Taming Wilde

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Was she ignoring him?

  When her face returned to his it was stained with tears. Slowly, she rose from her seat and made her way across the room. Another young debutante settled at the piano, quickly gaining everyone’s attention, making it possible for him to stare at the beautiful sway of her hips as she made her way toward him.

  He counted the seconds as they slowly trickled by. Each second brought her closer to him, so he was not angry that time was sluggishly inching forward, but truly if she dallied any longer he was going to toss her over his shoulder and barge out the front door.

  After what seemed like an eternity, she was before him. Head lowered, eyes fixed on the floor.

  “Is it more interesting, sweetheart?”

  “Is what more interesting?”

  “The marble, what else?”

  At that her head jerked up. “No, I mean, well, I—”

  “You play beautifully.” He offered his arm and promptly changed the subject. She blushed and placed her hand across his sleeve.

  “Thank you.”

  “Practice always makes perfect, they say. Tell me, Gemma, do you practice… often?”

  “Yes.”

  She refused to look at him, which was fine. He would simply rake it out of her. Rake. Odd it was now becoming a verb. To be honest, he was too nervous to act himself; therefore, he pretended this was not the love of his life. It was not the woman who had the power to kill him with her rejection. She was simply a lady, a lady with whom he desired to share a moonlight kiss.

  Yes, that was exactly what Gemma was. His heart pounded loudly in his chest, and his body, it seemed, was at odds with his brain. Unfortunate.

  “Shall we take the air?” He did not wait for her to answer but led her toward the garden doors.

  “I… I am not sure we should be alone. Hawke is—”

  “An idiot. I agree. Shall we?”

  Gemma looked at him and laughed.

  Devil take it, how he’d missed her laugh. The sparkle in her eyes when she was amused. It had been too long. Her brother had stolen that from her — stolen her joy of life.

  Colin’s jaw clenched under the frustration of the months lost, when they could have been together.

  “Are you all right?” Gemma asked once they were out of doors.

  The cool night air did wonders for his demeanor. Colin released her hand and turned around to gaze back at his aunt’s house. They were alone, gloriously alone, but he did not want to take any chances that someone might spy them.

  He held a finger to his lips and grabbed her hand, leading her down a narrow passageway of trees that ran alongside the east side of the house.

  “Where are we going? Colin, what are we—”

  His lips cut her off. Well, that was graceful. Not at all how he’d planned it, but he could not wait one more moment. No, he would have died.

  Her mouth opened immediately, and a soft sigh escaped her as he slowly pulled back to gaze into her eyes. “I am not sorry.”

  “Neither am I.” She smirked.

  “I love you.”

  Anthony would strangle him if he were present. No tact whatsoever. He led a woman into the shadows of the trees, interrupted her with his mouth, and then professed love. Safe to say, he could burn Anthony’s journal. No help whatsoever.

  “What?” Gemma gasped.

  Clearly he should have listened when Anthony spoke, but any sane individual would have blocked out that man’s words.

  “I love you.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Oh.” Well, that was awkward. “I am sorry. I… I’m sorry to have taken up your evening. If you will just…”

  And then she slapped him.

  Blasted Anthony.

  He never spoke of a woman’s reaction when one professed love! Was that normal?

  Gemma gasped and threw her hands over her mouth, and then she began to laugh. She was laughing. At him.

  “I’m so sorry!” She kept laughing. “I do not know what came over me. I was just… overwhelmed, and then so angry… but not at you! At my brother and the circumstances, and I wrote you letters—”

  “Yes, and—” But she was clearly not finished talking.

  “Beautiful letters, Colin! Letters about my whereabouts! I wrote them all to you! But you never received them, and I never received yours!”

  “Yes. About that… I—”

  “Can you believe my brother would do something so utterly wretched? And I thought I had lost you forever! I was so worried that after everything in the garden you were finally washing your hands of me, rejecting me as you must have believed I rejected you! But Colin, I never rejected you! I loved you!”

