Never Resist a Rake

by Mia Marlowe

  A vivid recollection of young Hollis placing a piece of paper on the bed scrolled across his mind. Then the valet had smoothed down the front of Blackwood’s brocade waistcoat admiringly, remarking on the fine workmanship. The blasted fellow must have performed his little sleight of hand while Blackwood was soaking in the tub. One square of folded paper looked very like another. In hindsight, it was easy to see how he’d been duped.

  “Hartley,” Blackwood said through clenched teeth. “It was Hartley. This is all his doing.”

  “Ridiculous,” Lord Arbuthnot said, rising to his feet. “Our host is clearly nowhere near this poque table and cannot be held responsible for your losses. Come.” He gave Blackwood a bracing slap on the back. “Take your lumps like a man. And now, my lady”—he offered his arm to Chloe—“may I escort you to supper, where we can commiserate over our losses and lick our wounds?”

  “It might be more interesting if we were to lick each other’s wounds.” One of Chloe’s brows arched naughtily and she took his arm. “But perhaps that’s a game for another time.”

  Arbuthnot’s face lit up. “No time like the present. Some things don’t improve with the waiting, my dear.”

  He was a widower with grown children and a sizeable estate. Chloe had clearly identified a candidate for husband number five and was preparing to lead him a merry chase until she caught him.

  “Come with us to supper, Kearsey,” Chloe called over her shoulder. “Before Lord Blackwood finds something else in his drawers he feels compelled to show us.”

  Kearsey skittered after them while Blackwood did a slow burn. He’d lost the leverage he held over the baron and couldn’t use Miss Kearsey to settle her father’s uncollectable debt.

  But Miss Kearsey didn’t know that.

  He buttoned up his breeches and headed for the guest wing of Somerfield Park. She’d be waiting for him.

  He decided he wouldn’t go easy on her after all. A gag would do nicely to quiet her screams.

  Thirty-one

  When one is burdened by as many years as I am, people assume I must sigh and shake my head over the past when I was young and foolish. Balderdash! There’s no time like the present. Never say I’ve lived long enough to be done with foolish things.

  —Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

  It always paid to know the geography of a great house. Blackwood made his way through the dark corridors, tracing the map of the place he carried in his head. He’d followed Miss Kearsey back to her chamber one evening, careful not to be caught lurking around corners, in preparation for this very moment, when he’d need to find her.

  He might have lost a king’s ransom this night, but by God, no one was going to cheat him of his conquest of Miss Kearsey. As far as she knew, her father was still in thrall to him. She’d do anything for the sake of her family. Blackwood could even pretend to be magnanimous and claim this single night would settle her father’s debt.

  Yes, that was the ticket. She’d be so pathetically grateful, her participation in her own debauching might not even have to be coerced. He might not have to take. She would give.

  Anything.

  Blackwood glanced up and down the long hallway to satisfy himself that no one was there to see him. Then he slipped into Rebecca Kearsey’s chamber.

  She’d left a single candle burning on the dressing table, its flame magnified by the mirror to bring the entire room into a dusky half-light. The lady herself was already abed, but he doubted she was asleep.

  What girl would be able to rest knowing she was destined to lose her maidenhead that night?

  The covers were pulled up so far that only a lacy nightcap showed above them. She was trying to hide from him. Her modesty was endearing. Quaint, even. An unexpected swell of something that might be called tenderness in another man warmed his chest.

  Perhaps he would be gentle with her. At first.

  “Wake up, sweeting,” he whispered. “I’ve been dreaming of making extravagant love to you all day.”

  “Oh, I sincerely doubt that.” The figure in the bed threw back the covers and sat up. Blackwood was horrified to discover the dowager marchioness in all her high-collared, buttoned-up muslin and lace glory. “However, your protestation of designs on my person flatters me, sir; indeed it does.”

  “Lady Somerset!” he said, aghast.

  “Lord Blackwood. Now that we’ve established the players, tell me, why are you in Miss Kearsey’s bedchamber?”

