Romancing the Rake: Seven Regency Romances

by Tammy Andresen

  “Cordelia.” Why had he just used her given name? “That isn’t it.” Almost worse than her discovering his secret was her believing there was something wrong with herself.

  “What is it then?” Her body pressed to his again as her hand slipped up his arm to clasp his neck. “I only want one small taste so that I might know for certain. Have I asked too much?”

  “No,” he whispered and then nearly cursed himself. But he wanted to touch her. Perhaps she was right. This was their one chance at tasting desire. Lord knew he’d been dreaming about kissing her for days.

  Rationally, he understood what dire consequences this might have. He stayed away from eligible ladies for a reason and he cursed himself for making an exception tonight. He should never have gone to this party and then followed her to the music room. But now, she was so close and pressed against him.

  He looked over his shoulder. He hadn’t completely closed the door to the music room and sounds of the party filtered into their little cocoon. But no one was near enough to see inside.

  He glanced back down to find her chin tilted toward his again, exposing the soft column of her neck. He groaned, lifting his hand and using his fingertips to trace the achingly soft skin. “Lovely,” he murmured as he dropped his mouth closer. He didn’t kiss her yet. If this was only going to be one time, which it had to be, he would make the kiss count.

  He ran his hand back up her neck and then cupped her jaw, his fingers resting in the silky tresses of her hair.

  He breathed in her scent, fresh like summer rain, and used his other hand at the small of her back to press her closer. Her body fit to his in the most perfect way, every inch of her torso fitted against him.

  Would her lips taste of champagne? Something else? It had been a damned long time since he’d touched any woman this way, too long to remember when it had been, but he could never recall holding someone quite so stunning. He bent closer still as she wrapped an arm about his neck, her fingers threading into his hair.

  Had Cordelia really never done this before? Every slide of her fingers accelerated his heart rate until he could hardly think a rational thought.

  Her lips were a breath away from his, her nose touching his, the crush of her breasts making him weak as he tilted his chin to steal a taste. Just this one.

  “Cordelia?” another man called. “Where are you?”

  “Drat,” she murmured, still so close, he could catch hints of champagne on her breath. “That’s my father.”

  Father? This was not a drat moment. This was more of a damn it all to hell or perhaps even a fuck kind of situation. The very thing Ash had spent his entire adult life trying to avoid was about to happen.

  He’d have to marry her for sure.

  But she released his neck, then she whispered so low, he barely heard her. “You found me like this.” And then without another word, she dropped to the settee, arms limp, mouth open as though she’d been there, asleep, for hours.

  Was she a musician or actress? Because she looked for all the world as though she’d passed out cold on the settee.

  Chapter Three

  Cordelia heard the subtle creak of the door as her father entered the room. “Cordelia?” he called. “Why can’t I find a single one of my daughters?”

  “She’s here, Mr. Moorish,” Lord Dashlane said, seeming to understand the charade they were performing. “I found her like this. I was debating whether to leave her alone to find you or stay with her to make sure she was safe.”

  If not for the situation, she would have grinned. Cad. Making himself a hero when she was the one who’d done the quick thinking.

  Funny but their near kiss had woken her sleepy mind rather than making it duller. Almost as though his touch had breathed life into her. How odd.

  “Dear me,” her father murmured. “Is that her glass of champagne?”

  “I don’t know,” Dashlane rumbled. “I only came in to find her already asleep.”

  Her father clucked his tongue. “Likely drowning her sorrows.”

  “Sorrows?” Dashlane asked, his voice going up.

  “I think a match between Juliet and Hartwell is imminent.” She heard a soft thump of flesh on flesh as though her father were patting Dashlane on his back. “I hope you’re not too put out.”

  Dashlane cleared his throat and Cordelia tried again not to smile. One corner of her mouth twitched. He’d wished to celebrate being the final man left single. He wasn’t sad about Juliet choosing another husband. But he let out a small breath. “He is a marquess after all and I’m only a lowly viscount.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t think of your title like that,” her father said, still patting. “Any woman would be lucky to have you. Handsome, charming, titled. In fact, I’m sure Cordelia would—”

  She coughed, unable to keep silent. Was her father really attempting to marry her off?

