Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1)

by Bronwyn Scott

  The first was: what if he didn’t go home? He’d certainly fantasised about that before, but always with some adolescent immaturity behind it: if he didn’t go home, he couldn’t marry Christina Everly. Beyond that, there’d never been any real clarity. Today, there was substance. What if he stayed in Paris? What if Leodegrance took him on as an instructor? If he performed well at the upcoming tournament, surely Leodegrance would find a place for him.

  Haviland winced. Leodegrance might do that if he didn’t run him through first for bedding his sister. He poured another glass of wine. What would Alyssandra think of him staying? They’d begun this mad affaire under the supposition that it was for escape and pleasure—two inherently short-term goals. The end had been implied since the beginning. If he stayed, that end could be put off. Would she want that? Would she want him if he came with reduced circumstances? He’d watched her subtly gauging the luxury of his surroundings the other night, her eyes noting the expensive carriage and the upper-class neighbourhood of his lodgings. She was used to living finely, she would not expect that to change.

  That gave him pause. Haviland played with the stem of his wine glass. He’d never had to think about that before. Every woman he’d had wanted him because he had a title and was the embodiment of wealth. He supposed he’d still have a title, but it was unlikely his funds would be as extensive. If the Leodegrances wouldn’t have him, he could always teach at one of the other salles d’armes or strike out on his own.

  * * *

  By his third glass of wine, the practicalities seemed less important than the vision of doing something. Practicalities would mean nothing, worries over the state of his relationship with Alyssandra would mean nothing, if he didn’t take the first step and decide. In any situation there was always a choice. Sometimes those choices were just difficult.

  What it came down to was this: could he live with that choice? Could he live with the choices his parents would make because of it? His father could not revoke the title, it was too much work. But his father would revoke the money. As much as Haviland felt the money acted as a stone around his neck, he’d never lived without it and the luxuries it brought. Could he do it? After three glasses of wine he thought he could, but it would require bravery and adjustment.

  He poured the rest of the bottle and drank deeply, savouring the tannins on his tongue. He wished Archer was with him to talk, most of all to listen. Archer would understand the dilemma between family and self because he’d suffered under that burden, too. Only now, Archer was free. And Archer would be leaving them. The others didn’t know. Archer would push on to Italy for the horse race in August, not stopping to play away the summer in the Alps.

  It was something of an irony that the four of them had set out on this trip as one last chance to be together before they were pulled away by marriage and life, each to their own obligations, and yet, Archer was leaving and he was sitting here drinking wine, thinking of doing the same. Haviland chuckled to himself. It was a humorous and yet dangerous thought to think of Brennan and Nolan bashing about the Continent on their own, gambling and wenching their way south. Europe might never recover.

  He was still laughing to himself over the image when the note arrived. There was a certain thrill at seeing the folded white sheet on the waiter’s salver. Haviland unfolded it, marking its brevity with a quick scan. It contained only a single line; the address of the evening’s entertainment. But it was enough to stir his blood and his imagination. Escape and pleasure seemed to be the watchwords of the day in some form or another.

  Haviland smiled to himself. Alyssandra was not above a little game playing, it seemed. An address, but no given time, no specified place of meeting. He would have to hunt for her. If you want me, come and get me. The message implied was clear. He would have to be in pursuit. She would not make it easy for him, only possible.

  * * *

  The evening’s venue was another musicale the French were so very fond of, this one an effort to copy the début for the king, Louis Philippe, of Auguste Mermet’s new two-act opéra comique at Versailles a week ago. It hardly mattered what was on the venue. Haviland doubted they’d stay for the entertainment. But first he had to find her—easier said than done considering the number of people present. It had almost been impossible to greet his hostess before being jostled along.

  He looked for her first out of doors along the veranda just to be certain she wasn’t there. He hadn’t expected her to be—it would have been far too predictable, and she did want him to hunt her. He checked the crowded salon where the recital would be held and where most of the guests were gathered at this point in the evening. He checked the currently deserted card rooms, the refreshment room, the outdoors once more, this time strolling through the garden. He was certain she was here already. Musicales required a more prompt attendance than a ball. At a ball, one could arrive at one’s convenience, but at a musicale one didn’t dare arrive during the performance.

