Lady Gwendolyn’s jaw dropped. She groped in vain for her lorgnette. ‘But how came you to be—when—what?’

  ‘Please don’t ask me to explain.’

  But Lady Gwendolyn, a veteran wife of a veteran politician, was relentless. It was like extracting teeth, requiring skill and determination on her part, and resulting in a great deal of suffering on the part of her niece, but she was soon in command of the entire sorry tale.

  ‘You do realise, my dear, that Rafe St Alban is a hardened womaniser? If any of this got out, you would be ruined, for no one would believe it possible for you to have spent so much time in his
company without losing your innocence.’

  ‘He is not a womaniser,’ Henrietta protested. ‘He does not—he only—he’s not that type of man. I know he is a rake, but he’s not a rake of the worst kind.’

  ‘Well, I was not aware that there was any such thing as a good rake,’ Lady Gwendolyn said with a raised brow, her worst fears confirmed.

  ‘Well, that is what Rafe is. He only—he doesn’t—he is not a seducer,’ Henrietta declared, oblivious of the fact that her words only served to confirm to her aunt that that was exactly what Rafe St Alban was. ‘And, anyway, I don’t care about what other people say about him except—oh, I could not bear it to reflect upon you, dear Aunt, when you have been so kind.’

  Henrietta threw her arms around her aunt. Lady Gwendolyn, a woman not much given to demonstrative gestures, patted her head awkwardly. ‘There now, if you assure me that you are—are—that you have nothing to worry about in that direction,’ she said, her customary frankness deserting her.

  ‘There is nothing for you to worry about, Aunt,’ Henrietta replied, not quite meeting her eyes.

  Lady Gwendolyn pursed her lips, vastly relieved that Henrietta was her niece and not her daughter. ‘Well, so we must hope,’ she said drily, casting up a silent prayer that both their hopes would not be misplaced.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rafe spent an anxious night, pacing back and forwards in his bedchamber. Casting off his evening clothes, he pulled on a silk dressing gown. It reminded him of the brocade one Henrietta had worn that day at Woodfield Manor. She’d looked lost in it. And endearing. And he’d been unable to take his eyes off those lips of hers. Infinitely kissable, he’d called them.

  A familiar clenching in his gut made him pace the room restlessly. Throwing open the casement, he gazed out on to the street. Not a sign of life. Not a light in any other window. Just a few streets away, in Berkeley Square, Henrietta would be tucked up in her bed. He wondered if she was sleeping. He wondered if she was thinking of him. He wondered what she was thinking of him.