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

by Deb Marlowe

  He eyed the vase of dried flowers on the mantel and the copy of Ackerman’s Repository on the table, then raised a brow at his friend.

  Tensford flushed. “Hope and I do occasionally come up here, but you don’t need to know about that.” He set the basket on the table. “Here is food and drink. I’ll be back to check on you. It’s a long walk back to the house, but if you decide to come, just follow the path through the woods. It will drop you onto the road that follows the river.”

  Keswick started when his friend put both hands on his shoulders. Tensford looked him in the eye. “Sort it all out in your head, man. We’ll support you, no matter which way you come down.”

  Tensford drove off and Keswick sank onto the edge of the bed. He rubbed his temples and let his head droop down. There was too much noise in there. Too many clashes of wants and needs and desperate rationales—and no resolution to be found.

  Unable to sit still, he got up and went outside. A stack of shortened logs had been dumped haphazardly nearby. After a rummage in the lean–to, he found an axe. Breathing deeply, he rolled up his sleeves, fetched the first log and started in.

  Hours later, the forest around him had gone dim. The logs were gone and the pile of split wood loomed high. He tossed the axe back and went inside. It was dark, but he didn’t bother to search out a candle. He found the basket, fumbled inside for a bottle of cold tea and drank it all down. With difficulty, he managed to get his boots off himself and then stretched out on the bed.

  When he woke, daylight showed around the door and tried to shine through the one grimy window. He had no inkling how long he’d slept, but his brood was over.

  The chaos had gone quiet. Only the truth was left. He’d been indulging himself, pretending that there might be an answer to be found.

  Stretching and frowning, he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. How had he allowed things to go this far? First, Glory turned him inside out—asking for things that made his hollow places echo with loneliness. Then, somehow, that innocent slip of a girl had squeezed in past his defenses and starting busily spreading laughter, secrets and lust like plaster. Handily, she’d searched out the cracks inside of him and started filling them in.

  It had to stop. There were reasons he held himself apart. Real motives for spreading himself out and indulging only in the shallowest of dealings with most people, but especially women. The recollection of the agony that followed when he abandoned his rakish role and allowed himself to need anyone—that was only part of it. He must also remember that Glory was as much at risk for grief and shame as he.

  He sighed, knowing it was too late for him. It was going to hurt. He’d begun to think about her entirely too much. He’d spent—hours? days?—trying to think of a way to allow himself to feel for her.

  There wasn’t one. There was only one thing to do now. He had to leave her behind. He must go—back to the house and then back to London.

  * * *

  “There isn’t enough light in here for this fine work.”

  The nasal complaint set Glory’s teeth on edge. The sun shone bright here in Hope’s parlor. Miss Vernon was only being difficult.

  Again.

  The other girl threw her embroidery down with disgust. “I don’t have the right colors with me to finish this piece, in any case.”

  “Then perhaps you should have joined the countess and the others on their shopping expedition,” Miss Munroe suggested.

  Most of the ladies had gone down to the village. Glory had gone down herself, but only to place a special order at the mercantile. She’d returned early to join those few who had decided to stay at Greystone, where they had gathered in the parlor for a bit of sewing and gossip.

  “Shopping?” Miss Vernon scoffed. “I’ve driven through that village. If you think there is any sort of acceptable shopping to be had there, you are sorely mistaken.”

  She continued on, extolling the virtues and superiority of London’s shops, but Glory barely heard her. She was busy wondering where Keswick had gone. She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him since he’d left her side the night before last. As far as she could tell, no one had seen him since then. Except, perhaps, for Tensford. He’d had a curious look on his face when Hope had asked about his friend—and he’d answered her in a tone that no one else could hear.

  Honestly, Keswick had to stop disappearing every time they had a physical encounter. He was going to make her think she’d done something wrong—except, she knew she hadn’t. He might not have had the same . . . completion . . . that she had, but he had been entirely involved and pleased to be so. She knew that much, at least. He’d just escaped before she could suggest any sort of reciprocation.

