The Rake Enraptured

by Amelia Hart

  "As if I would waste my time telling you how you should behave. You'd never heed me. I am not so puffed up in my own consequence I imagine you would."

  "Aha. So you keep silent and store up catechisms against me, Madam Governess?"

  "You read too much into what I say. You sound ridiculous."

  He laughed outright. "An original, I declare."

  His laughter caught her off guard, the gleam of it wry and boyish, saying he did not take himself as seriously as she had imagined. That, or he cared so little for her opinion her nipping only amused.

  They clasped hands and went down between the line of dancers, and she wished this were a lively reel or jig with no opportunity to talk. He stole all enjoyment.

  "So educate me," he said, the chuckle lying beneath his words. "How should I be to please you? Sober and sensible?"

  "Pray do not stretch yourself to the task. It cannot be achieved."

  "My sobriety, or the task of pleasing you? Are you so discriminating, then?"

  "You could not please me, no matter how hard you tried."

  "Frank indeed," he said, a lively skepticism waking on his face. "Have you sworn off men?"

  "Not at all."

  "Then it is me in particular, to whom you object?"

  They parted again, and she frowned, trying to imagine how she could escape from this conversation. When he took her hand again she said, "Are you often in this part of the country, Mr Holbrook?"

  "Often enough. So you have made a study of my character, and determined it lacking."

  "You assume it is not your person."

  "Character and person. A comprehensive failure, then."

  She looked at his laughing face, so amused, but cynicism lurking always behind it. For this single moment in time she occupied his thoughts, but the instant she was not in front of him he would forget to think of her. "Only if pleasing me was your intent. Which I think it is not. I think a country governess is of no account in your world."

  He raised an eyebrow, dark and devilish. "You speak very forthrightly for such an uncomfortable statement."

  "And why not?"

  "I imagined all governesses must be prim and correct and silent." The slight savoring he lent the words made them somehow salacious, so she imagined chastisement, bonds and a gag.

  She replied to his statement alone and tried to ignore her own too-vivid imagination, though she was certain it colored her cheeks. "When necessary."

  He bent his head closer towards her, speculation on his face. "And it is not with me? What are you saying? Do you wish to step beyond the bounds of propriety with me?"

  "How you do like to leap to conclusions. You are quite the verbal contortionist. Why should I want anything so absurd? I wanted only to dance."

  "You did? So I was caught in your designs as well as those of the redoubtable Mrs Wainwright. Did she do you a favor?"

  "I rather think not. She was spiking your guns. My desires were irrelevant to her."

  "Harshly used indeed. Shall I sympathize?"

  "As if you would. I believe you imagine yourself God's gift to those such as I. I trust you will not be too dismayed when I tell you it isn't so."

  "I am wounded. What a termagant. I had no idea such a vicious soul lurked behind that modest gray-muslin exterior." He put his hand to his chest in mocking imitation of pain.

  "Very touching," she said dryly, and was glad to be taken away from him again by the steps of the dance. Shortly after that the music came to the end with a flourish, bows and curtsies were exchanged again and he offered her a hand to escort her back to her seat.

  "Thank you so much for the dance, Mr Holbrook."

  "I do believe the pleasure was all mine," he said with a relaxed grin, inclined his head and left her to solitary contemplation. She imagined she exited his head the moment he turned away. She would have been pleased if she could be as blasé. Her fingers still recalled the sensation of the gentle squeeze of his, a trifle firmer hold than she was used to. A man well used to charming, so that he did it automatically. He was already returned to the midst of his admirers, and if Mrs Wainwright had taken the opportunity of his absence to whisk her daughter away for a scold, still there were plenty of others here to dangle after him.

  She had had enough. It was time to return to the solitude of her room and once more forget this world that was no longer hers.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Please, Pressie," little Elizabeth lisped, with her most skillfully forlorn expression. "I shan't sleep if I don't have some milk. I'm so thirsty."

  "Why didn't you drink all your milk at dinner?" said Julia, not troubling to hide how cross she felt at being woken from a sound sleep. "And why aren't you talking to Nursie about this?"

