Nothing But a Rakehell (A Series of Unconventional Courtships Book 2)

by Deb Marlowe

  Here she was not slow and awkward. Astride Poppy, she was just like everyone else—the equal of anyone—with a better seat than most.

  She breathed a happy sigh and urged the mare onto the fork in the road that led higher, toward the forests.

  The woods here were ancient, dark and mysterious. They had nothing so old and untouched in Sussex, at her family’s estate. She and Poppy went slowly, exploring the shadows and the sun-dappled open spots, the downed trees lined with moss and the ridges of limestone rising unexpectedly from the forest floor.

  They intersected a faint path that Glory recognized. Following it, they emerged onto an irregular field. It was one of her favorite spots. Smaller than most of the fields that bordered the river, Tensford told her that it had been cleared by hand, long ago and carved from the forest by tools more primitive than the ones used now. He’d said that he hadn’t planted it this season because he planned to fertilize it, but she rather suspected he’d left it because it was so beautiful.

  Covered in high grasses and clumps of wildflowers, it whispered with the music of peace and birdsong and the buzz of insects. Butterflies danced from bloom to bloom and a slight breeze called her. Awed as always, she pulled Poppy to a halt and drank in the loveliness.

  Gradually, Poppy began to move down the meadow, cropping the lower grasses at the edge. The border higher up was irregular and forested, but Glory knew at the bottom quarter the boundary transitioned to a thick hedge that separated the field from a swampy drainage area. They were rounding a protruding copse of elms, nearly to the hedge, when Poppy’s ears swiveled forward, listening.

  Glory paused, and listened as well. Nothing disturbed the peace of the place for several long moments. Then she heard a clear snort and the jingle of harness.

  On alert, she urged her mare ahead. Coming around the copse, they found a rider-less horse, reins tangled in the branches of the hedge. It was a chestnut gelding, average of stature and bloodline, she judged with a knowing eye. Not one of Tensford’s. A job horse, she would guess. Hired out of an inn or livery. She could see no sign of its rider.

  “Is anyone there?” she called.

  Nothing.

  She waited. Called again. Waited a few minutes longer.

  Feeling foolish, she debated what to do, but with a shrug, she loosened the entangled reins and led the horse on down toward the bottom of the field and the path that would lead home.

  This time, she and Poppy caught the sound at the same time. A voice. Male.

  She paused to listen.

  A single voice. No pause for conversation with another, just one man droning on. From the other side of the hedge.

  She frowned. She could have sworn there was nothing on the other side of that hedge but a murky, marshy bog, a low place that acted as a natural collection of field drainage.

  The droning continued, and so did she, reaching the corner of the field and the worn path. She followed it a bit, still leading the gelding and trying to decide what to do, as the man’s monologue grew fainter.

  She didn’t want to meet anyone out here, after all. She should just go on, return to Greystone and send someone back to investigate.

  But then the voice fell suddenly silent and alarm quickened her pulse. Had the man fallen into the water? Passed out? Or just moved on? Curiosity won out over caution and inclination. She looped the gelding’s reins over a branch and urged Poppy higher and to the right and into a newly planted barley field. If they wandered back the other way, keeping to the furrows, they could approach the marshy spot from the other side.

  She held Poppy back, watching the ground as the cultivation gave way to undergrowth. Advancing slowly, they made their way to the edge of the murky bog. “Is anyone there?”

  “Marooned!” The man’s voice sounded suddenly loud and it came from within the marsh. Moving closer, she scanned the dark water.

  “Reefed!”

  At last she spotted him. He was so covered in brown muck he was barely discernible, but he was up to his waist in the stuff, a good distance away, nearer to the hedge that separated the spot from the meadow on the other side.

  “Yes, I’ve forgotten to explore the nautical terms. Stranded—no, I’ve used that already.” His eyes were closed and he swayed a bit, but the water was so thick with mud at that spot, it barely rippled around him. “Foundered! Wrecked!”

