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

by Deb Marlowe

  Glory’s straightened. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From my maid.”

  “Well, I am glad I am not the only one listening to servant’s gossip. I heard the same thing. And the next time someone chides me for it, I’m going to tell them so.”

  “How else are we to learn anything?” Miss Munroe asked. “No one wants to tell me anything!”

  “Anything interesting,” Glory amended wryly.

  “Exactly.”

  They shared a conspiratorial grin.

  But she was supposed to be helping. “Perhaps we shouldn’t spread that particular bit of knowledge about, though,” she mused.

  “Well, Lord Keswick tends to spark gossip wherever he goes.” Miss Munroe gestured toward the young ladies around him. “I overheard those two wagering over him, between themselves.”

  Sudden alarm twisted in Glory’s belly. “What was the wager?”

  “They’ve made a bet. Each will try to get the viscount to kiss them. First one to succeed is the winner.”

  Glory’s mouth dropped. “They never! What sort of girls has Hope invited to this house party?”

  “Naturally curious ones, I should say.” Miss Munroe swung around to look. “Just look at him.” She sighed. “He’s gorgeous. Those eyes! And that jaw line is spectacular. I’m not sure I would refuse him a kiss in the shrubbery, should the chance come up.”

  Glory felt ill. Hot and flushed and suddenly horribly aware of the buttered prawns she’d eaten.

  Hope, passing by, caught a glimpse of her and stopped. “Glory, my dear, are you well?”

  “No. I suddenly feel warm.”

  “Have you overtaxed yourself? I’m so sorry—”

  “No. No. It’s just—I think something has not agreed with me.” She stood and gave Miss Munroe a nod. “Forgive me. I think I need to retire for the evening.”

  “Of course.” Miss Munroe stood, as well, and squeezed her hand. “I do hope you feel better.”

  She would. Eventually.

  When this blasted party was over.

  * * *

  Tensford had arranged an expedition down into the depths of the coal pit for the male guests this afternoon. Keswick cried off, using his previous descent as his excuse.

  “Very well, Kes, but do come join us at the top of the hill afterward. We’ll crack a keg when we come up and Hope has packed us a hamper of cheese and sausages to go with it.”

  “Ah, manly food,” he said with a wink at the countess.

  She laughed. “Indeed, and I hope you will enjoy it. I’m taking the ladies for a ride down to the village and then we shall enjoy a more delicate tea, here, afterward.”

  Which was exactly why Keswick was waiting in the stables after they all set off, currying the squire’s fine chestnut and feeding him slices of apple.

  It was a hunch that paid off when Lady Glory came in, just as he’d hoped.

  She wore her more ordinary habit today—and she didn’t notice him at first. She went straight to her mare’s stall and let herself in. He watched as she stroked Poppy’s nose, murmured something, then hugged the mare, leaning into her, as if seeking comfort.

  Approaching, he cleared his throat. She started and straightened—and didn’t look too happy to find him there.

  It didn’t deter him. In fact, the arrival of the other guests had only reinforced how differently she reacted to him. It struck him again, now. No cringing or eye-darting avoidance. No gleam of morbid curiosity or challenge. Every time, she met him openly, with sincere emotion.

  Which, to be honest, looked like annoyance right now.

  Was she annoyed with him? Or had she, perhaps, run into someone who reacted badly to her limp? He’d caught an arse of a young gentleman leaning over the railing, watching her walk through the front hall on her way to breakfast this morning. The lordling had turned back to his friend, jeering and imitating her limp. Keswick’s sharp offer to defend the lady’s honor if necessary had drained the color from the boy’s face and had him offering up apologies—but it left Keswick sick at the thought of her facing this sort of casual cruelty.

  “I had an inkling you would avoid the village—and that you’d take the chance to ride out, instead. I thought, perhaps, I might join you?”

  He turned it into a question, as her expression had not lightened. For a moment, as she stared at him, assessing, he thought she might deny him. But she let out a breath and gave a curt nod. “Fine, then. But I’ve promised not to go far. I meant to merely follow the river out to the field at the bend.”

  He moved away to fetch a saddle. “The destination doesn’t matter. It was your company I sought.”

  She paused in untangling her tack. “Why?”

  He glanced up, surprised. “Because you are the most amusing person here, by far.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, judging by the growing thunder behind her eyes, but she gave him the truth—he felt he owed her no less.

  She turned back to Poppy and he watched her ready her mare as he worked with his own mount. She moved carefully, but with the ease of long habit and no impediment from her leg. How could anyone look at her and see only her lameness? Her beauty was unusual—comprised of high cheek bones and pale skin that contrasted beautifully with lovely warm lips and auburn hair . . . Actually, he thought her color was high at the moment, and her lips were pressed together.

  “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

  “Wrong?” She blinked at him over Poppy’s back. “Of course not. What could be wrong?”

  Well, clearly something was wrong. The answers would come, he suspected, because they could talk to each other—which was both surprising and . . . a comfort.

  Yes. He felt comfortable with her. Spending time with her was like . . . wearing his favorite boots. He looked down at them with affection—and reminded himself never to be so foolish as to say such a thing out loud.

