Rake with a Frozen Heart

by Marguerite Kaye

  Mr Henry Markham, dressed habitually and entirely in brown clothes, which looked as if they dated, as indeed did their wearer, from some time in the middle of the previous century, was a tall man bent in the middle like a permanent question mark. His hair, a thick grey curtain through which his bald head rose like a brown-speckled egg, tangled with the folding legs of his brass eyeglasses, preventing them, when they slid down his nose—as they did at regular intervals—from actually quitting his face.

  His wife was equally slim built, but there the resemblance ended. There was no doubt at all that Guinevere Markham had been, and still was, an extremely beautiful woman, with hair a rich Titian bronze, flawless skin, an equally flawless profile and perfectly arched brows under which eyes the same hue as her daughter’s looked out at the world.

  Guinevere’s gaze was, however, not nearly as clear-sighted as her daughter’s. Her perceptions for ever coloured by the loss of her innocence at the hands of a rake, she forbade Henrietta’s marriage to a man who would, she claimed, weeping copious tears, break her innocent babe’s heart.

  Neither Henrietta’s indignant protests, nor the publication of the forthcoming nuptials in the press, nor even the large emerald-and-diamond encrusted ring, which she wore upon the third finger of her left hand, had any effect on Mrs Markham. Her daughter, whose patience and loyalty was being tested beyond the limits, finally lost her temper and roundly informed Mama that she was three-and-twenty and therefore there was nothing Mama could do about it.

  Into this heated exchange walked Lady Gwendolyn and out of this heated exchange emerged the truth of Guinevere’s past.

  ‘Which was rather a case of unrequited love than seduction,’ Lady Gwendolyn frankly informed her niece, ignoring her sister’s flapping denials. Guinevere, it seemed, was the one who did the pursuing. The gentleman in question was not interested in her declarations of love, any more than he was interested in her suggestion that they marry, since he was, in fact, already wed. ‘Though to be fair,’ Lady Gwendolyn said, ‘the poor woman was more or less confined to their country estate by their brood of children.’

  ‘I did not know, Gwen,’ Guinevere protested faintly.

  ‘Yes, you did, Gwinnie, for I told you myself,’ Lady Gwendolyn said, ‘but you were so set upon that blasted man that you weren’t interested in listening.’

  ‘He said he loved me.’

  ‘No doubt he did, when you made it perfectly obvious that in return he could have you,’ Lady Gwendolyn retorted.

  ‘He said he would marry me.’

  Lady Gwendolyn snorted. ‘If he did, you knew very well it was a lie.’ She eyed her sister through her lorgnette. ‘All these years, I’ve kept my opinions to myself upon the subject, but I won’t have you ruining Henrietta’s chance of happiness with your foolishness.’ She turned her attention back to her niece. ‘The round tale is that your mother ran off with him, knowing full well that he had no honourable intentions at all. Our poor father brought her back, two nights after she left. As far as the world was concerned, of course, she was ruined. The fact that she went into a decline confirmed it, but the truth is that her decline was fuelled not by the loss of her innocence, but by the fact that he hadn’t seduced her at all!’

  With a soft sigh, Guinevere slumped into a faint on the floor. ‘Leave her be,’ Lady Gwendolyn said when Henrietta made to rush to her mother’s aid. ‘She always could faint at will. Your mother was not seduced, Henrietta, she was rejected. That is why she went to live in the country—of her own free will, I may add. Why she married your poor father, I don’t know. I suspect he fell hook, line and sinker for her tragic tale and played the knight errant. We all have a weakness for that. Whatever the reason, I trust you will not spoil his illusions. The breach between us was Gwinnie’s fault, you know. She preferred to fabricate her own version of events and didn’t want me putting her straight. It’s been so long since anyone forced her to confront the truth, I expect she doesn’t know what it is any more.’

  The revelations astounded Henrietta, but when she confided them to her future husband, he laughed, and confounded her by admitting that he’d always had his suspicions about the truth of her mother’s past. He did not make the connection between Mrs Markham and his dead first wife, but he did not have to. Henrietta made it for herself and, for once, decided to say nothing more upon the subject.

  * * *

  Mrs Markham was forced to resign herself to Henrietta’s marriage. Her husband was rather more enthusiastic. Mr Markham, a kindly man with good intentions, even if they were somewhat pedantic, had dedicated his last few years to creating a map of penury. This, he informed Rafe, would ensure that in future philanthropic efforts could be guided to the most appropriate and most deserving of the poor. His future son-in-law was rather impressed by this and saw merit in it, to Henrietta’s surprise. Mr Markham, in his turn, unimpressed by the generous settlements and title to which his daughter was about to accede, was so affected by his visit to St Nicholas’s that he decided he could overlook Rafe’s reputation. A mere five days after his permission for the union was initially sought, it was finally granted.