  Glory cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”

  His eyes flew open and he turned his head toward her. “Grounded?” he asked.

  She pursed her lips and paused a moment. “Swamped,” she said wryly.

  “Yes!” He smiled in delight and his teeth looked very white against the mud spattering his face. “Perfect!

  Chapter 2

  Keswick stared across the expanse of murky water. From this distance he could only surmise that his savior looked and sounded young. She sat straight in the saddle, certainly, as she waved a hand.

  “Now that you have satisfactorily labeled your situation, are you going to come out of it?” she called.

  “If it were possible, then so I would,” he told her. “But I’m sunk in a good eight inches of sucking mud at the bottom of this. I cannot move my legs forward or backward at all, and if I bend my knee and lift straight up, then the mud grips my boots tighter than my Irish granny squeezes a penny—and that’s saying something.”

  She said nothing, merely waited.

  He frowned. “I cannot abandon my boots!” It did not bear thinking of.

  “I’m not overly familiar with the local village, but I feel sure it must boast a cobbler’s shop.”

  “These are my favorite boots,” he explained. “They were made by Hoby himself. They’ve been re-soled twice already by that same craftsman.” He wouldn’t budge on this. There were damned few things allowed any permanence in his life. His boots—after his friends—were something for which he allowed himself an attachment.

  “Very well, then.” She shrugged. “I hope you and your boots are very happy together in your new abode.” She gathered up her reins.

  “No! Wait! The track that leads to Greystone Park is nearby, is it not? Could you not just ride there and send back help?”

  “I’m not sure anyone is getting both you and your boots out,” she said skeptically—and then she made a face. “And what are the odds that you won’t just fall straight back in?”

  “Why would I . . ?” He flushed suddenly. “Oh. You are mistaken. I am not inebriated. I didn’t land in here because I’ve had too much drink.”

  “Then, how?” she asked with another wave of her hand.

  “It was my horse, if you must know. I’d taken the long route, through the forest. I’ve never traveled in this part of the country, you see, and I’ve never seen wooded areas like this.”

  “They are magnificent,” she conceded.

  “As is the meadow on the other side of this hedge. I stopped there.” He hesitated to admit that he’d had to stop, to drink in the mystical beauty of the place.

  “I know,” she said with a nod.

  He wiped mud from under one eye, where it had begun to itch. “Well, then, you’ll understand why I stayed. I stretched out to enjoy the peace of it, and while my mount was contentedly cropping grass at my side, a bee or a stinging fly must have crawled in under the saddle. When I mounted up and settled in, the horse flinched and jumped—and went wild. After diving and dancing about, he stretched out and raced for the hedge. I’d seen the barley field rising in the distance beyond it and thought I could hold on and make the jump.”

  She was trying not to grin. He appreciated the effort.

  “Your mount balked, I take it? I found him, reins tangled in the hedge.”

  “He stopped at the hedge, but I went over, only to find it wasn’t barley on the other side.”

  “And once in the bog, you proceeded to recite your mental dictionary of terms describing your predicament.” Even from here, he could see her raised brow.

  “I did. I knew the path to Gr
eystone lay not far from here. No one passing in normal fashion would think to look for a traveler stuck here—unless they heard him and came to investigate.” He returned the raised brow. “And it worked, did it not?”

  “I’ll give you that.”

  “Thank you. Now, if you’ll just run and fetch some men to pull me out of here? I just need some leverage and a pull. A rope and a couple of strong backs should do it.”

  “No need.” She bent and he couldn’t quite see what she was doing, but she came up with a coil of rope in hand.

  He stared, confounded.

  She tied an end around her pommel and then lifted her chin toward him. “Your hands are free, are they not?”

  “They are.”

  “Then, catch.” She tossed him the other end. A very neat throw it was too, landing in the muck just before him. He grabbed it up.

  “Now, hold on. Or better yet, tie it about you.”

  He did, looping it about his chest.