  "She sleeps like a dead thing. I can't wake her up."

  "There's some water in the ewer in your room-"

  "It's empty."

  "Mine probably has water in it-"

  "It's empty too."

  Julia sighed, and propped herself up on one elbow. "If I get you milk, you promise to go straight back to sleep and not bother me again?"

  "I promise."

  "And you'll drink all your milk at dinner tonight, and every night after, for ever and ever?"

  "Forever and forever." Elizabeth smiled with complete confidence that her beloved, over-tolerant Pressie would never enforce an unpleasant promise. Julia recognized the expression.

  She threw back the sheet. "Very well then. But I expect you to keep your word," she said, reluctant and baleful. "Now go back to bed and I'll bring it to you there. And if you put even one foot back out of your bed I'll drink the milk myself."

  "Yes, Pressie. Thank you, Pressie," said the five-year-old, undaunted by this threat. She picked up Julia's hand and kissed the back of it, and Julia caught her with one arm around the waist and gave her a squeeze, charmed despite herself.

  "Ratbag. Go."

  Elizabeth went, and Julia slid her dress on again, refusing to be caught by one of the servants roaming the hallways in her wrapper. She patted her neatly braided hair and - finding it tidy enough - left it as it was. The house was silent and - without the light of Elizabeth's candle - very dark. Still, she knew the way well enough, automatically avoided the spot on the stairs that creaked, and padded silently down the hallway to where it widened in the main part of the house, beyond the areas to which servants and children were relegated.

  There was more light here, from a candelabra left alight in honor of the houseful of guests. By its glow the grand staircase swept away to the ground floor. Julia heard a scuffle, and stopped abruptly, trying to gauge the source of the noise. There was a whisper, a giggle and then a sound that might have been a moan. She strained her eyes, in an attempt to see better. After a tense moment she realized the lumpy huddle against the wall of the opposite corridor - across the open space of the stairway landing - was two figures in a passionate clinch.

  Her eyes widened, she drew in a breath and stepped back to the shelter of one of the deep doorways of the guest bedrooms. Should she pretend she was oblivious and carry on as if unaware? Or go back the way she had come and take the servant's stairs down in the darkness? Before she decided, the lovers pulled away from the wall and came towards her, turning as they came, kissing and clutching at each other, oblivious.

  Julia's mouth dropped wide. Mrs Trent. But not with Mr Trent. Oh no. With Lord Grayson, pompous and influential. Not so pompous at the moment, as he groped Mrs Trent's bosom then buried his face in it. Mrs Trent clutched his head and arched back, her head rolling sideways in Julia's direction, her eyes closed.

  Julia unfroze, groped for the door handle behind her and slipped inside before her employer could open those eyes and see her witness. She peered through a gap in the double doors, watched the reeling figures approach, and managed to stifle a squeak when they struck the wall beside the door with an audible thump. Her heart beating hard in her ears, she eased the door silently closed, releasing the door handle a scant fraction
of an inch at a time.

  Disaster, so close, less than two feet away. She saw that possible future unfolding in front of her: discovered witnessing an act that would horribly embarrass her employer. Turned off from her comfortable place, the security of the familiar gone. Searching for employment, with who-knew-what sort of reference in her pocket. Mrs Trent was not a merciful woman, but ill-tempered and spiteful. She had no reason to vent her bad humors on Julia thus far - Julia took care she did not - but she might do anything really, if humiliated by an inferior.

  Julia laid her ear to the door and heard the faint rustle of material. What were they thinking? In the hallway, no less? Could they not restrain themselves until they reached their own bedrooms? Or some place more discreet than this, pray heaven.

  The sound of tearing fabric came to her ears, and she frowned, dismayed.

  Then, in the faint light of the moonlight coming through the windows, a masculine hand appeared on the wood before her face, covering her own. She snatched hers away, whirled, flattened her back against the painted wood. He was only a dark silhouette, looming over her.