  * * *

  The wedding took place at the end of June and was hailed as the event of the Season. Everyone who was anyone attended the nuptials. Not to have received one of the gold-edged invitations was to be a social pariah. Lady Helen Ipswich was one such. Though not surprised, it did not make her pain at missing the society event of the year any less acute.

  With her niece safely betrothed, Lady Gwendolyn had succumbed to the temptation of letting just the tiniest titbits of the stolen emeralds’ story fall upon the ears of a select few. Helen Ipswich was shunned, not only in the best of circles, but in the worst—though to be fair, none of this was Rafe’s doing. By the time Rafe was dressing to walk his bride up the aisle of St James’s, Helen Ipswich had closed up her London house, packed her sons off to school and retired to the Continent where, as Lady Gwendolyn happily informed her sister, to whom she had been reconciled during the complex and costly process of providing Henrietta with a trousseau, Helen Ipswich would find herself quite at home among the loose morals of the French court.

  At the ceremony, the ladies wept, the gentlemen harrumphed into their kerchiefs, Lucas Hamilton, in tribute to the solemnity of the occasion, remained almost sober, and all agreed that the proceedings were most touching, the bridegroom most handsome and the bride herself really rather charming. Though he had insisted on the biggest, most extravagant affair that could be arranged in the shortest amount of time, it could not be said that Rafe noticed, for he had eyes only for Henrietta. As she walked down the short aisle of St James’s Church on her father’s arm, his heart really did feel as if it were swelling in his chest with love. The sun could not shine brighter than the smile she gave him as he took her hand in his, nor could the stars compete with the look in her eyes when he made his vows and placed the ring upon her finger.

  The passionate kiss they exchanged, shocking some of the congregation, filling others with longing and some with unabashed jealousy, sealed their vows. The wedding breakfast, the orange blossom, the champagne and the toasts—all were a blur as they sat together, hands clasped tight under the table, waiting for the time when they could be alone.

  * * *

  Later, the newly-weds made love slowly, disrobing each other item by item, unable to take their eyes from each other, the slow build from overture to crescendo lifting them together to a new plane upon which they began their married life.

  * * *

  They lived for most of the year in Woodfield Manor, their happiness filling the place with noise and joyous laughter, turning the once-sombre house into a home once more. ‘It had become a mausoleum this place,’ Mrs Peters said, a tear in her eyes, ‘and look at it now. Filled with life, just as it should be.’

  The cries of their adored first-born had added a new joy, yet another layer to their happiness, which, Rafe declared on the morning of their son’s first birthda
y, could surely not increase further.

  Henrietta, lying naked, propped on her side in their huge bed, smiled languorously at her husband. ‘You say that at the start of every day,’ she said, ‘and at the end of every day you change your mind.’

  Rafe rolled her on top of him. The crush of her soft curves had an achingly familiar effect. His erection strained between her thighs. ‘I know. Isn’t it amazing?’ he said, kissing the corners of her smiling, infinitely kissable mouth. He could feel her heating, her sex dampening, her nipples hardening. ‘Darling Henrietta, there is one way of ensuring that I shall say the same at the end of this day, too.’ He wanted to be inside her. He rolled her over, taking one of her rosy nipples into his mouth and sucking hard, at the same time reaching down, between, inside, stroking with unerring precision, making her gasp and arch against the solid heft of his shaft.

  ‘Rafe…’

  ‘Henrietta, I can never get enough of you, you know that.’

  ‘I know,’ she said with a deep chuckle. ‘And in a month or so, everyone else will know, too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes were shining, chocolate and gold. Her mouth was ripe. Like her body. ‘Henrietta, do you mean…?’

  She nodded. ‘Are you pleased?’

  ‘Pleased!’ Rafe kissed her tenderly. ‘I don’t think I could be any happier. I didn’t think it was possible to be any happier. I love you so much, my own, lovely, darling wife.’ He kissed her softly rounded belly, then he kissed her mouth again.

  Henrietta wrapped her arms around her husband. ‘Show me how much,’ she said, arching up against him.

  ‘With pleasure,’ he said. And he did.

  * * * * *

  ISBN: 9781459227484

  Copyright © 2012 by Marguerite Kaye

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