Never Resist a Rake

by Mia Marlowe

  She rose to go quickly, lest he stop her again. She’d accomplished her goal of convincing him to leave London, and now she had to make good her escape. “I’ll send Mr. Porter to attend you since you’re awake.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she fled the room. As soon as the door latched behind her, she leaned against it, knees sagging.

  She and Freddie had made it their business to study the art of flirting, as they studied everything that interested them. Freddie, for example, was an expert on the language of the fan. Unfortunately, she was unable to use her facility often, since she rarely met another who was so well versed in the silent mode of communication. Still, Freddie faithfully reported to Rebecca every time she was able to use her fan to send a message. The two girls had always shared everything. Freddie would expect a full report on this meeting with Lord Hartley and would be filled with horrified fascination to learn that Rebecca had kissed a man.

  But that kiss was something Rebecca would never share with anyone. Not even Freddie.

  * * *

  It was nearly three in the morning when Rebecca sent for Mr. Porter to sit with his lordship. Then she was shown to a guest room and was assured that her father had been similarly accommodated owing to the lateness of the hour. A message had been dispatched to Grosvenor Square, so her mother wouldn’t expect them back until tomorrow.

  The room Rebecca had been given was lovely, decorated in the French style with a fresco of cherubs cavorting in splendid nakedness across the azure ceiling. It was a restful chamber, but Rebecca tossed and turned until the longcase clock in the foyer chimed half past four.

  When she came down to breakfast at ten the next morning, Lady Richard and the dowager marchioness had already begun their meal.

  “Well?” Lady Somerset asked as if she expected Rebecca to read her mind.

  Fortunately in this instance, she could. “He has agreed.”

  “My, but that’s wonderful, Rebecca.” Lady Richard turned from the side table laden with buttered eggs, sausage, and kippers. She’d already insisted on informal address between them, inviting Rebecca to call her Sophie, but it was difficult for Rebecca to use someone’s Christian name after so short an acquaintance. “So Lord Hartley will be returning to Somerfield Park with us. I told you she’d manage it.”

  This last remark was directed toward the dowager marchioness, who was seated at the head of the long table. Lady Somerset cast Lady Richard a thin smile between bites of her dry toast.

  “How lovely a thing it must be to be right all the time, my dear,” the old lady said. “Of course, one suspects you might find it taxing after a while. What’s life without a few surprises?”

  Rebecca studied the chafing dishes, silently debating the merits of lamb’s kidneys in a spice sauce or cold veal pie. She settled on the pie and took her seat, avoiding eye contact with either of the women.

  Last night, before Rebecca had been sent in to try to convince Lord Hartley to return to Somerset’s countryseat, a spirited discussion had broken out between Lady Richard and the elder Lady Somerset. Neither of the strong-willed women minded saying whatever popped into their heads, devil take the hindmost, while they debated how best to get Lord Hartley to come to heel with their plans. While they didn’t seem to mind the volleys between them, Rebecca felt like a deer cowering between two determined stalkers.

  Even invading an unconscious man’s bedchamber had seemed preferable to remaining within range of that verbal barrage.

  Lady Richard, however, didn’t seem a bit distressed by the marchioness’s little barbs. She was looking fresh and comfortable in a deceptively simple morning gown of pale pink muslin. Her dark hair was gathered up by a matching beaded bandeau.

  “I’m so ready to go back to Barrett House. London becomes just another noisy city after a while,” Lady Richard said, her startlingly blue eyes bright. “Besides, autumn is such a vital season for plants. I need time to put the garden to bed before winter.”

  “I hope you don’t feel I’m putting myself forward, but Lord Hartley only agreed to return to the country if my family and I came for his lordship’s hunt,” Rebecca said. She’d never tell anyone about John’s second condition, even though she could still taste him on her lips.

  The dowager looked as if she’d just swallowed a bit of bad kipper, clearly not enamored of the idea that a mere baron and his family should visit Somerfield Park. But Lady Richard leaped into the fray.