  Bending low, she whispered something to her mount. The horse began to back away.

  Keswick held on tight, though he’d lost one of his gloves in the fall and his hand slipped in the mud. Leaning back against the pull of the rope, he used it as leverage and dug his heels in. Pointing the toes of his right foot upward, he leaned back and strained with the muscles of thigh and shin, fighting against the hold of the mud.

  Her horse sank back, keeping the rope taut and the pull steady.

  There. A bit of wiggle room. He kept it up and after a moment, his booted foot broke free.

  “That’s one!” he exclaimed.

  The second came about rather more awkwardly. He took a closer grip on the rope and leaned even more heavily against it, trying to pull his second foot out without digging the first one back in. It took longer, with more strain and more wiggling, but eventually, it popped out too.

  “That’s both, then?” she asked as he flailed and fought not to go under.

  “Yes. Can your mount back further up and pull me out?”

  “Of course.”

  He let the horse and the rope do most of the work until he drew close to the bank and the bottom firmed up. Clambering out, he bent over his boots, scraping mud away and assessing the damage. It was bad, but salvageable. A good cleaning with water and vinegar, a couple of days to dry and a thorough oiling with his special mix of tallow and neat’s foot oil should do the trick.

  And then he looked up—and forgot about his boots entirely.

  “Thank you . . .” He’d already begun, but the words faded and stalled. “How old are you?” he asked suddenly, instead. She looked like a girl—an uncommonly pretty girl with fiery coloring.

  “Nineteen years, nearly twenty,” she replied as she untied the rope from her pommel and began to coil it up again. She gave him a sharp look. “How old are you?”

  Not the polite answer, but the one he deserved, no doubt. “Six and twenty,” he answered absently. “You are terrifyingly competent,” he said as she tugged at the rope, waiting for him to release it.

  More than uncommonly pretty, he thought, as he worked to free himself. And yes, that was the right word to pull from his mental dictionary, as she had worded it. For her looks were not in the common way at all. Her eyes were deeply set and slightly slanted and just the dark, amber color of good, old French cognac. His glance bounced between her other attention-catching features--wide cheekbones and a pointed chin and rich, auburn hair curling beneath a military styled hat.

  “Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. “My manners are inexcusable. But seeing as there is no one to make the introductions and given the bizarre nature of our situation, perhaps you will forgive me.” He sketched a bow. “I am Colm Newland, Viscount Keswick.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said with a faint twist of a grin in his direction. She turned to fold back the long edge of her skirt and tuck the rope into an oddly shaped and positioned saddlebag. “I recognize your name. I heard—”

  “That I am a rakehell?” he interrupted bitterly. “A dangerous flirt? To be avoided at all costs?” Usually it was a relief when his reputation preceded him. It saved him from having to do something to establish it again. But this time—he felt a surprising stab of disappointment.

  “I heard,” she said deliberately, “that you were coming early to stay at Greystone Park before the house party.”

  “Oh.” He pushed back a surge of embarrassment. “I apologize. My manners are truly atrocious today.”

  She shrugged. “Easily forgiven—if you will but promise to do the same for me. I am forever saying the wrong thing or asking the wrong question, so your turn to be gracious will undoubtedly come soon enough.”

  “You are very kind, Miss . . .?”

  “Lady,” she corrected. “Lady Glory Brightley.”

  “Ah, sister to Tensford’s new wife, then?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m astonished that they’ve let you go out riding on your own,” he remarked. “Grateful, but astonished. Is that the usual thing for young ladies, these days?”

  Her generous, pink lips tightened. “No. It is not.”

  “Well, then, I must be thankful that you are an unusual young lady. And may I add that I am also grateful for your unusual mare? That was a fine trick, and she’s a beauty, besides.”

  The girl’s manner thawed instantly. “Isn’t she?” She stroked the high arch of the mare’s neck and her whole face softened into a warm expression of affection that made her look utterly . . . likeable. And like he wanted her to look at him in such a way. “Poppy is a wonderful friend. She has many useful skills.”

