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

by Deb Marlowe

  She’d had dinner on a tray in her room and had requested apples and sugar cubes to be sent up too. Fortunately, the kitchens were used to her ways. She stuffed a small bag full and made her way to the stables.

  The horses were happy for the treats and the extra attention and Glory felt some of the tension ease out of her in the warm and familiar atmosphere of the stables. When all of the equines had been seen to, she took a lantern and hung it next to the empty stall where Grumpet and her kittens lay in state. She swore the barn cat looked relieved and grateful when she entered and took a seat in the straw. The curious kittens had obviously become used to human contact. They swarmed her, climbing into her lap and up her back. Grumpet, abandoned for the moment, stretched and leapt up to the top of the stall door—and disappeared.

  “Oh, you darlings,” Glory crooned. “Soon, you’ll be old enough and I can bring you little treats too. A bit of kipper? A dish of cream? How does that sound, my lovelies?” She reached back and detached an adventurous grey kitten from her hair. Several locks came with him, escaping the bun at her nape. A striped tabby promptly attacked the length of hair as it fell across her shoulder. The first kitten scrambled away while the other climbed her sleeve.

  “You look like you could use some help.”

  She looked up, but she already knew who it was. “Keswick.” Her lips compressed.

  “It appears all of the good company is to be had out here.”

  “The only company I wish to spend time with lives out here.”

  His face fell. “Does that mean I cannot come in?”

  She pulled away another kitten and another strand of hair and considered.

  “Will it help if I promise that I’m not afraid of you?”

  She rolled her eyes and relented. “Oh, all right. Come in.”

  Entering, he closed the door and sat next to her, plucking the grey kitten from her back as he came. Several of the others left her to go and explore the new territory he offered.

  “Did you lose at cards?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “I always lose when Sterne is playing. He’s a regular Card Sharper.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  He lifted a kitten that had begun digging its claws into his boots. “I heard about your demonstration.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “I’m sure you did.”

  “I meant, I heard about the skill you showed. Most of the ladies were impressed.”

  “Most,” she said sourly.

  “You cannot think I would pay heed to anything Miss Vernon had to say?”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t think so. But I’ve discovered I’m horrifically bad at predicting how you will respond to . . . most anything.”

  “Well, you never have to worry about her influence. Nor do you have to fear that I’m afraid of you.”

  “Perhaps you should be.” She untangled another kitten from her hair. “I’m sure I’m beginning to resemble Medusa by now.”

  “I’ll take Medusa over a harpy, any day,” he said wryly.

  “Honestly, she’s the one who should be frightened of me.” Bitter frustration crept into her tone. “You have no idea how close I came to showing her just what I can do with that whip. I would have loved to have snapped one of her buttons loose, or to have cracked it just next to one ear, then the other.”

  He bit his lip but she could tell he was trying not to smile. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because she’s too much of a fool. A normal person would freeze—but she’d likely do the opposite and bolt—and not where I expected her to go. Can you imagine the ruckus if I actually had given her a good, quick flick?”

  He grimaced. “Yes. I can.”

  “So could I—and I still almost did it.”

  “I take it back, maybe I am a tad bit frightened of you.” He stretched over, getting low to let a kitten jump from his shoulder. “Just a little.”

  “Keswick,” she said, growing serious. “Do you pity me?”

  He reared upright and the kitten squeaked. “No!” he said forcefully. “You know I don’t.”

  “I didn’t think so. I’m usually terribly good at sniffing out pity and squashing it. I hated to think I might have been so wrong about you.”

  “Whatever would make you even entertain the notion?”

  “I asked my maid about physical matters—between a man and a woman.”

  “You did what?” he asked, shocked.

  “I told her that Miss Vernon had a book of naughty pictures and was speaking of physical relations to the young ladies.”

  His eyes widened. “Well. That will spread like wildfire below stairs.” He sat back. “I take it back. I am definitely frightened of you.”