  “Why, there’s nothing easier. You’ve been so very helpful; of course you must come,” Lady Richard said. “In fact, Lord Hartley and I seem to be thinking along the same lines. I’ve already spoken to your father about a visit to Somerset, and he agreed to allow you to travel with us when we leave for the country tomorrow. He and your mother will come later.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Sophie, please. Call me Sophie. At least when we are in private, if it makes you uncomfortable otherwise.”

  “Thank you…Sophie. Your Barrett House garden sounds lovely, but I hope you don’t have your heart set on living there again.” Rebecca remembered John saying something about having his half brother with him under the same roof. “It seems his lordship expects you and Lord Richard to take up residence at Somerfield Park as well.”

  The dowager erupted in a fit of coughing and settled her teacup back in its saucer with a loud clink. “I say, he certainly makes free with ordering others around.”

  Lady Richard rolled her eyes. “As if you never arranged the affairs of others to suit yourself.”

  Rebecca trembled a bit, wondering how Sophie dared speak to the dowager so. The old lady had the reputation of being a veritable dragon. After all, she was a marchioness, the highest-ranking individual Rebecca had ever shared a breakfast with in her life.

  “To my mind, this bit of imperiousness is proof positive that John is your rightful grandson,” Sophie said before popping a bite of bun that dripped with marmalade into her mouth.

  “As if there were any doubt!” Lady Somerset said with vehemence. “No matter what he may have inherited from his mother’s side, he’s a Barrett to his bones.”

  Rebecca dared a glance at the dowager. She’d heard the whole story several times now. John’s mother had been a pretty opera dancer who married young Hugh Barrett, who was now Lord Somerset, without his parents’ knowledge or permission. Once they learned of the misalliance, they offered her a large sum of money to do with as she pleased if only she’d work with the Somerset solicitor to convince the court that fraud had been involved in the union and swear never to contact Hugh again.

  “She was young enough and flighty enough to want the money instead of trying to squeeze herself into the role of lady of a large country estate where no one wanted her,” Lady Somerset said. “How were we to know that in the short space of a week she’d conceived a child?”

  “I have to admire her though,” Sophie said. “A bargain was a bargain and she lived up to her end of it. She never contacted Somerset again. Right up until she died.”

  “Yes, well, by the time we knew there was a little boy, my son was engaged to marry Lady Helen.” The daughter of a respectable earl, Lady Helen was someone of whom old Lady Somerset did approve. The sudden news of a previous marriage, and especially one which had resulted in a male child, would surely have upset the wedding. A foster family in sleepy Wiltshire and a more-than-adequate education seemed a fair solution for one considered to be born on the wrong side of the blanket.

  “Of course, we made the mistake of trusting a gaggle of lawyers and didn’t realize that the issue had never been satisfactorily resolved, which meant John Fitzhugh is Somerset’s legitimate heir. As soon as we learned of this oversight, we made him aware of his status.” The dowager sipped her tea. “If that discommoded you and your plans to become part of the aristocracy, my dear Sophie, I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Nonsense,” Sophie sa
id. “My father was the one who wanted me to be the next mistress of Somerfield Park. I fell in love with Richard despite his title, not because of it. I’m ever so much happier not to be a marchioness in training.”

  “Not half as glad as I that I don’t have to train you.” The dowager gave a delicate shudder. “That, my dear, would have been a task of herculean proportions.”

  Rebecca suspected Lady Richard and Lady Somerset were, if not friends, at least allies most of the time. However, the way they sniped at each other reminded her of a pair of biddies in the barnyard. She rose before one of them could draw first blood.

  “If I’m to go with you to the country, I’d best return home to pack, my lady…I mean, Sophie.”

  “A word before you go, Miss Kearsey,” said the dowager, who would never dream of addressing anyone outside of her family informally—or allowing them to do so to her. “It has occurred to me that you may be of further assistance to his lordship as he settles into his new station.”