  “All of which must have taken a good deal of patient training, if they are of a similar nature. I commend you.”

  “All gallantries must be given to her. Poppy is willing and eager, which makes everything easier.”

  “Then you are as lucky in your friend, as I am in my new acquaintance.”

  “Don’t.” She’d stiffened up again, sat back and gathered up her reins. “Please.”

  “Don’t . . . what?” he asked, perplexed.

  “That. Whatever it is that you do . . . that you are known for. Dangerous flirtation? Is that what you called it? I’m not that sort of girl.”

  He stilled, suddenly wild with curiosity—and when was the last time anything had made him feel that way? “What sort of girl are you, then?”

  “The sort who is leaving.” The mare spun around and Lady Glory looked back over her shoulder. “You’ll find your mount tethered on the path to Greystone.” She gestured with her chin. “Just that way, and past the edge of the field.”

  “Wait, you will not return to Greystone with me?”

  “No.” She didn’t offer further explanation, just set off, leaving the bog behind and heading up the edge of the field, away from his destination. “Good luck with your boots,” she called.

  * * *

  Glory rode on, flustered by the encounter.

  Once she was safely away, she stopped and dismounted. She toyed with her whip a bit, practicing her aim by setting pinecones along a low branch and flicking them off.

  She didn’t meet many new people. As few as her sister would let her get away with, as a general rule. She’d known things would be different when she came to stay here with Hope. And she was so glad she had made the move. Life at home had changed since her brother, the Earl of Kincade, had married. Matthew was tolerable as elder brothers go, but his wife . . . She sighed. Catherine was pushy, over-protective of her authority and obviously horrified at the idea of sheltering her husband’s lame sister for the rest of her life.

  Whereas Hope had always been Glory’s rock, her support—and also the one to push her out of her comfortable isolation. So she’d known she had to prepare herself for the approaching house party, but she’d thought she had some time, still. She’d already adjusted to Miss Munroe and the dancing lessons. Bad enough. And now, this . . . gentleman . . . had arrived.

  But, perhaps th
is particular gentleman wouldn’t be so bad? She rather thought he would turn out to be handsome. There had been signs of it, beneath the mud spatter. His eyes were a piercing blue and that strong, square jaw was nearly a wonder of human architecture. And the outlandish nature of their meeting—it actually gave her the advantage. She had not been the strange one, for once.

  Oh.

  All of her small hopes abruptly withered. She tucked the whip away again, unable to focus, and leaned into the comfort of her horse.

  She’d been lucky. But his absurd situation and the happy coincidence of meeting him while mounted were just that—luck. All of it a mere fluke. In the drawing room, in the ballroom, in every other situation, she would be at the disadvantage. She would still be . . . herself.

  Poppy, as always, picked up on her mood and began to toss her head. Glory recalled herself and mounted up and urged her mare on. They explored the edges, where the fields met the forest, for a bit, until both of their nerves were somewhat settled. Then she turned them back toward home. She wanted to be safely ensconced in her rooms before Viscount Keswick had time to emerge from his bath.

  She made it unobserved, settling Poppy in her stall and stopping to give Grumpet, the heavily pregnant barn cat, her due. Then she snuck in through the servant’s entrance, made it to her room and threw herself into a chair to brood.

  Terrifyingly competent. That’s what he’d called her. A left-handed compliment, to be sure, but she felt like he’d meant it in an admiring way. And yes, he had remarked on her riding alone—but he’d professed to be grateful and he had said kind words about Poppy.

  A knock sounded and her sister’s maid entered, intent on helping her dress for dinner. Glory sent her off instead, requesting a tray in her room. She didn’t want to see Lord Keswick again. Not yet. Until she had to meet him properly, and see pity—or scorn—bloom when he noticed her limp, she could still hold on to the fleeting feeling of his admiration.