Never Resist a Rake

by Mia Marlowe

  “Horses don’t have feelings. And they don’t understand much of what we say to them. It’s the tone they respond to.” John had just kept the gelding from bolting, and Rebecca was more concerned about hurting its feelings than she was grateful to him. He began to wonder if he could do anything to suit her. “Horses are strong creatures, but they’re cowards at heart. They get silly when they don’t know what’s coming.”

  “Can’t say I blame them. People are like that too.”

  “But most of us are smart enough not to worry about what we can’t control. Besides, it would be a wise one who’d know what’s coming.”

  “Count me wise, then,” Rebecca said with a crooked little smile. “It doesn’t take much to see around some bends. Would you like me to play gypsy and predict your future?”

  “Can you?”

  “Easy as breathing.” She drew a deep lungful. “Smell that air. Isn’t that much better than London?”

  Again he wondered if she read minds. How did she know he’d already decided to be grateful not to be in the city just based on the fact that he could finally breathe deeply again? They were far from the rotting smell of the Thames and the stench of too many bodies packed too closely together, not all of them terribly clean. Now he wondered how he’d borne it for four whole months.

  If she knew how he felt about that, maybe Rebecca really could tell his future. She didn’t look like a gypsy. Her hair wasn’t dark enough, and her eyes were decidedly green, not the snapping black associated with those wandering folk. “Do you claim to be part Roma then?”

  She shrugged. “If you go back far enough in anyone’s lineage, who knows?”

  “So how do you manage your fortune-telling, Madame Kearsey? Do you use a crystal ball? Or tea leaves?” He put a fingertip of his glove between his teeth and tugged it off. Then he held out his hand to her. “Maybe you read palms.”

  She ignored his hand, though he wished she’d take it, even if she was still wearing gloves. The miles would pass far more quickly if he could touch her.

  “I don’t need anything like that. Your future is easy to predict.” She was smiling now, and it made his heart rise up even more than the fresh air had. “Your grandmother will see to it that you’re accepted by the people who matter and you’re sensible enough not to fret about the ones who don’t welcome you.”

  She thought him sensible. That was something.

  Then her smile went a little brittle around the edges. “You’re a planner. After you’ve scouted out your options, you’ll propose to a young lady of good family, marry her, and sire the next generation of Barretts.” She glanced up at him and then fixed her gaze pointedly on a distant spot on the horizon. “And that’s the life I see for the next marquess of Somerset.”

  John tugged his glove back on and stared at the tuft of mane sprouting between the gelding’s ears. He feared Rebecca was completely right. “Do you know what I wish?”

  “What?”

  “I wish I could turn back the sun.”

  “My goodness. Becoming a lord has given you delusions of grandeur.”

  “I didn’t say I could,” he corrected. “I said I wish I could.”

  “All right. Why?”

  “So I could go back to the time before I found out I’m Lord Somerset’s heir.”

  “Don’t you want to be the marquess someday?”

  “Not particularly.” The future she saw for him was stultifying. He was to wed the right lady whether she cared for him or not, sire the right number of sons, and generally be little more than a glorified placeholder for the next generation. He would cease to exist as a person. He’d be only his station, a thing belonging to Somerset. At least as an unclaimed bastard, he’d owned himself. “No, I’d rather not be the heir.”

  “Then you are a decidedly different man. Most would give their right arm for your prospects,” she said softly. “But unique as you are, even you can’t turn back the sun.”

  They drove through a sleepy little hamlet, behind the Somerset coach. There was a smith’s shop, a sundry store, and a small church strung along a single street with a few dozen cottages clustered around the edges. It was so like every other English village he’d seen, John wondered if there was an official pattern on file someplace, to which all town fathers adhered.