  “How so?”

  “Help him feel comfortable in social situations when you can. I remember how young ladies are. Gossip is your mother tongue. Smooth the way for him by spreading good things about the new Lord Hartley to your friends.”

  “Of course I will,” Rebecca said and dropped a shallow curtsy. It would be easy to say good things about John.

  “You will find me appreciative.” The dowager lifted a meaningful eyebrow.

  Rebecca hadn’t felt comfortable trying to convince John to return to Somerfield Park. Before she had gone into John’s chamber last night, she’d made a bargain with the dowager. If Rebecca succeeded in talking Lord Hartley into going along with the family’s plans for him, Lady Somerset would advance Rebecca’s father enough money to cover half of his current indebtedness. That arched brow was the old lady’s way of telling Rebecca she might well earn enough to retire the rest of her father’s IOUs.

  “Thank you, my lady. I’ll do my best.”

  The dowager nodded approvingly, and the girl skittered out of the breakfast room. “Well, she should prove useful.”

  Sophie sighed. Rebecca Kearsey was more than half smitten with Lord Hartley. That was plain for anyone with eyes to see. Sophie only hoped the dowager was too caught up in her own Machiavellian plans to mark the paleness of Rebecca’s face or the way her brows drew together wistfully whenever she spoke of the new Lord Hartley.

  “I admit you were right to suggest I task that girl with bringing Hartley to heel. As a mere baron’s daughter, she undoubtedly knows what it’s like to linger on the fringes. Like calls to like, they do say. She speaks his language.” The dowager allowed the ubiquitous footman to refill her teacup and then dismissed him with an imperious wave of her bejeweled fingers. She waited for the door to close, so she could speak privately. “However, now we must teach my grandson to speak a new language.”

  “If you wish to have any influence at all with John, perhaps you should simply treat him as a grandson instead of someone to be managed,” Sophie suggested. The Barretts were a staunchly loyal family, but they weren’t given to displays of affection. She suspected the new Lord Hartley would do more for a kind word or a spontaneous hug from the dowager than he’d ever do because she tried to maneuver him into a position to her liking.

  “I would like nothing more than to coddle the lad,” the dowager proclaimed, she who’d never coddled anyone in her life. “But time is running on apace and he’s in need of so very much instruction.”

  “Why? John grew up with gentry in Wiltshire. He was well educated and constantly surrounded by the wellborn while he was at school. Surely he’s managed to pick up on how you speak, how you carry yourselves, how you think.”

  “What a terribly naive observation.” The dowager sent her a withering glance. “It’s times like this that remind me I only put up with you because you amuse me, Sophie.”

  “I’m glad to have gratified you.” She stuck out her tongue.

  “Don’t try to rile me with your impertinence when we have important work to do.” The dowager took a leisurely sip of tea. “Yes, what you say is true. Hartley does know how we live, but there’s a difference. Consider the distinction between being a native-born speaker and one who learns a language later in life. One may develop the vocabulary, but rarely the fluency.”

  “Back to language again. And pray, what language is it that John needs to learn?”

  “The language of a man going a-courting,” the dowager said with a smile. “Nothing will put a man right so much as the right woman.”

  “Not that I disagree, but surely you can’t mean he must marry now.”

  Young girls had their come-out in their late teens, and if they didn’t “take” in a couple of Seasons, they’d retire to life “on the shelf.” Gentlemen had a much easier time of things. They simply decided for themselves when it was time to enter the marriage market. They could look around as long as they liked without becoming the least stale. Sophie thought John would benefit from waiting.

  “I don’t think you should rush matters. John is not yet adjusted to his new station,” Sophie said.

  “And he’ll never rise to being Lord Hartley if he’s allowed to run rampant with the riffraff of London.”

  “I don’t see how you can keep him from doing whatever he pleases. He’s a man fully grown and, what’s more, the future marquess,” Sophie said. “I hardly need remind you that in this family, we tend to do any foolish thing we like.”