  Haviland sat down on a bench to think. Where would she be? He looked up at the stone facade of the house, his gaze absently scanning the windows while he thought. Most windows above the second floor were dark. His gaze moved down to the second floor where the entertainment was. He watched people spill out of the wide doors and onto the twin curved staircases leading to the garden. He couldn’t stay out here much longer without calling attention to himself. A lone man in a garden was highly suspect. He might as well just brand ‘I’m waiting for someone’ on his forehead.

  A single lamp flashed in the window of a room at the end of the south wing. It had definitely not been there a minute before. A signal. For him. Haviland smiled and counted windows. Three from the end, seven from the main salon. He stood up and the light went out. The minx was watching him. She knew he was in the garden. It occurred to him to exact a little revenge of his own and make her wait. Perhaps he would sit through the first part of the recital. It would serve her right, but that would only punish him, too, and by now, the hunt had him fully primed for conquest. He was ready to flush his quarry.

  * * *

  ‘You have led me a merry chase.’ Haviland shut the door behind him. She did not look up from her book at once, but he saw the twitching beginnings of a smile play across her lips. It gave him a moment to appreciate the surroundings and perhaps to appreciate how well she fit those surroundings. She’d chosen a comfortable room done in rich browns and muted greens, part-library, part-sitting room with its warm fireplace and collection of sofas and chairs. She matched it perfectly in her gown of crushed gold moiré, the firelight bringing out the tawny highlights of her hair. His blood hummed as it hit him. She’d planned this right down to the dress she’d worn. Planning meant he’d been on her mind. Planning meant she was looking forward to this as much as he and that could have some very scintillating consequences indeed. His fencing match today proved he’d thought of little else.

  It was hardly to his credit to be so swept away. He was made of sterner, steelier stuff when it came to affaires. Among a certain set of a certain type of London lady, he was known for his physical skill in bed and his mental reserve. He was famed for his ability to avoid sticky, emotional attachments. He understood the import of physical pleasure remaining strictly physical. Yet here he was, eagerly anticipating this evening like a lovestruck swain. He was only missing the roses and chocolates.

  She looked up at last and he was aware of the heat of her gaze slowly drifting the length of him. This was how a mature woman flirted; boldly, directly about her intentions. No shy maidenly glances to indirectly communicate her preferences, here. Haviland swallowed, desire starting to ride him with some persistence now.

  ‘It’s about time you got here.’ She wore a thick curl over one shoulder. She lifted a hand and twisted it about her finger. ‘Haviland...’ Her voice caressed his name with a sensual husk. ‘Will you do something for me?’

  Haviland gave a wolfish grin, liking this game very much. ‘Anything.’ He wanted to take her roughly, quickly, that
gold gown hiked about her thighs. Maybe a hard, fast coupling would douse the fire that had been building throughout the day. Then they could slow down, could control the fire between them long enough to gradually warm themselves in it instead of burn with it.

  Her brows lifted in acknowledgement of his boldness. ‘Lock the door.’

  The lock snicked quietly, ominously, in the silence of the sitting room. Privacy ensured, passion could ensue. He turned from the door, letting his gaze catch hers, let it communicate his wicked intentions; whatever happened next would be fast and it would be rough. Haviland crossed the room in three rapid strides, his hands gripping her hard by the arms, his mouth urgent against hers.

  Her mouth answered his, her hands tore at his clothes, pulling out shirttails, tugging at cravats, words escaping her in little gasping fractured sentences. ‘I want you, inside me, now.’ Her teeth bit down on his lip. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else all day, I’ve been wondering about nothing else all day.’ She had the fall of his trousers free, her hand closing over him.