  Just like the pattern villages, now that he was Lord Somerset’s heir, his life was pretty well mapped out for him. Far from being in control, as he’d always thought titled gentlemen were, he’d be living out someone else’s expectations for the rest of his life—just as Rebecca foretold. Unless he chose to do something unexpected…

  He nudged the gelding into a trot as they rumbled out of the village and back into the countryside again. The road widened for a bit. “How do you feel about a little more speed?”

  “It sounds exciting,” she said. “But aren’t we supposed to stay with the carriage?”

  “That’s one of the nice things about becoming a lord. ‘Supposed to’ holds no meaning if I say it doesn’t.” He gave a wordless cry, and the gelding leaped into a canter. The gig flew around the more ponderous coach. Rebecca grasped John’s arm and held on for dear life.

  If it meant she’d touch him instead of scolding or bringing up inconvenient topics, he ought to have done this much sooner.

  Nine

  What a wondrous age in which to live! Mr. Stephenson has harnessed the power of steam for his locomotive and Herr Beethoven has harnessed the power of passion for his music. From industry to the arts, we rejoice in a thoroughly modern world. Yet, despite all of mankind’s advances, something as simple as the ancient wheel can still wreak havoc with a perfectly ordinary journey.

  —Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

  The gig streaked past the Somerset coach. Its horse’s hooves tossed great clods of dirt behind him as they disappeared from sight over the next rise.

  “Good heavens!” the dowager exclaimed. “Where are those two off to in such a terrible hurry?”

  “The same place we’re bound, albeit at a much slower pace, Gran,” Richard said, folding his arms over his chest. He’d much rather have ridden in the open gig than taken the backward-facing squab in the coach. Perhaps after a while, Miss Kearsey would be ready to exchange places and take his seat alongside Sophie. He could switch out at the next opportunity and ride beside his new brother for a while.

  Lady Somerset signaled to one of the outriders with an imperious wave of her hand out the coach window. When the horseman drew even with her, she ordered him to ride ahead to escort the gig.

  “It’s not seemly.” His grandmother’s lips drew into a censorious line once the outrider disappeared after Hartley and Miss Kearsey. “The pair of them driving away like that. Alone.”

  “How kind of you to have a care for Rebecca’s reputation,” Sophie said.

  “It’s not Miss Kearsey I’m worried about,” the dowager explained. “It’s John. He mustn’t be allowed to be entrapped by someone unsuitable, and that means he mustn’t be allowed to be alone with a young lady who may have designs on him. Cannier men than he have been ensnared by an unacceptable debutante’s schemes.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “It seemed to me that Rebecca’s scheme was chiefly not to topple out of the gig.”

  “Sophie’s right. There’s no harm done. We’ll catch them when we stop for luncheon, I expect. After the way John looked this morning, I’m glad to see that he can bear some speed.” Richard sensed that John’s refusal to ride in the coach beside their grandmother grated on the old lady something fierce. Lady Somerset might try to mask her hurt behind criticism, but she’d been wounded by John’s rebuff.

  However, he couldn’t blame John. If Richard had been brought up on some rustic farm in Wiltshire instead of in the Barretts’ spacious, light-filled nursery, he might feel the same.

  The marchioness sniffed into her
scented lacy handkerchief. “I don’t know how you can defend him, since he’s the reason you’ll not succeed your father as the next marquess.”

  “On the contrary, I bless him.” Richard took his wife’s hand and gave it a squeeze. He wouldn’t have been able to marry Sophie if he’d still been in line for the title, so for that alone, he was grateful for John Fitzhugh Barrett. Besides, after a lifetime of having only sisters, Richard felt an obligation to defend his new half brother.

  “Yes, well, you can’t argue that one who is so ill-equipped for the title is good for Somerset,” the dowager said. “Despite these unexpected developments, the rest of us must keep the welfare of the estate uppermost in our minds.”

  “And I do, Gran.” Richard had worked tirelessly to turn around the estate’s finances by building a timber mill on the property, which provided not only some much needed revenue, but employment for the residents of the nearby village of Somerset-on-the-Sea. After four short months under Richard’s husbandry, the marquessate’s ledgers were already in a much healthier condition. “I’m always looking out for Somerset. Just not in the same way you do.”