  In fact, she had begun to wonder if this was a new strategy he’d adopted to keep her at bay—all give and no take. He said he would agree to their bargain. He’d given her exactly what she had requested. But he had not accepted anything in return—no sort of physical or emotional connection or intimacy at all. That wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t partnership.

  It would not do.

  “How long can one afternoon last?” Miss Vernon exclaimed. “This one seems interminable. Why have we not planned more activities with the gentlemen?” She sighed. “I wish that we might have gone to watch them shoot. That would have made the time pass quickly.”

  “We did have their company yesterday. They might have gone fishing or they might have chosen some other activity away from the house when their shooting was delayed,” Miss Munroe reminded her.

  “It does seem an odd sort of thing—to have someone try to destroy Tensford’s hunting blinds,” Miss Myland remarked.

  “I suspect someone in the area has a sympathy for the birds,” answered Miss Munroe.

  “That’s all very well, but they should leave Tensford’s birds to him.”

  “I don’t disagree.” Miss Munroe looked to her dissatisfied cousin. “In any case, the gentlemen were very kind to picnic with us in that beautiful meadow.”

  “We do have cards planned for this evening,” Glory told her. “We’ll have a mixed crowd for that, if you care to stay.” She wondered if Keswick would turn up at last—and suspected that Miss Vernon was wondering the same thing.

  “She knows,” Miss Munroe said wryly. “She insisted on bringing a change of clothes for dinner and the evening of cards.”

  “Well, what else should we do?” her cousin huffed.

  Perhaps she might not automatically assume she would be invited, Glory thought uncharitably.

  “In any case, what can we do now, to make the hours go by?” Miss Vernon asked with a sigh.

  “What would you plan if it was your party?” Glory asked her.

  “I’m not perfectly sure. Something lively,” she said, shooting a glance toward Glory’s skirts. “You’ve the battledore net set up, but that would be far more fun if the gentlemen took part.” She frowned. “I’d get up something involving marksmanship, since the men failed to invite us. They can count pheasants, but we could keep our own score and have something to tell them.” She sighed. “If only I had my bow, I could show you all something.”

  “Marksmanship,” Glory mused. “Yes. That does sound exciting. I know there are a couple of bows fit for a lady up in the attics. Tensford’s sister accounted herself an archer at one point, Hope told me.” Her mouth twisted. “And if I know Fanny, then they are the best that money can buy.”

  “Well! That does sound the thing!” Miss Vernon wore a smile at last.

  “I don’t know the sport, but I should quite like to give it a try,” Miss Parscate ventured.

  “We’ll all go,” Glory said. “I’m sure the kitchens will send refreshments for those who would rather observe. Give us an hour or a little less and we’ll have everything set up.”

  She was true to her word, thanks to Higgins’, the butler’s, help. The tables were still set up outside along the house. They only added a bench holding the equipment at the edge of the croquet field and a target set u
p several yards out. A footman and a maid trooped behind the ladies, bearing lemonade and teacake.

  “This will do very nicely,” Miss Vernon said. She looked as contented as Glory had yet seen her. She picked up a bow. “These are quite as fine as my own.” Pulling on a leather arm guard with practiced ease, she held out her arm peremptorily for her cousin to fasten it. A pair of gloves followed and she chose a bow and stepped out.

  Her first shot grazed the edge of the target and bounced off. The next hit the target, but wide of the center. “I think the string may have gone slack with age,” she said critically. She shot another with the same result, then with a nod, she sent the footman to retrieve her arrows.

  “I’ll have a try,” Miss Parscate said. “I’ve always wanted to learn.”

  “Don’t nock your arrow until the footman is back,” Glory warned. “Just in case.”

  It proved wise advice—and yet, almost not enough. The girl’s first arrow went unexpectedly awry—and over the heads of several of the watching ladies. The second buried itself into the dirt at the footman’s feet, as he poured lemonade nearby.