  Haviland bore her back to the wall, lifting her. ‘Wrap your legs about me.’ The instruction came out hoarse, came out harsh with need. He pushed the fabric of her gown up high past her thighs, a fierce growl escaping him as his hands met bare skin. Sans lingerie. ‘What a deliciously wicked thing you are, Alyssandra.’ His voice was husky against her throat. He would not last long at this rate. Neither would she. Her curls were damp against his hand, the scent of her desire mingling with lavender and lemongrass. Thank goodness this was not meant to be a prolonged coupling.

  Haviland braced her against the wall, his muscles taut with his need, and he thrust, hard, rough, fast, and still she urged him on. ‘More, Haviland, more!’ Alyssandra gave a low, guttural moan of sheer pleasure, her neck arched, her hair falling haphazardly about her in a wild cascade. ‘Don’t hold back, dear God, don’t hold anything back!’ She looked magnificent in her pleasure, she sounded magnificent; a woman owning her passion, crying it in her abandon and he hammered into her like a stallion, like the wild things they’d become, pushing them to pleasure’s end. She screamed, and he gave an exhalation of primal release, the tautness leaving him, satisfaction filling him. More than satisfaction, although he didn’t have a word for it, for this feeling that flooded him. His body knew only that the edge which had ridden him mercilessly all day had finally been dulled, finally been conquered.

  They sank down the wall onto the floor in front of the fireplace, both of them boneless heaps. He lay on his side, finding enough strength to prop himself up on an elbow; so much the better to watch her recover. He’d never watched a woman recover before, never paid attention to the little changes as she transitioned back to earth. Alyssandra lay on her back, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. He watched her breasts rise and fall beneath her gown, fast at first, and then slowing as her breathing returned to a regular pattern, le petit mort giving way to the peace of satisfaction.

  ‘I don’t know if I got my wish or not,’ she said after a while, her eyes still on the ceiling. ‘Part of me had hoped it wouldn’t happen again, that last night had been a random occurrence, a once-in-a-lifetime achievement.’

  Haviland studied her in the firelight. He reached a hand out absently to push her hair back behind her ear, letting the tiny diamond studs she wore dance in the flames as he contemplated her words. ‘Why would you ever wish that?’

  ‘Because it was wonderful, because it had never happened for me. Did you know that?’ She turned her head to look at him briefly. The brown eyes which had belonged to a confident temptress earlier were soulful now. There was a hint of vulnerability in them—but only a hint. Alyssandra was too stubborn to admit too much. He had guessed, of course. Her response last night had been so deeply genuine, so deeply amazed for her to have expected it, to have known what waited for them.

  ‘And if it could happen, over and over again, it meant you were the one responsible for it; you and maybe only you could make it happen.’ Desperation or perhaps hopelessness hemmed the edge of her voice although she tried to hide it. He knew she would not want to appear to be either.

  What ifs began to hover on the periphery of his returning reason. What if he stayed? Staying would change everything. ‘Leaving is a long time off,’ he argued quietly. ‘I have a month yet, maybe more, before we’ll even think of such things.’ He didn’t dare say more. He didn’t know any more, only that it was possible this didn’t have to end. There were weeks to go and his friends seemed content enough with Paris. Archer would leave, no matter what. His dreams of the Palio demanded it. But Nolan was winning at cards without offending anyone and Brennan had found Paris full of willing females. Perhaps they wouldn’t be in a hurry to move on. Yet. Perhaps it didn’t matter what they chose to do. He might stay regardless.

  She gave a half smile; half-hope, half-practicality. She’d heard the implication. ‘Yet’ would come no matter how he soothed. She hadn’t had the epiphanies he’d had today. She was still thinking any delay was only temporary. It was the best he could offer for now. Who knew what the month would bring? Perhaps they would tire of one another by then and be glad to see the other go before the relationship could truly sour. It had been his experience that eventually all things did. Perfection didn’t last, although it was hard to believe when he felt the way he did right now—sated and content.