  “I should say not. You seem singularly unconcerned about whether Lord Hartley gets on with the right people.” Gran stuffed her handkerchief back into her beaded reticule. “For example, to which of your associates have you introduced him?”

  “He’ll know Seymour soon enough.” Lawrence Seymour was Richard’s best friend and a perpetual visitor at Somerfield Park. “Once the guests arrive for the hunt, I’ll introduce him to more of my friends.”

  “Friends? He doesn’t need friends. It’s past time when he might rely upon that. He’s already been to Oxford, but while he was there, he evidently didn’t make the requisite connections.” Richard’s grandmother cast a squint-eyed gaze at him. She had a point. An education was only part of why one attended the prestigious university. The more important part was developing the relationships one would depend upon later in life. Of course, Richard’s half brother could hardly be blamed for that. John had been thought an unacknowledged bastard at the time. It was no wonder he hadn’t been popular with his classmates.

  “Hartley needs people who can help him be accepted by Society even at this late date and under these extraordinary circumstances.” She rattled off a string of lords whose approval she most wanted John to cultivate. “I’m counting on you to assist him during the next few weeks. To guide and counsel him.”

  “I don’t think he’ll appreciate—”

  “Of course, we’ll help him. That goes without saying, Phillippa,” Sophie interrupted in time to save Richard from disputing his grandmother’s word. As far as he knew, his wife was the only soul on earth who dared call Gran by her Christian name. “What we must do is make John fashionable.”

  Richard’s gaze cut to Sophie sharply. “Fashionable? I never expected to hear such a suggestion come out of your mouth.”

  “Not fashionable in the usual sense,” Sophie amended. “But we need to present John as a sort of romantic figure to the ton, a gentleman who overcame an unhappy accident in his childhood, rather like Romulus and Remus.”

  “But they were raised by wolves,” Richard objected.

  “Hear me out.” Sophie sat forward on the edge of the squab, warming to her subject. “The twins were the offspring of a demigod, and John is the son of a marquess. That similarity will resonate with Polite Society, since they’re agog over all things classical. And remember Romulus and Remus rose above their unorthodox beginnings to do great things, like founding the city of Rome.”

  “So how does this help John?” Richard asked.

  “We simply plant the parallels between him and the mythological twins in a few influential minds. We might even plan a Roman-themed ball once the house party gets underway. John can be presented as a classical hero in the same mold as Romulus and Remus, and we’ll let the gossip grapevine do the rest,” Sophie said with enthusiasm. “By the time someone like Lady Wappington gets hold of this idea, John will be Alexander and Hercules rolled into one, the next founder of a classical dynasty!”

  The marchioness shook her head. “I rather doubt Sir Humphrey and his wife will appreciate their fostering being likened to being reared by wolves.” Then she brightened. “But I do see your point: Hartley too must rise above his upbringing.”

  Richard covered his eyes with his hand. Fortunately, his grandmother had not yet realized this scenario cast her as the dastardly Amulius, the villain who threw the mythological twins into the Tiber to die before they were rescued by the she-wolf.

  “However, it sounds as if you’ve done a bit of planning for John’s future already,” Sophie said to Lady Somerset. “Perhaps you might tell us about the young ladies you’re expecting to descend upon Somerfield Park. We’ll want to steer John to the right ones.”

  “There’s not a wrong one in the bunch,” Gran declared. “But, of course, some are more right than others.”

  She launched into a recitation of the bloodlines and accomplishments of various debutantes whom she’d vetted for the upcoming “Hartley Hunt,” as Richard thought of it.

  Of course, he didn’t call it that out loud. Both his grandmother and his wife would probably boot him out of the carriage if he did.

  So Richard propped his chin in his hand and closed his eyes while the feminine conversation about how to handle the problem of Hartley continued to chirp around him.