  “It’s nothing she doesn’t deserve,” Glory sniffed. “But something she said today—about gentlemen keeping score—it reminded me of a discussion I heard my maid, Lucy, having with another of the chambermaids. They were speaking of physical matters, and one of them said that when a man and woman are together, then the man always . . . finishes. And that the woman only does if she is lucky.”

  The light was dim, with just the light from the one lantern falling into the stall, but she could see his color rising. “The woman always finishes, if the man is skilled,” he corrected her.

  “Well, today I asked her what happens when the man doesn’t finish—because I recalled the other maid saying it wasn’t healthy for a man to be left in that state.”

  “And you believed that?” he asked incredulously.

  She raised a brow. “Well, you did disappear, afterwards. And stayed gone.”

  He groaned and let his head sink into his hands.

  “Lucy laughed and said not to worry—the men always finish. But when I pressed her, she said she could only wonder—if a man didn’t, maybe he didn’t truly like the woman—and perhaps he was only acting out of pity.”

  “Ah. I’m glad you knew that was only nonsense.”

  “I hoped it was.”

  “I kept to my side of our pact, Glory. You are forewarned and forearmed about real, meaningful passion.” The slow flush spreading upward from his cravat was deepening. He waved an arm as if to banish the subject. “Now, I would like to talk—”

  “Have you?” she interrupted. “Truly?”

  He raised a brow and waited.

  “Have you kept to the bargain? We were to be friends. That implies balance between us. An even exchange. But it feels all one-sided when you don’t share any bit of yourself, either physical or emotional.”

  Frowning, he began, “I don’t think—” He stopped. “No. I don’t want to argue. I want you to understand.” Absently, he stroked the kitten trying to burrow into his coat.

  She felt complete sympathy for the little darling. She’d like to burrow into his warmth and let him run his fingers over her, too.

  “Would it help if I told you that I’ve been more open with you than with . . . almost anyone?”

  “A little. Perhaps.” Pursing her lips, she took the kitten from him and set it safely away. “Here,” she ordered. “Give me your arm.”

  Perplexed, he did and she braced herself and carefully shifted up and swiveled around until she was sitting in his lap, facing him.

  “Glory,” he groaned. It sounded like an objection, but also a plea.

  “Lucy said, if a lad was reluctant, one need only to sit in his lap and wiggle a bit.” She tried it and he moaned again. “I just don’t want you to run off again. Not quite yet. And I heard that Betsy at the Crown and Cock sat on your lap for an entire evening, so I thought you must enjoy it.”

  He laughed and groaned and let his head drop and lean against her breast bone. “Glory, I swear, you are enough to drive a man mad—and keep him happy all the way there.”

  She cocked her head. “It’s not poetry, but I’ll take it.” She stroked his hair, making little finger paths through the soft, dark locks. “Are you leaving?” she asked on a whisper.

  He nodded.

  “T
hen you must at least bid me a proper goodbye.”

  He looked up and suddenly his hands were in her hair and he was holding her gently and looking into her eyes. “You mad, daft, darling girl,” he whispered. “I never pitied you. I enjoy your company more than . . .” He frowned. “More than any other woman I’ve known. But I cannot give you what you want. I cannot give you more.”

  “Why not? Can’t you at least explain?”

  His eyes closed. “No. Just know—I don’t fear you, Glory. It’s more that I fear for you. Nothing good can come of getting tangled up in my life.” His hands fell and he gripped her shoulders. “Miss Vernon and her nastiness? She’s chased me here and subjected you to such spite and rudeness—and that’s just incidental! Her hateful ways are as nothing compared to the real danger.”

  “Danger?” She drew back to frown down at him. “Surely you exaggerate.”

  “I wish I did. I know it sounds ridiculous.” He shook his head. “I can’t explain. Not truly. I just would never wish to expose you to the sort of trouble, the hate and vitriol—” He stopped himself. “Just . . . please. I said the other night that your trust means something to me. It does. I’ve trusted you with more than most—but I cannot go further. I wish . . . I hope you can respect my request. That we’ll follow our pact and this can be enough.”