  “Loved?” Colin repeated.

  “Love.” Gemma clarified. “Love! I love you, Colin.”

  Their mouths met with urgency as Colin endeavored to draw closer to the woman he loved. His only desire was to feel her skin. The woman he had for so long told himself he would never have, was finally in his arms, and by Jove, he wanted her now. No waiting.

  Gemma threw her arms around his neck, closing the gap between them. All he felt was her. A guttural moan escaped his throat as her tongue plunged past the boundaries of his lips and mingled with his.

  Good heavens, he’d died.

  He was dead.

  He lifted her into the air. It wasn’t enough. Even then they were not close enough. He pulled her closer still, rapidly losing himself in her arms.

  Then came the rustling. Somewhere a distant sound growing ever nearer. Somewhere in the vicinity of the trees.

  One would think, finally. But alas, Colin’s unlucky streak held. The kiss broke off. Gemma and Colin stared at each other, both holding their breath and listening to the voices drawing nigh.

  “Are you sure?” came the woman’s giggling voice.

  “My dear, Colin showed me this spot when we were but boys. Nobody will catch us.”

  “But…” The lady laughed again. “Anthony! You terrible rake.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Anthony?”

  Laughter followed, as well as a few moans. “No, sweetheart.”

  “Terrible rake.”

  “The worst,” he repeated.

  “Shall I punish you?”

  Gemma gasped. Colin, too horrified to do anything but listen, put his hand across her mouth and motioned for her to follow him out of the hidden alcove. Hand in hand, they were able to escape only a moment before Anthony’s dark head appeared through the branches.

  “That did not go as planned,” Colin said once they were in the clearing.

  Gemma looked at him and grinned. “Does it ever?”

  “No.”

  “Will it now?” She pushed up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “Yes. By the saints.” He kissed her one last time. “I will speak with your brother. That is, after I approach Ambrose and Anthony. Seems they have experience being on the opposite end of the pistol.”

  “Do you truly think he will shoot you?”

  “Do you know your brother at all, sweetheart?”

  She nodded. “It will work. It has to work.”

  “It will,” he confirmed. “Else I will come to you by night and whisk you off to Gretna Green.” He planted another chaste kiss on her brow. “Now, let us return you to the party. You look far too magnificent to miss the dancing.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rakes do not let their emotions get the best of them. Gentlemen, let me be clear on this one point — just because a woman kisses well and lifts her skirts, does not mean you love her. What you are feeling is nothing but a whiskey-hazed lust. I've seen many a man hitched to his first seduction merely because he allowed himself to get carried away. Do not let this happen to you. Stay unattached, distant, careless — and if for some reason — you do say ‘I love you’ on accident... Run. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox

  What had been a gloriously sleepless night of joy and anticipation of that whic
h was to come, too soon came to an end when Gemma made her way to the morning meal. Hawke awaited her, wearing a wide triumphant smile. She should have known then that it could only spell ill fortune for her hope of a life with Colin.

  “Gemma, dear sister! I have wonderful news!” He was fairly bursting with it. “Do you recall the letter you received from Mother not so very long ago?”

  Gemma stopped with her fork-full of eggs halfway to her mouth.

  “I can see by your expression that you do, so I shall not draw out the suspense. Father’s solicitor arrived early this morning with news of your betrothal.”

  The fork slipped from her hands and landed on her plate with a sharp clatter.

  “Stunned to silence in your bliss, I see.” He raised an eyebrow and smirked.

  “B-betrothal?” Gemma managed to choke out. Her throat had gone suddenly dry, and she wasn’t certain she would be able to draw her next breath.

  “Yes, sweet girl! To the Duke of Bridgewater! He’ll be here this afternoon to meet with you and discuss arrangements. A duke! What do you say to that, Gemma?”

  “No.” The word came out barely above a whisper.

  Nonetheless, Hawke heard it. Wide-eyed, he stared at her for one brief second before slamming his fist firmly on the table, vibrating the glasses and silverware. He stood abruptly to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor behind him. The serving staff jolted, appeared shocked for an instant, and then hastened from the room.