  He reminded himself never to be so foolish as to get too comfortable, as well. It was all very well to boost her confidence. But he could not raise her hopes. Not for anything beyond a temporary friendship. He’d meant what he said, back on that ledge where they’d gazed down upon the rest of the world. It wasn’t too late for her to consider marriage. He still thought he could help her see that. As long as she didn’t make the mistake of considering him.

  He would be careful. And in the meantime, he kept his mouth shut and lifted her into her saddle, and followed her out of the stable yard.

  * * *

  Is anything wrong?

  Oh, not a thing. Not one thing. Not the agitation that had kept her tossing and turning all night. Not the irritating knowledge that every woman in the county either wanted to hide from him or kiss him. Not the fact that she still kept alternating between both of those.

  No, what bothered her was that she couldn’t stop wondering if she’d been a fool to pass up her chance. And worse—the icy fear that it had been her one and only chance at being kissed, by anyone, ever.

  She kept silent and he followed suit as they rode past the sprouting fields and over the bridge. Once they reached the open pasture, Keswick looked over and grinned. “Race to the river and back?” he dared.

  In answer, she leaned down, whispered to Poppy and sent her hurtling for the water.

  “Wait, now!” She heard him shout. But then he was thundering after her. Poppy picked up the spirit of the chase and stretched out and they fairly flew across the field. Glory pulled her into a tight turn and started back just as Keswick arrived. “Not fair!” he shouted.

  She only grinned and bent lower, urging Poppy on. But the squire’s chestnut was strong and long of leg and clearly possessed a competitive spirit. He gained on them as they raced for the bridge. But her mare dug deep and put on a burst of speed and by the end had left Keswick and his mount more than a length behind.

  Laughing, Glory sat up and slowed Poppy to a brisk walk. They circled around and she smiled at Keswick.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

/>   “Yes, curse you.” She sighed. “I needed that.”

  He laughed. “Let’s let them walk the length of the field and cool down.”

  They set out, side by side, taking their time.

  “I must thank you for your efforts yesterday,” she said at last. “They made a difference. This is the most normal I’ve ever felt at a gathering outside my own family.”

  “I’m happy to have helped. That’s what our pact was for, was it not?”

  “I fear I will not be able to return the favor.”

  “You are doing so, now,” he protested. “You’ve saved me from another dark and dusty descent into the coal pit. And in any case, just wait. This party has only just begun. The worst could happen at any time.”

  “What would be the worst?” she asked, intrigued.

  “Gossip? Scandal? Jellies that won’t set up? I can think of several possibilities.”

  “None of that would dare occur at one of Hope’s gatherings,” she vowed. They’d reached the water. “I think these two need a bit more cooling down,” she said, reaching down to pat Poppy’s neck.

  They headed along the long sweep of the river. “I don’t understand how you prefer London.” She shook her head. “I feel overwhelmed with just a houseful of people—and it’s only been one day.”

  “You are not accustomed to it, that is all. It will grow easier.” He lifted a shoulder. “And actually, there is an anonymity to be found in a crowded city. A man can blend in. Here, I walk in the village and everyone knows my name and where I am staying and for how long. In London, I’m just another young buck about Town.”

  She snorted. “I doubt you’ve ever been anonymous anywhere, ever, a day in your life.”

  “Well . . .” His expression darkened. “At times it is easier than others.” He held silent a moment. “I am fortunate, though. There are times when I need to retreat.” Like now. “Luckily, I have the solace of my friends, then. I can always withdraw to their care, should the need arise.”

  “That is fortune, indeed.”

  “It truly is. There are very few constants in my life. My friends are the most important.”

  “And your boots,” she teased.

  “Exactly.”

  She reached to caress Poppy once again. “I think they should be fine, now.” Dismounting, she led her down the short bank and across the pebbled edge to the river, so she could drink. “Do you count any women amongst your group of friends?”

  He looked over the chestnut’s back and tilted his head. “Not until now.”

  She ducked her head, struck again with conflicting reactions to him. Once Poppy had finished, she led her back up the bank and tethered her at a stand of larch trees. Keswick did the same, then sat on the raised bank.

  She didn’t join him. She just walked along the pebbled strip of shore, picking her way carefully, thinking.

  “Have I said something wrong?”

  She shook her head.

  He said nothing else, just leaned back, waiting. She was grateful. It took her several minutes and several passes back and forth to summon the courage to say what she wished.

  “I would consider it an honor, to be counted among your friends.” She said it to the waters, rushing by in front of her. “But I’ve been thinking about that kiss.” She looked over her shoulder. “The one we didn’t have.”

  “Oh.”

  It was all he said. She had surprised him.

  “It’s just that it occurred to me . . . having refused it . . . that I might have refused my only real chance.”

  He frowned. “Only chance? I don’t understand.”

  She flushed, annoyed that he was going to make her spell it out. “My only chance at being kissed. Ever. In this lifetime.”

  His eyes widened. “Don’t be absurd. We had this conversation, already.”