  It wasn’t. Not near enough. She wanted to push further, demand more. She’d spent all of this time thinking that his reluctance served to protect himself—now she wanted to insist that he explain what he meant when he said he also meant to protect her.

  She couldn’t.

  He stared at her, his expression carefully blank. But she looked into his eyes and saw more. He hoped she would agree, that was clear. But so was a certain, wary resolution—as if he knew she was going to disappoint him.

  She would not disappoint him. Not when he’d done so much for her. And because she might be as untidy as a gorgon, but she wasn’t a harpy.

  “Yes.” She whispered. “Of course.”

  She felt a good bit of the tension drain out of him. “Thank you.” His hands moved back up to frame her face and he pulled her down to press a soft kiss to her lips. “Thank you.”

  She let her hands slide down to his chest and then around to his back as her gaze ran over him, drinking him in. This was it, then. As far as they would go. Please, let the passing of these moments go slowly.

  He kissed her again, and this time he didn’t draw back. His tongue slid against hers, smooth as hot silk.

  The bulge she perched upon shifted and grew. The sensation sent exultation and excitement and relief coursing through her. He wasn’t immune to her. Lucy and her notion of pity, be damned. In this, at least, he felt something for her.

  She moved upon him, opening her legs a little wider and settling more snugly against him.

  He sucked in a breath and kissed her again, deeply and fiercely, as if he wished to devour her. She returned the kiss, stifling the moan of longing that was building in her chest.

  As if he sensed it, he pulled back. His eyes filled with regret.

  She braced herself against what he was going to say.

  “Well, this is far worse than I expected.”

  Confused, she blinked down at him. It took her several seconds to realize that he had not spoken the words.

  Tension rushed back into his frame. His head turned toward the stall door.

  Her gaze followed. A stranger stood there. Older, but still tall and ramrod straight. A sneer curled his wide mouth and his eyes roamed contemptuously over her. Her own eye fell on the distinctive line of his jaw and she knew whom he must be.

  “Hello, Father,” Keswick said calmly. “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  * * *

  “I’m here to attend a ball,” his father replied.

  Keswick held out an arm to steady Glory as she scrambled off of his lap. He climbed to his feet, then helped her to stand up next to him. Only then did he roll a scornful glance his father’s way. “Not in a thousand years will you convince me that Tensford invited you here.”

  His tone bit out, sharp as ice, as it always did when he addressed the earl. He reached for the calm impassivity that was the only face he ever showed the old man, but Glory had had him on fire a moment ago and her presence—bloody hell, within feet of his father—blocked his grasp of that utterly necessary mask of indifference.

  “He did not. I had business in Birmingham. On the way south, I heard that you were staying here. Naturally, I stopped over to see you. It has been some time since we last met.” He narrowed his eyes at Glory.

  Keswick set his hand at the small of her back and gave her the smallest nudge, a motion that his father would not see. “Run on back to the house,” he murmured.

  His father’s brow cleared.

  “Ah. She’s a servant? That is a relief. I’d heard that you were in danger of a serious mésalliance out here, and for a moment, I feared it was worse even than I expected.” He raised a brow in Glory’s direction. “Run along and tell your mistress that I will require a room. I came in a hired carriage and it has already headed back.”

  “Go. Now.” Keswick said it under his breath and prayed she would let it go.

  He should have known better.

  Her shoulders straightened. “I am no servant, sir.” Glory took a brace of steps toward the door and his father’s sharp gaze focused right in on her limp. She turned to look back at him. “Won’t you do the honors?”

  He sighed. “Father, may I present Lady Glory Brightley? Glory, my father, the Earl of Braunton.” He cleared his throat. “Lady Glory was just leaving.”

  She curtsied and his father raised a brow. “Lady Glory?” he said doubtfully. “Well. You will forgive my mistake, of course.” He glanced around at the stall, the piled straw where they’d sat and the jumble of sleeping kittens.