  Gemma refused to cow to him, though her entire being trembled with what he might do in his fit of temper.

  “I shall not marry him.” Strength she did not know she possessed found its way to her voice, and she stood as well, with an emphatic fist pound of her own.

  “I say you shall!”

  “I care not what you say. I have made my own choice, and it is Sir Colin Wilde.”

  “Sir Col— That man is a rogue! Mother and Father will not hear of it. Nor will I! I will kill him first!” he roared back at her. “You shall return to Brookshire immediately! Nay! I shall deposit you in a nunnery! Sir Colin Wilde, indeed! Why, his very name soils my tongue as I speak it!”

  “There is nowhere you can send me that he will not come for me, brother. He has given me his word. And if you refuse to hear reason—”

  “Given you his word? Of all the— The word of a debauched rake! What good is that? Rakes give their word when it suits their pur—” His voice broke off and his eyes blazed with fury. He clamped his mouth shut and stared at her in utter horror. “You little whore…” Hawke’s eyes narrowed with the low declaration.

  Gemma’s jaw dropped open in disbelief. But before she could respond, Hawke stormed from the room, and a moment later, the front door slammed, signaling his exit from the house. With an exasperated wail, Gemma slumped into her chair, dropped her head to her hands, and wept.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When a rake is reformed, he is a different man. The woman he loves marks him, and gentlemen, he is also, sadly, in danger of getting shot. For rakes rarely fall without a fight. —The Private Journal of Viscount Maddox

  Present Day

  "Get up. Get up, you wretched excuse for a man!" Van Burge's eyes were alive with fury. He threaded his fingers into Colin's cravat and tugged him roughly up from the floor. “You and I will settle this. Today! Else I shall have you declared a coward. In one hour. Jackson's. Do not fail.” He spat every word into Colin's face as he gripped him by the throat.

  Van Burge released Colin with an emphatic shove, then he spun on his heel and stormed out, spewing threats and curses all the way.

  “Blast.” Colin moaned and swiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

  Two hands appeared before him, no doubt a belated offer of futile help from the traitors he called friends.

  Colin lifted his eyes to the double image of Ambrose and Anthony, the treacherous twin spawn of Satan. He shook his head and took one of the offered hands.

  “Van Burge seems in earnest,” Anthony said. An irritating mocking smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

  “In earnest, Anthony? Truly? Whatever gave you that idea?” Ambrose snorted with disdain.

  “What will you do?” Anthony ignored his brother and bit straight into the heart of the matter.

  “Do? Why, I shall go home, set my affairs in order, and make my way to Jackson's for the bloodbath.”

  “You mean to go through with it, then?” Ambrose asked. Concern was etched in his expression.

  “Of course. What alternative do I have?”

  “Mercy, man! An ounce of the milk of human kindness?” Anthony proclaimed.

  “You'll murder him, Wilde,” Ambrose said. Reverence laced his words, and Colin thought perhaps the man was almost solemn.

  Colin's lips twitched with a slow, knowing smile, much to the obvious chagrin of his comrades. “Yes. And I shall relish each and every bloody moment of it.”

  ****

  Colin was not sure why he was tempted to sing as he burst through his front door. After all, he could very well be marching to his death. But then again, he had love. Yes, he was a sap. Yes, he was behaving quite madly, but he had Gemma. He only hoped love would keep him from blacking out during the match with her brother.

  When the butler took his hat and walking stick, Colin nearly leapt into the old man’s arms. “Godfrey, you old codger! I am going to get my ears boxed!”

  True to form, Godfrey didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow at his master’s outburst.

  “Sir…” he drew out in a low monotone.

  “Godfrey! Did you hear me? I intend to boldly march into the fray. Win or lose is no matter!” He danced a short jig in the hall to emphasize his point.