  “Why are you?” he sputtered.

  “To keep you from accomplishing your nefarious intent, of course.” Then she raised her voice. “John! You may enter. It appears Lord Blackwood will not be ravishing anyone this evening.”

  Hartley, flanked by his half brother, Lord Richard, on one side and Miss Kearsey on the other, strode into the room. Lady Wappington, the ton’s most malevolent gossip, was also in train, her bug eyes magnified to even greater proportions by peering at him through a lorgnette.

  “Blackwood, in making improper advances toward my grandmother, you have shown yourself to be beyond the pale,” Hartley said.

  “What? I never—”

  “Now, now, Blackwood. Truth is truth. You did claim to have dreamt of making extravagant love to me all day long,” the marchioness put in unhelpfully.

  “Oh, I say!” Lady Wappington made a noise halfway between a snort and an owl hoot. Then she turned and fairly ran down the hall in her hurry to spread word of the debacle.

  Once the ton got wind of this, Blackwood would be a laughingstock. The tabloids would likely pick it up. He could imagine the cartoons now, depicting him slavering over a wrinkled old crone in a nightcap.

  He’d never been respectable, but at least he’d been feared. Now he’d face only derision.

  “The IOU in my waistcoat pocket, the switching of my card deck, my loss at the poque table, even this ridiculous farce with your grandmother—this is all your doing,” Blackwood accused Lord Hartley.

  His former friend executed a flawless bow. “Freely admitted with pride.”

  Ire boiled inside him. Blackwood stomped over to Hartley, smacked him with his glove.

  “I demand satisfaction.” That drove the amused smirk off Hartley’s face. He seemed to blanch at the thought of meeting Blackwood on a field of honor. And well he might. Blackwood had never lost a duel, killing two men and maiming a third.

  “No, John, please. Walk away. It’s not worth it.” Distress drawing her brows together, Rebecca Kearsey clung to Hartley’s forearm, but he gently moved her behind him.

  “That very much depends upon what price your beloved sets upon his honor,” Blackwood said with a sneer. “If you feel yourself man enough, my lord, shall we say tomorrow at dawn?”

  Hartley nodded. “I’ll meet you in the Greek folly.”

  “Very well. Since you have been challenged, you may choose the weapons, though I warn you I am equally skilled at pistols and blades.”

  “I am forewarned,” Hartley said solemnly.

  Blackwood pushed between his former friend and the girl he’d intended to ravish. The total collapse of his plans still stung, but the opportunity to kill Hartley for it and suffer no legal repercussions soothed him immeasurably.

  * * *

  After Blackwood stormed out, John, his brother, and the dowager left the chamber as well. But Rebecca hadn’t even had time to ring for a maid to help her out of her ball gown before John slipped back into her room.

  “Oh, thank heaven,” she murmured as she flew across the space and into his arms. “Tell me you are not going through with this ridiculous duel.”

  “I jolly well have to.” John pressed a kiss on the crown of her head. “Otherwise, I’ll be branded a coward and Blackwood will be vindicated in the eyes of the ton.”

  “Since when do you care what they think?”

  “Since I f
ell in love with a certain baron’s daughter. Don’t you see? I want to make everything right for you, love. I can’t do that if I let Blackwood get the best of me.”

  She ranted after that, though not very loudly, since her reputation wouldn’t withstand being caught with yet another man in her bedchamber on the selfsame night. This was precisely what she’d feared when John first promised to take on the problem of her father’s debt.

  She’d rather give herself to that odious Blackwood a thousand times than have John killed by the man.

  She pleaded. She wept, but she couldn’t make him see reason. Finally, despair gave way to anger.

  “If you won’t listen to me, then get out.”

  “Now, love, is that any way to talk? No, you’re right. Maybe it’s best if we don’t talk at all.” He kissed her then, claiming her mouth by right. He crowded her senses with his strength and his scent and the wonder of his lips on hers. For a moment, longing urged her to forget the morrow. No one was promised even their next breath. Now was all anyone had.