  Glory’s chin went up. “The house is full, sir, but I’m sure my sister will . . .” she glanced over as Keswick shook his head. “ . . . be glad to find you a respectable room in the village.”

  “Will she, indeed? Perhaps you will go along and inform her of my arrival, while I have a moment alone with my son?”

  She cast an uncertain glance his way, but Keswick nodded and she took her leave, murmuring her thanks as his father swung open the stall door.

  Keswick followed her, and then they both waited as her slow footsteps faded away. After a moment, his father whirled on him.

  “What do you think you are doing, boy?”

  He rubbed his brow. “Who told you I was here, Father?” he asked on a sigh.

  “Someone who worried that you were making a tragic mistake—and very rightly so, it would seem! What were you thinking, allowing yourself be caught alone in the stables with a girl like that? Anyone could have seen you. And then you’d be good and trapped, wouldn’t you? Even now, if she tells anyone what you were up to out here, Tensford would be within his rights to demand a betrothal.”

  “She won’t tell anyone.”

  The earl scoffed. “What makes you think so?”

  “It is not who she is.”

  “Who she is?” His father gave a sharp bark of laughter. “She is a cripple, with no other prospects, that’s who she is. I’ve asked around. She has a dowry of two thousand pounds, if she is lucky. And I saw her leg dragging behind her. If she possessed a fortune, it could be overlooked, I suppose. By some. But who is going to take her for that paltry amount? She’s a fool if she doesn’t force you to the altar.”

  “She’s not a fool. Nor will she force my hand.”

  “I hope to the heavens that you are right. You should never have been so careless. You have responsibilities. One day you are going to have to begin caring for them. I’ve let you run amuck. Many young men must run wild and free before they take up the yoke of their birthright, but you must think. Use caution. You will ruin us all if you let yourself be caught in such a disastrous match.”

  “Disastrous?” Keswick’s mouth twisted.
“I think you exaggerate, Father. Have you become old womanish in your later years? Lady Glory is a fine girl and a perfectly acceptable match, should I wish one. She knows I will not marry her, but if I wished to, there would be no hindrance. Her birth and bloodline are excellent.”

  “She is neither fine nor acceptable. She is weak,” he declared flatly.

  “Well, we know there is no more damning word in your vocabulary, sir,” Keswick interrupted. “But you could not be more wrong.”

  “I am certain I am correct,” his father countered. “She clearly has a weak moral sense—as witnessed by my own eyes. You insist she’s not smart enough to trap you, though you’ve given her every chance. And she couldn’t even walk a straight line out of here with that . . . physical impairment,” he spat.

  “As is usual, you are utterly wrong about everything.”

  “You know the efforts I have gone to, all in pursuit of shoring up and strengthening the bloodline—”

  “Oh, yes! Of course, I know! Your great sacrifice. You passed by all the pretty English flowers in London and sought out a girl of Irish descent, all to bring a bit of strong peasant stock to the ailing Newland blood.”

  “Your mother was the granddaughter of a duke. She only insisted on acting like a peasant.”

  Keswick shook his head in disgust. “You were as wrong then as you are now. My mother was a lady in heart and deed—and that lame girl is likely the strongest you will ever meet.”

  “I’ve come in the nick of time, it’s clear.”

  “I don’t need saving from Lady Glory,” he repeated. “Or any damn thing from you.”

  “I pray you don’t need saving, but I’ve clearly got work to do—making you see what’s in front of your nose.” His father shook his head. “How could you make such a colossal mistake?” he asked in disbelief. “How could you turn away from a girl like Miss Vernon in favor of a crippled recluse?”

  “Wait. Miss Vernon?” Alarms rang sharply in his head. “What do you know of her?”

  “I know she is a strong, determined young woman—”

  “Miss Vernon called you here?” He could not keep the disgust from his tone. He should have known. If ever there were two more unscrupulous, manipulative peas in a pod . . .