  She could not scream, and be discovered here. The scandal of it would ruin her. She could not even speak for she would be heard. She scuttled sideways and away on silent, frantic feet, followed the faint track of light across the carpet toward the window, avoiding the unknown obstacles of the darkness, and stopped against the glass, fearful eyes searching for that ominous figure. Was there another way out of this room? She could not recall ever entering it before, or even looking inside.

  He appeared out of the darkness, saturnine and beautiful but shockingly undressed, wearing only his inexpressibles, even his feet bare. It was Mr Holbrook. Oh horrors. She was in his room, late at night. What would he think had brought her here? There was only one answer to that, of course.

  He stalked her, his features clearer here in the light, and the heavy smell of wine drifted to her.

  Standing only a foot away he leaned in closer and said softly, "I didn't think you'd come." Then he kissed her, a kiss full of expectancy and assertion. There was no hesitation about him, and the taste of his mouth on hers, so foreign and shocking, held her suspended for a moment. Then as his tongue slid over the inner surface of her lips she stepped hastily back and raised a hand to strike him. Even drunk he still caught it before it could connect. "What's wrong, my sweet? More games? Do you like it rough?"

  "I don't like it at all, any way," she hissed, and he paused, his head coming up as he inspected her.

  After a moment he laughed softly. "What's this?" he said, and she heard surprised amusement in his tone. "The little governess? I certainly didn't expect you to honor me with a visit. I am blessed."

  Who had he thought she was? Mrs Langston? They were of matching height and both had dark brown hair, but there the similarity ended. Mrs Langston was a voluptuous beauty, while Julia knew herself to be very ordinary of face, slim and graceful enough but not the sort to draw men's eyes. Did the darkness flatter her so much?

  "I didn't come here by design-"

  "Ah, magnificent instinct is at work, then. Trust me. I can satisfy you."

  "What? No! Don't be stupid," she said, and saw the white flash of his grin.

  "Charming as ever. Your sweet words fall like music on my ears." He came forward and though she raised her hands to fend him off he ducked to lay another quick kiss on her lips, before stepping back, his own hands raised as if in surrender. She glared at him. He laughed soundlessly, eyes twinkling with amusement like an overgrown boy, then swooped in again for another kiss, a swift palm raised to cup her cheek.

  She punched him in the chest, hard, and pain shot up her arm.

  Instantly she crumpled, folding up around her injury, clutching her wrist with the opposite hand. "Ow. For the love of- Ow!" Even in pain she whispered.

  He followed her down, crouched next to her, then scooped her into his lap as he sat cross-legged.

  "Put me down!"

  "Hush," he said, hooked his hand around hers and tugged very gently to encourage her to hold it out. "Let me see."

  "No. Go away. This is all your fault." Weak tears came to her eyes and she snuffled, appalled. "You are despicable. It is very cruel to frighten a woman who cannot defend herself."

  "Shhh. I know. Don't fret. Only wiggle your fingers for me."

  "I shan't do anything for you," she said defiantly, but after a moment she wiggled her fingers, wincing as the pain intensified.

  "They're all functional. It's probably only a sprain."

  "Savage."

  "Beast," he said amiably.

  "Preying on the defenseless." She sat still for the moment, not certain if she liked this strange contact of sitting on a half-naked man. Scandalous, certainly, but thrilling despite the distraction of pain.

  "I know you don't mean you are defenseless. You put up an excellent defense. Only see how you punched me." His soft voice held an encouraging note.

  "Yes, but that hardly turned out well."

  "Oh no, you've felled me completely, better than a solid blow could have. I am at a loss."

  "Not noticeably." She was derisive.

  "Beside myself. Entirely discomfited."

  "You are ridiculous."

  "I am yours. I place myself at your disposal. Use my body any way you see fit."

  "I . . ." She blinked at him, owlish in the poor light. "Pardon?"

  "My body. It is the only way I can make reparation. My body injured yours. My body will pay its dues. Only use it as you will."

  "What an idiotic idea. You are not right in the head." She said it quickly, finding the idea uncomfortably titillating. What exactly did he mean? Or no, she was fairly certain what he meant, but surely he could not imagine she would ever acquiesce?