  “Sir…”

  “Oh, Godfrey, you old killjoy. Whatever is the matter with you?”

  “Sir… There is a man to see you.” Godfrey sounded exhausted as he gestured toward the study door.

  “Whatever do you mean? Who is here?”

  “Your solicitor.” Godfrey lifted his eyebrows nearly to his hairline — impressive trick. “The man who has been sending the correspondence.”

  Colin shook his head in confusion.

  “The correspondence you have been ignoring.”

  In truth, he’d been ignoring all of it.

  “It is a matter of great import. At least, that is what he claims.” Godfrey opened the door to the study for Colin to step through, then closed it behind him, leaving Colin in the room with the family solicitor — a man he hadn’t had the privilege of meeting until that moment.

  “May I help you? And please be quick about it; I have another, pressing appointment for which I cannot be late.” Colin gestured toward a chair nearby as he took a seat behind his desk.

  “Very well, your grace. I shall—”

  Colin burst out laughing. “I am not a duke, sir. And I assure you, formality is lost on me.” When the man stared blankly at him, refusing to recant his greeting, Colin chuckled again. “I see. A joke, is it? Has Lord Maddox put you up to this? Anthony!” Colin began yelling for his friend. “You would think the fellow would have other occupations than to—”

  “Your grace!” the solicitor snapped. “This is important.”

  Fine, he’d play along. “Is it now?”

  “My name is Rutledge. I have been in your family’s employ for the past twenty years, and I am here to inform you that the title of the Duke of Bridgewater has passed from your great uncle — God rest his soul — to you.”

  Colin narrowed his eyes. “My great uncle? The same one who has not spoken to my family since before I was born?”

  “A recluse of late. Some sort of falling out with his brother, your grandfather.” Rutledge shrugged. “Whatever the case, the title now falls to you. Of course, if you do not accept, it will, by law, return to the Crown.”

  What an odd turn of events. Colin wasn’t sure he could wrap his head around it. A duke? Sir Colin Wilde?

  He was still processing
it when Rutledge pulled out a stack of papers. “The title is entailed to properties in Scotland, Wales, Surrey, and a lovely townhome in Mayfair. Upon your signature, you will also inherit the sum of seventy-five thousand pounds.”

  Colin began to choke on the dryness in his mouth. Perhaps he should have shut it, instead of gaping at Rutledge like a lunatic. “Pardon me, did you say seventy—”

  “—five thousand, yes.”

  “Thousand?” Colin repeated.

  “Pounds. Yes, that is what I said. Your grace, if you please… if you intend to repeat everything I say, this shall take a frightfully long time, and you did say you have another appointment.”

  “I do apologize. Please, Mr. Rutledge, proceed.”

  Rutledge stood to spread the papers out on Colin’s desk for his perusal. “There is one more thing.”

  “There’s more?” Colin croaked.

  Rutledge’s annoyance seemed to increase as he shifted on his feet. “Yes. A stipulation to your inheritance, your grace.”

  “A stipulation?” Colin repeated. Rutledge raised an eyebrow in irritation. Colin shook his head and gestured for the man to continue.

  “A betrothal contract. A match has been made.”

  Dread filled Colin’s stomach. He wouldn’t. No, he couldn’t. His heart would not permit him to—

  “—Miss Gemma Reynolds, the daughter of the Duke of Williston. I was told you are acquainted.”

  “What?” Colin was apparently having a hard time hearing.

  “Miss Gemma Reynolds, your grace. Apparently the late duke and Miss Reynolds’ father designed the match. It has been in place for quite some time. Her brother, who acts as her guardian in her parents’ absence, was notified of it just this morning.”

  Colin smiled. No. To say he smiled would be like saying he was simply amused. He was enthusiastic. He was jubilant. He was… Colin laughed aloud. He was going to enjoy allowing Van Burge to pummel him, because in the end, he would still be the victor.

  “Any questions?” Rutledge asked.

  “Yes.” Colin stood. “Where do I sign?”

  Chapter Sixteen