  “Pull back further,” Miss Vernon instructed her. “It takes effort. Hold the arrow straight and steady before you release it.”

  Miss Parscate’s next arrow did better, making it nearly to the target. The two girls took turns, both improving as they went on, and accepting the cheers and advice of the observers.

  “Will you give it a try?” Miss Vernon asked Glory at last. “Or can you not stand steady enough?”

  “Steady is not an issue, if I am standing still. But the bow is not my weapon,” Glory told her.

  “I daresay we knew you were not proficient, or we would have had this activity already planned.”

  Glory stood and gave the girl an even look. “Be careful of how you judge others, Miss Vernon, lest you only reveal yourself.”

  Glory nodded at the footman and he set down his pitcher and went around the corner of the house. He came back carrying a long bench, with Higgins taking up the other end. They set it up at the edge of the field and placed a line of objects upon it—an odd assortment, from an earthen bottle to a sturdy teacup and on down, decreasing in size until the last—a small, shining conker.

  “What’s this?” Miss Vernon’s tone had gone as thin and sharp as the rest of her.

  “Marksmanship of a different sort.” Glory took her whip from Higgins and took her place, bracing herself sturdily. With careful aim and the right amount of force, she cracked the leather. The earthenware bottle spun and dropped off of the bench. The seated ladies oohed and awed and applauded lightly, just as they had for the other two girls.

  She kept her distance the same and moved down the line with narrowed eyes and a steady hand. One by one, each successively smaller object dropped, until only the small conker was left.

  “My brother would envy you such a fine specimen of a conker,” Miss Parscate said. “But it is awfully small. Are you sure you can hit it?”

  Glory readjusted her feet and breathed deeply. She took careful aim and sent the chestnut flying with a fast flick of the whip.

  The ladies burst out in applause and murmured admiration. Miss Vernon merely raised a brow and sniffed. “It’s a good trick, but hardly a real skill.”

  “May I try it?” Miss Munroe stepped forward.

  “Of course.”

  Glory showed her friend the correct way to grip the handle and let her try a few experimental swings. “Hold a moment, if you continue snapping at that height, you are going to hit yourself sooner, rather than later. If you like, I can show you how to get a good crack out of it.”

  Miss Munroe laughed. “Oh, yes. Please.”

  She showed her how to gently sway her elbow up and down. Bring it forward when the whip goes over your shoulder and reaches an angle . . . here.”

  It took her several attempts, but Miss Munroe cracked it at last and grinned in triumph. The ladies cheered. “If you think it doesn’t take skill, you couldn’t be more wrong,” she told Miss Vernon. “I haven’t even tried to hit anything yet, but my arm is already tired.”

  “I’m sure I would do better,” Miss Vernon said loftily. “I am used to spotting and hitting a target.”

  “It takes quite a bit of practice before you can attempt it,” Glory said. “You have to learn the qualities of your natural throw, so you can adjust for them.”

  “I’m sure you think so.” Miss Vernon snatched the whip and gripped the handle in the middle.

  Glory stepped up. “Move your grip to the—”

  “I’m sure I can get the hang of it,” the other girl interrupted. “Who taught you?”

  “One of the grooms in my brother’s stables showed me the basics, but I taught myself, mostly.”

  “As I thought,” Miss Vernon sniffed. “I did wonder at first, why you had not contrived to show off your little trick before this. I thought perhaps it did not play well into the role of helpless waif, which I hear Lord Keswick has been responding to so well.”

  Glory’s mouth dropped open. Several of the ladies around her gasped.

  “But now I realize that you likely didn’t wish for anyone to understand how very simple it is.” She began to lash about her with the whip.

  Furious, Glory snapped her mouth shut. If the other girl kept on like that, she was going to end up striking herself. It would be no more than the spiteful cat deserved. She sighed. But there were dangers. She could strike her own eye and seriously damage herself, or hit someone else—along with a myriad of other painful possibilities.