  Suddenly Dashlane’s pine-fresh scent filled her nostrils and a hand pounded on her back. “We have to make sure she doesn’t vomit in her sleep,” he said.

  “Enough,” she muttered through clenched teeth. He gentled his slaps, but she felt the settee sink under his weight, his hip pressing into her stomach. She drew in a sharp breath. Was he sitting against her under the guise of care? Her insides melted again.

  Peeking through her lashes, she noted her father’s grimace. “I suppose vomiting would dull the chances of a match, now wouldn’t it?”

  She clenched her fist at her side, which Dashlane artfully hid from her father’s view. But was her father honestly concerned that she couldn’t find a husband of her own? How insulting. Then again, perhaps her father was right.

  “I wouldn’t worry, sir,” Dashlane said as his hand began to rub tiny circles on her back. “She’s very attractive and extremely talented. I’m sure the right lord will—”

  “Indeed,” her father answered. “Perhaps he has already.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Moorish.” Dashlane’s hand stilled. “I am not in the market for a wife.”

  “Of course you are.” Her father turned and crossed the room and for a moment, she wondered where he might be going. But he stopped at the cord near the door and pulled for a servant. “All men need to marry. Who better than the sister to your best friends’ wives? Terribly convenient, if you ask me.”

  Her fist clenched against her side even as she sucked in a breath. They were back to her father attempting to auction her like cattle. Lovely.

  The word nearly made her smile. And then sigh. Because she’d almost gotten a kiss, but the opportunity was dreadfully out of reach again. Would she ever have another chance? Doubtful. If anything, her father had scared Dashlane off for good. He’d likely never come near her again for fear of being marched to the altar.

  “Most men do marry, but not me, sir.” She felt Dashlane stiffen against her.

  Her father’s footfalls stopped. “Not you? But surely—”

  Dashlane’s fingers squeezed her back. “I don’t know what I am saying? You’re right. Of course, I’ll marry someday, but not now. Not for a long time. You understand. Wild oats and all that.”

  “Oats,” her father repeated. “You want to be a farmer?”

  She snorted, unable to help herself and then realized perhaps she was still feeling the effects of the champagne. She bit the inside of her lips to keep from making any more noise even as Dashlane began patting her back again.

  “Not precisely,” he answered.

  Her father cleared his throat. “I know something of your current predicament. And farming would be an excellent solution, but you need seed money, so to speak. Actually, quite literally. And that’s where the right match would really benefit you.”

  Dashlane went stone still against her. “I’m managing just fine,” he said so low and deep, he almost sounded dangerous. “And besides…are you certain your daughter is interested? I didn’t get the impression that she was.”

  Her father let out a long breath. “I’m afraid you’re right there. I have to confess that
I encouraged her to play. She’s so naturally talented. But lately she’s been dropping hints that she might want to pursue a career in music rather than marriage.”

  “Ahh,” Dashlane answered. “Music is the passion that trumps all.”

  She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, wondering if she imagined the bit of sadness in his voice. Surely, she must. He didn’t even want to kiss her. And why would he? He had his pick of women to choose from.

  Her father returned to the settee, she heard his feet shuffle across the hardwood floor. “If she were a man of course, she could have both.”

  Dashlane shook his head. “If she were a man, she’d be expected to take over your business. It’s what all fathers want in the end.”

  She’d been peeking through her lashes, but she longed to open her eyes and study his face. What was she hearing underneath his words? Regret? Anger? So many questions swirled in her thoughts.

  Her father was silent for several seconds, the sounds from the party filtering in. “I suppose you’re right. I never had sons, so I haven’t thought much about it. Fathers do tend to have an opinion on how their children should live their lives.”

  Obviously. Hadn’t this conversation been a shining example of this very idea? She fluttered open her eyes, tired of being a silent observer of this conversation. “Papa?”

  Dashlane’s hand tightened and gave his head the tiniest jerk to show his disapproval. But she knew precisely how to handle her own father.

  “Corde?” her father asked, bending down. “Are you awake?”

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I am. Was I asleep?”

  Dashlane rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, but her father patted the top of her head. “Wore yourself out today with all the preparation.” Then he tapped a glass. “Remember this the next time you think about having a glass of alcohol.”