  “It’s not absurd. You say I am considered marriageable, but I don’t have a tremendous dowry like Hope did. Her fortune came from our mother’s sister, who left her a great deal of money and instructions to see to my care. Even she didn’t think I would find a man who would take me.”

  “Then she was a fool.” He gave a bitter laugh. “You’ll have plenty of chances to kiss better men than me.”

  “Does that mean that you no longer want to kiss me?”

  He hesitated and her breath caught.

  “It’s not that. It’s just that I think you should consider my opinion further. I have new eyes and an unbiased opinion. Not like the people who see you every day and see what they want or expect.”

  “Oh.” Her heart fell. “You don’t want to kiss me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Good.” She jumped on his response. “Because you couldn’t have been more wrong about Mr. Lycett. All he was interested in was talking incessantly about himself.”

  “If you let him, then he’s probably more interested in you than ever,” he said wryly. “Give him a chance, he’ll work up to kissing you.”

  “Well I’ve no wish to wait upon him. If I have one chance at this, I’d prefer to do it with someone I like.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “And I want someone who will do it properly.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

  “I know. I’m acting terribly. Not only showing fast behavior, but it’s also horridly rude to ask, after I refused you.”

  “Not going to let that stop you, though, are you?”

  “No.” She moved carefully to stand in front of him, just out of reach. “There is one problem.”

  “There’s more than one.” He grimaced. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “It’s a logistical problem,” she charged on. “Or perhaps just a problem specific to me.”

  “My lady . . . Glory . . . Whenever, whomever you choose to kiss . . . Your leg is not going to pose a problem.”

  “Not my leg. It is another failing of mine, though.”

  “You have another?” he gasped in pretend shock.

  “Oh, stuff it,” she said with a laugh. And felt somehow more certain, because of it. Who else could make her laugh at herself? Who else sprinkled conversation with wit that reminded her of her first taste of champagne—surprise at the bubbling humor, appreciation of the quality of it—and a longing for more? “The thing is . . . I hate being made to feel . . . inadequate. As if I am somehow less than others.”

  “As you should. For you are not.”

  “Normally—just like at this house party—all I wish is to be treated like an equal to every other girl. But in this case . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s just that, there are so many women here—in the village, in the neighborhood, staying in the house—a number of them who are all pining for, or imagining, or plotting to convince you to kiss them.”

  He blinked. “Are there?”

  “Yes. And for the first time, I find I don’t wish to be counted among the crowd.”

  “Problem solved. You’ve already said you didn’t want my kiss.”

  She merely looked at him.

  He sighed, exasperated. “Wait. You are confusing me. You don’t want to be kissed. Then you do want it, because it might not happen again, but you don’t want to want it?” He dug both hands into the hair at his temples. “I have no idea what I’m to do here.” His hands dropped away suddenly and he gazed at her with suspicion. “Just what is it that you are expecting of me? Are you asking me to kiss you? Or to kiss all the others, leaving you the odd one out?”

  “Actually, it occurred to me that if I kept my mouth shut, that last scenario might come about all on its own.” She shook her head. “But I find I don’t like that idea, either.”

  Not at all. In fact, she hated it.

  “Well then, we are stumped, are we not?”

  She hoped that was disappointment in his tone and not relief.

  “I think we should just give the idea up.”

  “No. I’m not stumped.”
She moved closer. “I realized that there is only one solution. I will let them plot and pine and plan and wait for you to get around to kissing them—but in the meanwhile, I’m going to be the girl who kisses you.”

  Chapter 7

  She caught him completely by surprise.

  Before he knew what she was about, she’d grasped his shoulders for support and pressed her lips to his.

  His body knew what to do. His arms reached out and gathered her in, settled her on his lap. But his head was swaying wildly between flattered pleasure and wild, alarm-but-not-quite-panic.

  He was a connoisseur. He’d well and truly earned his branding as a rakehell, and he’d done it with rowdy living and cavorting with countless women. All kinds of women, from wanton to timid and every sort in between. But he knew, with frightening certainty, that he’d never held a treasure like her in his arms.

  This one. She was clever and somehow both innocent and wise. Everything about her was unexpected. Delicate. Entirely too good to be throwing herself at a wastrel like him.

  His mind knew it—but the rest of him didn’t care.

  She kissed him softly. Almost chastely. It was a sweet kiss of closed eyes and pursed lips.

  He pulled away and she made a sound of protest.

  “I thought you wanted a proper kiss?” he rasped, his voice gone husky and his heart leaping at the thought. He threw up metaphorical hands. It was too late now, he might as well do the thing right.

  She nodded.

  “Then I’ll show you proper.”

  Her amber eyes darkened and she leaned toward him again, but he stopped. “A moment. Let us take our time.”

  He kissed the corner of her mouth. A gentle, tiny brush of his lips. Then the other. He kissed her upper lip and drew it between his own, then answered the plump beckoning of her lower lip. Slow. Soft.

  He gathered her close again and took her mouth, taking possession, luring her down the path of growing sensation, of spreading desire, becoming more demanding by degrees.