  "The head? Who is speaking of the head? Not I. The head has nothing to do with anything. Do not consult your head. It will only lead you astray. Let me show you." He kissed her again, once more taking her by surprise. This time his lips were very soft, very tender. They moved slowly over hers in a lingering way that halted thought. She tasted wine and flesh, shockingly evocative, enough to overwhelm her as she sat on him, his arms wrapped around her, pressing against her more tightly now. He encouraged her to lie against his chest and in the sudden impulse of surrender she relaxed into his hold and softened.

  He was so firm, his skin hot against hers, so blatantly bare and masculine, roughened with hair. She had never seen a man's naked chest before, let alone touched it. He was very broad, so she felt little and helpless. Pleasantly so, for this foolish moment. His thumb nudged her chin lower so her mouth fell open and allowed him entrance. He did not hesitate but claimed that small concession, deft and knowing. This was not a game nor a tease, but a coaxing seduction. She shifted as her nipples tingled within her bodice, not quite comfortable, with an odd ache.

  How did he know? How did he guess? A moment later his hand rose to cup a scant palmful of her and she gasped and quivered at the heat and the bolt of sensation that went through her. He muttered a quiet, "Perfect," against her parted lips then kissed her with an increase of ferocity that made her head spin. Her hand rose in the air, aimlessly seeking, and he removed his own from her breast long enough to capture hers, squeeze it then place it on the curve where his neck met his shoulder.

  Restlessly she stroked upwards and clutched at his hair, thick and coarser than her own, then back down to savor the extraordinary broadness of muscle stretched over the big bones of his collar, his shoulder, the scale of him unfamiliar. Then the perception was lost in the consciousness of his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, and her head whirled as he shifted, tilted her, and suddenly the carpet was under her, the hard floor beneath it and he above her, a dark shadow, a stranger.

  "No," she said. "What are you doing? No! Get off me."

  He shifted his weight from her, but his hand found its way inside the top of the dress and chemise he had somehow unbuttoned, and unerringly discovered her nipple. He ro
lled it between his fingertips and her back arched up from the floor.

  "Stop," she said, but tentatively, almost a sigh. Such a sensation, overwhelmingly intense.

  "Are you sure?" he asked, and kissed her again, a drugging kiss, sinuous, sucking on her lips.

  "Hmmm."

  Just a moment more. Only a moment. It was so good.

  She put her hands on his head, and for five seconds, then ten, she held him in place. Then she pushed him away. He went without resistance, leaving her suddenly bereft. The pain in her hand awoke, a dim throbbing she had not even noticed these past minutes.

  "See," he said, and his voice was very husky. "Your body know what it is about."

  "I am not having this conversation anymore," she said, levered herself up from the floor and rolled away from him onto her knees. It was an effort to keep her voice low and quell the shaking in it. "I think you are very drunk. You are clearly not rational. And I am not interchangeable with Mrs Langston."

  She stood and walked to where she thought the door was, an effort of memory and concentration that did not quite succeed as she kicked an obstacle with a slippered foot and bit back a cry of pain.

  Suddenly her outstretched hand was in his and he drew her on in an altered direction. She trusted him too swiftly, and found herself suddenly hard up against that chest in the dark.

  "Only stay, little dove, and I will make your body sing,' he said, his voice low and full of promise.

  "You are three sheets to the wind," she accused. "Woefully drunk."

  "Not so drunk I cannot taste the sweetness on your ripe lips. Smell your womanly fragrance. Feel your softness. We would fit well, sweet one. Only try me and you will see." He curved his body subtly to enfold her, leaning over her, giving her a heady impression of dominant masculinity that made her ridiculously weak-kneed with a desire to surrender to it, and give him what he wanted. What – in this small and foolish moment – she wanted.

  But she was not a creature of physical need and impulse. She screwed up her face in disdain.

  "I think not," she said with cold precision.

  "I am so very lonely. I drink to drown my sorrows. Stay and comfort me."