  “Please,” she began. “Raise your arm higher before you strike—”

  The girl turned away.

  “If you continue on like that you’ll—”

  Miss Vernon shrieked. She spun back, her eyes narrowed and filling with tears and a vivid red welt raised on her arm. “You churlish girl! You did that on purpose!”

  Glory stepped back. “What are you saying? I tried to warn you.”

  “It could have struck me in the face!” the other girl cried shrilly, clapping a hand to her cheek. “You wanted this to happen all along!”

  Glory was at a loss. She had no idea how to react or handle this termagant. “You are overwrought.” She turned to go. “I’ll ask the staff to find a room where you can rest a while before dinner.” She cast an imploring look at Miss Munroe. “Unless you feel as if you must return to your cousin’s home?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, I will not go! You think I will just leave the field open and leave him all to you?” Her face twisted and she threw the whip at Glory.

  She saw it coming, but she was already moving and had no time to react. The thing landed at her feet and curled as if it were alive, wrapping around her good ankle and catching her mid-step. She had no chance. She could not stabilize herself with her weak leg. She went down, crashing into a table, bringing it, and all the china and crockery upon it, down, too.

  She lay still for a moment, breathing heavily while fury and embarrassment roared through her and tea dripped onto her neck and ran into her bodice. No one else moved or said a word for a long moment, then everyone rushed to help her up and brush her off.

  Everyone except Miss Vernon, who stood and watched while an evil little smile danced about her mouth.

  Glory glared at her. Stooping, she picked up the whip and was pleased at the sudden disappearance of that smile. Let the nasty girl worry. A million hurtful things swirled in her brain, waiting to be launched at that smug face. She chose the truest one—which was likely also the most terrible. “I feel sorry for you,” she said quietly.

  “What?” Miss Vernon looked shocked. She glanced wildly about. “What did she say?”

  Glory spun around—and found Lord Keswick standing at the edge of the tables, looking on, and wearing a horrified expression.

  “What’s this? What’s happened?” He glanced wildly from her to Miss Vernon and back again.

  “Keswick!” Miss Vernon’s manne
r changed instantly to one of smiling welcome. “You are just in time.”

  “Just in time? For what? To see you abuse one of our hosts?”

  The girl looked wounded. “She’s not our host. She’s just a guest, no different than you or me.” Her mouth curled. “Although perhaps she will eventually become a permanent guest. Practically another servant. Is that strange limbo not the fate of a spinster aunt?”

  “Your sister has two children,” Miss Munroe declared. “Perhaps you will let us know, in the future?”

  Keswick looked away, at Glory. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Miss Vernon’s lip wobbled. “Why are you all defending her?”

  “No one is defending me,” Glory said severely. “I don’t require a defense. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You did this!” She thrust out her arm, where the welt marked her fair skin, looking red and painful.

  “She most certainly did not!” Miss Munroe asserted. Several of the other ladies murmured agreement.

  Miss Parscate laid a sympathetic hand on Miss Vernon’s arm. “Let it rest, my dear. This round is over.”

  Miss Vernon shot her a dark look, then stalked toward Glory, glaring all the way. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me! This is merely a battle,” she hissed. “The war is still to come and I have bigger weapons in reserve.”

  “There is no war,” Glory told her coldly. “Don’t be absurd. Just do me the favor of leaving me be and I will do the same for you.” She turned to go and found Keswick still watching her.

  She marched up to him and stopped. “And as for you,” she said ferociously. “I will deal with you later.” She scowled at him. “When you stop acting so afraid of me.”

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she continued on, into the house.

  Chapter 16

  Laughter and muted conversation drifted up from the parlor. Glory passed the main staircase and went straight for the servant’s stair. She wore an old muslin gown that she normally saved for days spent helping in the stillroom or for rooting around in the attics. The last thing she wanted was to be seen.