  She rolled towards him and they lay length to length, eyes meeting. ‘Well, that’s for later. Right now, we have a locked room. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  She’d only wanted to see him again as her lover, to see if the magic was real. Part of her almost hoped it wasn’t. It would prove he was a man, as fallible, as ordinary as any other. But part of her had wanted to burn, wanted to be lit on fire once more. That part had got precisely what it desired.

  And it still was not enough. Not by far.

  It was as if her body was awake for the first time and, being acutely aware of that fact, it wanted to experience everything. She wanted to taste him again, feel him again. To imprint him again and again on her memory so her body would never forget what it was made for. Her eyes lit on the sideboard across the room, an idea starting to form. She rose to her feet, a little clumsy amid the tangle of clothes. Haviland’s brows drew together, perplexed. She stayed him with a smile. ‘Wait here.’

  His body waited, his gaze did not. She could feel the heat of it with each step. Now that urgency had been satisfied, other wants, other desires, rose to take its place, the needs of a dilettante who wants to savour the experience, who is no longer in a hurry.

  She turned, decanter in hand, her gaze perusing her lover with an intensity to match his. Just looking at him put a thrill through her blood. He was temptation personified in dishabille; his head propped on his hand, dark hair falling forward over one brow, one long leg bent at the knee. The fall of his trousers lay open, hinting provocatively at what lay beneath the loose billows of his shirttails. If he were to shift slightly to the right, perhaps there would be a glimpse, her mind thought naughtily. But, no, that would ruin the temptation. The secret was in the mystery, not the blatant revelation.

  ‘I was just thinking how much I wish you were naked.’ Haviland’s voice was a gravelly drawl, each word a caress. Her breath caught. It was a wickedly daring suggestion; to be entirely naked in what amounted to a public room was audacious in the extreme even with the door locked. It only took one person to try the handle to confirm that something clandestine and private was occurring on the other side. And yet, they were far enough down the hall it was unlikely anyone would come looking. The odds were probably in her favour. Alyssandra set down the decanter and reached for the laces at the back of her dress.

  She let the dress fall, her gaze riveted on Haviland and his response. His body went still. There was an ottoman close at hand and she raised one leg to it, untying the garter about her thigh and rolling down the silk stocking with deliberate slowness. Haviland shifted. Even
at her distance, she could see the evidence of arousal assert itself against the folds of his shirt and it pleased her. She teased with her smile and rolled down the second stocking. All that remained was her chemise.

  Alyssandra raised her arms, knowing full well the movement exposed her entirely below the waist as she tugged the chemise over her head. She had never been so daring. But Haviland brought out the boldness in her with his own audacity. They were alike in that regard, both of them cool and polite, aloof even among society, but behind closed doors neither balked at giving passion free rein.

  His eyes devoured her, and she stood for him, letting him look his fill. Her hand closed around the neck of the decanter, and she began a seductive walk towards him, hips infused in the slightest of sways, hair tumbling down of its own accord to fall over her breasts in a riot of waves.

  She set the decanter by the fire, letting the flames warm the glass, Haviland’s eyes following her every move. ‘Now,’ she said, settling in the armchair. ‘It’s your turn.’ A little smile played at her mouth as she borrowed his words. ‘I was just thinking how much I wish you were naked.’

  Haviland came to his feet and made her a bow, his tone full of mock gravity. ‘Your wish is my command.’

  His shirt went first. Dear lord, she should wish more often. She’d seen him naked last night, but this was different. Last night had been a means to an end, a very intimate means. Tonight, the disrobing was an end in itself. His eyes were hot as he watched her watching him. He was stripping for her, putting himself on display for her as she had for him. There must be a name for this sort of erotic, two-way voyeurism, that raised such a specific heat in her. Her body ached, her breasts felt heavy with desire and she hadn’t even touched him. He pulled off his evening shoes and made short work of his trousers so that he stood before her magnificently naked. Had a man ever looked so beautiful? Alyssandra felt a feminine moment of pride. Whispered speculations behind fans hardly did him justice and he was hers. All hers.