  Just keep driving, John, he thought as the rhythmic rocking of the coach lulled him to sleep. Just keep driving.

  * * *

  Rebecca clung to John’s arm as they careened down the road. She was quite proud of herself. She hadn’t entertained thoughts of the gig overturning more than half a dozen times. John leaned forward, crooning urgent endearments to the gelding he’d been calling a ninny and a wicked beast only a few minutes before.

  Men were as changeable as the weather.

  Then, to her surprise, she discovered that women were too. She actually began to enjoy the wild ride. Her hair came undone, loose locks coiling down her back. Wind tore moisture from her eyes, tears streaming back over her cheekbones to slip into her ears, but she didn’t want to stop. She hadn’t felt this free since she had been a child.

  When she was quite young, her father had lost his first serious amount of money in a game of chance. He was forced to petition the House of Lords for the right to sell off more than half his land. Along with the acreage, Rebecca’s fat little pony had also been sold to settle her father’s debt of honor.

  To make it up to her, her father had climbed the big oak and hung a burlap bag swing from the stoutest limb. In the days that followed, no matter how bad things seemed as creditors came and carted off her mother’s treasures as well, when Rebecca straddled that scratchy seat and kicked her legs, she felt as if she could fly. Nothing mattered when the wind whistled past her cheeks and teased out the tears in a way she didn’t have to explain to anyone.

  She didn’t have to explain the water leaking from her eyes now either. Besides, so long as she kept riding beside John, she had nothing to cry about. It didn’t matter that John’s station was so very much higher than hers. She trusted him even when he drove the gig into the field to avoid a log in the middle of their path. They sped back up as John returned the gig to the road. An outrider from the Somerset coach leaped over the log and caught up with them, pounding behind them, matching their breakneck pace.

  Rebecca wished they could ride forever, and it seemed as if they would.

  Then, without warning, John pulled up on the reins so hard, the gelding almost sat on his haunches. The outrider flew past them before he could bring his mount to a stop and then trotted back to rejoin them. Both the horses were panting and blowing. John was standing up in the gig, staring down the road ahead.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Has he thrown a shoe?”

  John pointed to the
horizon. She hadn’t been looking any farther ahead than their next few lunging strides. The sky had lowered menacingly. Gray clouds descended to meet the earth in a darkening blur. They boiled black in places and lightning leapt from one cloud bank to the next. Distant thunder rumbled toward them.

  “Oh dear. The day started so fine, too,” Rebecca said. She rose and looked behind them. “And I don’t see the coach anywhere.”

  “We’ve left them some distance behind. But the next village isn’t far. Tincross Bottom, if I remember right from studying the map.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a place.”

  “It isn’t, but there’s supposed to be a coaching inn there. Nothing fancy, but it’ll do. Let’s make a dash for it and wait for the others there.”

  “But will they know to stop?”

  “I’ll make sure of it. You there,” John said to the outrider. “Return to the Somerset coach and tell Lord Richard we’ve sought shelter at the Tincross Bottom coaching inn.”

  “But my lord, Lady Somerset said I…” The outrider’s objection died away under John’s intense glare. “Right away, my lord. Very good.”

  The rider bolted back the way they’d come as a light mist began to fall.

  “Lovely,” Rebecca said in a tone that meant anything but. “We’re in for a drenching.”

  “If we ride fast enough, we’ll slip right between the raindrops.” John put up the gig’s collapsible hood. “Not much protection from the elements, but it’s better than nothing. Come, Miss Kearsey. Let’s see what this gelding’s got left.”

  * * *

  Richard woke when his head narrowly missed being whacked on the ceiling. The coach came down hard and then listed sharply to the right.

  “What on earth!” his grandmother exclaimed.

  “I’ll see what’s happened.” Richard waited for the coach to limp to a stop before climbing out. By the time he alighted, the driver had already scrambled down to inspect the damage and was squatting by the side of the equipage, peering up at its undercarriage.