  Why not take the man she loved to bed and forget the rest of the world?

  But her head overruled her aching body.

  “No, John.” She wedged her hands between them and shoved against his chest. “If you’re determined to kill yourself, you’ll not take my blessing—or anything else—with you.”

  He gave her a long look. “I wish you had more faith in me.”

  It wasn’t that. She had plenty of faith in his intentions. She just had more fear of Blackwood’s reputation with a blade and a pistol. She couldn’t encourage him in this foolishness.

  “So. That’s it, then.” He brushed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Good night, love. Sleep well.”

  He was gone before she could respond.

  Rebecca wouldn’t sleep. This was her worst nightmare, and she didn’t even have the option of waking from it.

  So weeping silently, she paced the length of her room until the sky lightened to pearl gray. She was still wearing the pink ball gown, but now she wrapped a pale oatmeal shawl around her shoulders and headed for the Greek folly.

  The grass was stiff with early morning frost. The cunning slippers Freddie had lent her for the ball would never be the same, but it didn’t signify in the slightest. Her chest was a leaden weight. She had no more tears. Nothing mattered but seeing John one last time. Even if she couldn’t dissuade him from his course, she’d be with him to the end.

  When Rebecca reached the tumbled-down amphitheater, she was stupefied to discover the stone seats were almost filled to capacity by other members of the house party. It was mostly the gentlemen, who loved nothing better than a fight and the opportunity to wager on it. But a few ladies had arrived early enough to claim a good vantage point from which to view the proceedings. Rebecca passed by Lord Arbuthnot and Lady Chloe, who were also both still wearing their formal clothes from last evening.

  “Of course, dueling is illegal.” Lord Arbuthnot’s breath rose in dragonish puffs while he pontificated to Lady Chloe. “But ignoring a slight to one’s honor cannot be legislated.”

  “I fail to see how catching Blackwood at his own game is a slight to his honor,” Chloe drawled.

  Rebecca scanned the sloping stones toward the stage area and saw Freddie seated beside Lady Wappington. She scrambled down toward them.

  “Naturally, I abhor the notion of dueling,” Freddie was saying to her companion. “However, as a cultural phenomenon, it is worth further study. It behooves me to witness one if for no other reason than to prepare a treatise against the practice. Oh, Rebecca, there you are. I’d begun to think you wouldn’t come.”

  More people were arriving over the rise and taking their places in the amphitheater’s stone seating as the sky continued to lighten. Rebecca’s sense of unreality grew by the moment. “Did someone send out invitations?”

  “I might have mentioned it to one or two people.” Lady Wappington had the grace to look chagrined. “In strictest confidence, you understand.”

  “Is John here?” Rebecca didn’t bother to call him Lord Hartley for form’s sake. She was trembling for reasons that had nothing to do with the chill morning air. None of the silly things society thought was so important mattered one whit. She knew that now. She shouldn’t have sent John away. She—

  “Yes,” Freddie interrupted her thoughts, “the principals are here, though I gather Lord Blackwood had difficulty finding a second. It seems poor Mr. Pitcairn has been pressed into service.”

  On the right side of the proscenium, Pitcairn was helping Blackwood remove his garrick and jacket. The small fellow’s face was so wide-eyed, Rebecca didn’t doubt he’d bolt if given half a chance.

  Then John and his brother, Richard, strode onto the left side of the stage, and the rest of the world faded away. Freddie’s droning voice became a meaningless jumble of sounds. The gathered onlookers were shapeless blobs of wool and superfine. All that existed, all that was real, all that mattered was John Fitzhugh Barrett.

  Her legs propelled her toward him somehow, but she wasn’t conscious of commanding them. She was powerless to stop herself until she stood before him. He let Richard divest him of his greatcoat and jacket, and then took both of Rebecca’s hands.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” he said softly.

  “I had no choice.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I know that now,” she said. To refuse Blackwood’s challenge, he’d have to deny who he was, who he was desperately trying to be—the next marquess of Somerset. “I love you. I’ll love you till…till forever comes.”