  “Richard could leash him,” Lady Somerset said. “He still holds the power of the purse. If Hartley won’t behave himself, Richard will have to cut him off.”

  “Careful. There’s nothing to stop John from going to court and relieving Richard of his duties as the estate’s agent. I think you and I agree that it’s in Somerset’s best interests for my husband to continue managing the estate for the time being.”

  The dowager huffed out a disgusted breath, but conceded the point. She enjoyed her comforts in the sumptuous dower house known as Somerset Steading. Richard’s stewardship ensured those comforts would continue unabated.

  “Well, perhaps there’s not much we need do, actually, except point Hartley in the right direction,” Lady Somerset mused. “I’ve set the stage. We’ll simply let nature take its course.”

  “What do you mean you’ve set the stage?” Sophie asked suspiciously.

  “My son has sent his invitations to the hunt and I’ve sent mine. Nearly every lord about to descend upon Somerfield Park also has a daughter or a niece of marriageable age.”

  Sophie’s eyes flared. “You didn’t.”

  “Oh, but I did.”

  “But won’t the fact that John’s upbringing was…unconventional put them off?”

  “Clearly, my dear, you underestimate the value of becoming a marchioness one day. But then, you always did.”

  “Silly me,” Sophie said. “I was always more interested in the man who came with the title. Good thing, since his title went away.”

  “You showed good sense in that, I’ll grant you. Richard is a fine man, no matter that he no longer succeeds his father. And he was fortunate to have chosen a young woman who doesn’t care about such things.” From the dowager, that was high praise indeed. “But back to the problem at hand. You needn’t think I came right out and broadcast the news that Hartley was wife shopping. I simply wrote to the wives of the lords usually invited to the hunt. I explained that when their gentlemen weren’t gallivanting about the estate trying to kill things, they might enjoy some genteel activities—card parties and dances, lawn bowling and archery. To that end, they might bring their marriageable daughters to Somerfield Park for the duration of the hunt.”

  The dowager tittered at the double entendre of “hunt,” since poor John would definitely be in the crosshairs of all those hopeful misses.

  “Perhaps we might organize some musical evenings,
” Sophie suggested, getting into the spirit of the plan.

  “Only if we can find a few debutantes who aren’t tone deaf, which—trust me, my dear—is a very tall order indeed.” The dowager leaned forward for emphasis.

  “Still, this whole plan seems terribly contrived.”

  “Well, of course, it is. If we women didn’t contrive to arrange marriages, how many do you think would actually come to pass?” Lady Somerset asked without pausing for an answer. “Besides, everyone I invited wrote back to accept. And not a one of the young ladies who’ll be in attendance is less than the daughter of an earl. An important consideration, given Lord Hartley’s humble beginnings.”

  “Well, then perhaps John won’t be in for a terrible time at the hands of the ton after all.”

  “I should say not when it is seen that his whole family is behind him. If only he’d come directly to Somerfield Park in the first place, instead of haring off to London on his own—well, there’s no putting the milk back in the jug.” The old lady sighed. “I simply want to see the succession settled for another generation before I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

  “What sentimental rot.” Sophie chuckled. “You’ll outlive us all and dance on our graves.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dance, my dear. Cutting a reel at my age causes far too much to jiggle that shouldn’t.”

  They laughed together at that. Sophie rose and came down to the dowager’s end of the table. She gave Richard’s grandmother her arm so they could take a turn through the pint-sized garden behind the Mayfair town house.

  “You know,” Sophie said, “I’ve noticed that you are the only one besides me who calls my Richard by his Christian name.”

  “I call all my grandchildren by their given names, even my grandchildren by marriage, my dear Sophie,” she added with a sly smile. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You don’t call John by his name,” she pointed out. “He’s only Hartley to you.”

  “Much has been made about what an adjustment this has been for the young man. However, he is not the only one who finds difficulty in accepting these changes.” The dowager’s lips pinched together. “You know what they say about old dogs.”