  Despite the grimness of the situation, his face broke into a wide smile. “That’s good, love. But don’t look so glum. Forever isn’t coming today.”

  Then he strode to meet Blackwood in the center of the Greek folly’s stage. Rebecca hugged her shawl around her tighter, but nothing could warm her. She strained to hear the duelists’ conversation over the rumble of the assembled witnesses. Then the crowd finally hushed and Blackwood’s voice rang clearly in the open space.

  “What will it be, Hartley? Swords or pistols?”

  “Neither.”

  “You mean to concede and apologize then?”

  “Nothing of the sort. You insulted both my grandmother and the lady I love. We’ll duel, all right, but not with conventional weapons,” John said. “I choose fists.”

  “Fists?” Pitcairn piped up. “There’s no precedent. It’s simply not done.”

  “There’s no law against it, either,” Richard put in. “And Hartley, as the challenged party, is allowed to choose his weapons. You may accept his choice or apologize…with significant damage to your honor, of course.”

  “Or you can accept with significant damage to your teeth,” John promised with a wolf’s smile.

  “You can brawl to the death, of course. Men have killed each other with naught but their bare hands before, but I hope you’re a bit more civilized than that,” Richard offered, as John’s second. “My brother is not a vindictive man. We propose the winner be decided by first blood.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” Pitcairn said. “A bloody nose is better than a beating.”

  “Shut up, you bird-wit!” An amused titter rose up from the crowd on the amphitheater steps. Blackwood lowered his voice to a low growl. “You’ll rue the day you tried to make a fool of me, Hartley.”

  “Oh, I think you’re doing a fine job of that without any help from me.” John raised his fists in a pugilist’s classic stance. “Defend yourself.”

  “So be it.”

  Then with the skill and lightning reflexes that made him a master swordsman, Blackwood lashed out with a jab to John’s jaw. It didn’t draw blood, but Rebecca felt the jolt as if the blow had connected with her own face. John staggered back a pace.

  Blackwood followed it up with a blow that glanced off John’s
chin and then another to his gut that connected with a dull thud.

  As John doubled over, Rebecca’s breath hissed out of her in a rush.

  “Hit him back,” she chanted softly, not wanting to distract John as he and Blackwood circled each other, looking for an opening. The rest of the witnesses weren’t so thoughtful. They called out suggestions and derision to both boxers as the seriousness and civility of a field of honor degenerated into a mill.

  John swung wide, but Blackwood ducked beneath the blow.

  “Never figured me for a pugilist, did you?” the viscount said as he danced around the bigger man.

  “Never figured you’d risk your pretty face,” John said with a grunt. Then he threw a punch toward Blackwood’s jaw, which he deflected with his forearm.

  “You should have taken training, Hartley.”

  “I did. In every schoolyard, every time I was called a bastard. I learned early to defend myself.”

  “But not how to defeat your opponent. That knockout in the Green Cockerel was a lucky punch. You may have got the girl that night, but I’ll have her this time.”

  John feinted to the right, which drew Blackwood’s guard that direction. Then he moved in swiftly with an uppercut to Blackwood’s jaw from the left.

  Rebecca could hear the crunch of bone from where she stood. Blackwood fell to his knees, spitting blood and an eyetooth onto the stone stage.

  “First blood! Hartley wins!” Pitcairn exclaimed, obviously forgetting that it was his principal who was down.

  “It may be first blood,” Blackwood growled, “but, by God, it won’t be the last.” He came up with his boot knife in his hand, slashing at John’s midsection with a wild swing. The blade sliced through his shirt and left a string of red beads on his exposed midsection.

  The crowd that had been jeering and shouting now fell silent as John pulled out his boot knife and the fight took a deadly turn.

  Rebecca covered her eyes. She knew it was cowardly, but she couldn’t bear to look. However, hearing the grunts and swearing of the fighters, the gasps and cries of the onlookers was almost worse. Then the worst possible thing happened.