  “I will.” She gave her father the most innocent smile she could muster. “Is my hair terribly mussed?”

  “No dear, it looks perfect.”

  She stretched, raising one arm up and yawning. “In that case, I shall rejoin the party. I feel much refreshed.”

  “Excellent,” her father cheered as he clapped.

  “Has Lord Dashlane been seeing to my care?” She looked over at him then, his gaze unwavering on hers. His eyes were dark, and his brows set low.

  “He has,” her father answered. “Wasn’t that so kind?”

  She gave a large false smile, first at her father and then at Dashlane. “It was. I shall reward him with a dance.”

  His hard stare turned to a glower.

  Ash tightened his grip on her waist as the first strains of the waltz played.

  One thing was certain. Whatever he thought he knew about Cordelia Moorish, he’d been wrong.

  She was quiet, subdued, talented, all that was true. But she also drank too much champagne, pretended to fall asleep in a stupor, and collected dances for favors not actually given. She’d successfully manipulated both her father and him.

  Granted, her father was clueless to the fact that he was being put on, but Ash? He knew full well that she just stole a dance from him, and he’d been unable to stop it without revealing that he’d been alone with Cordelia.

  She was rather dangerous. And that was unexpected.

  And scary as hell.

  Because if she could outthink him, he might find himself caught in a web of her making with no way out. He had already been captured in this dance. He’d nearly been caught in a kiss.

  She was still stunningly beautiful, complex, and as sophisticated as he’d first imagined. She was just more than that and every new thing he learned made her increasingly dangerous. Damn his fit of jealousy.

  Her waist was so slender beneath his hand and as he pulled her closer, he felt her gasp, and the tiny jerk of her body as her lungs expanded. It touched some male need in him, and his chest puffed out as they spun across the floor.

  She’d told him she didn’t want to marry but what if that was all part of a ruse? Lure him into feeling safe and then spring the trap.

  “I know that you see a viscount before you,” he said as he let go of her waist to spin her about and then pulled her close again.

  She blinked. “I see a man before me.” Her eyes searched his face. “One who currently looks angry.”

  “I’m not.” They glided across the floor. “I think leery is the better word.”

  Her brows rose as she stared at him. “Why is that?”

  He spun her again, but this time when he pulled her close, he began dancing them toward the terrace doors. They needed to get a few things straight. “I’m not going to be caught by you, Cordelia Moorish. You or any other woman, for that matter.”

  She stared up at him, her lips pressing into a firm line. “Did we or did we not establish that I do not wish to catch you or any other man?”

  He narrowed his gaze. When he’d been poor as dirt with barely enough food to eat, he’d seen the worst of people. The lengths they’d go to take from others. He’d thought at one time, the upper class might be different. They weren’t. In his short time as a member, he found they were every bit as ruthless and selfish. The question that plagued him was where he went from here. He had no answers. “In my experience people rarely just tell you the truth.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed stare, her hand going limp in his. “That does make sense, I’m afraid.” And then her shoulders sagged a bit. “What did my father mean about you needing seed money?”

  He growled out a low sound but didn’t provide any actual explanation. He hated discussing his past and his teeth clenched at the idea, but he didn’t exactly want to leave her company either. That was the trouble. Despite his best efforts, he was drawn to her. To tell her the truth, however, was only to give her more possible weapons. Then again, her father already knew so it was only a matter of time before she found out. “I inherited the title last year, only to discover that I am in debt up to my eyeballs.”

  The corners of her eyes crinkled. “From whom did you inherit your title?”

  His gut turned as they approached the doors. How did she do that? How did she ask the very question that probed to the heart of the issue? Rather than answer, he dipped behind a large crowd of bystanders and then pulled her through the open door. “I find your question odd. Why would you ask who I inherited from?”

  She stepped out of the light and into a shadow, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her. The silk of her glove caressed his palm, but he wished to feel her bare fingers instead.

  She stopped for a moment, turning toward him in the dark. “You didn’t say, ‘my father passed away a year ago.’” Then she pulled again. “Duck.”

  He did, just in time as leaves brushed the top of his head. “Well, he did.” But she’d figured it out exactly. His father wasn’t actually a father at all. In the most technical term, he’d sired Ash. But in no other way, had he contributed anything good to Ash’s life and that included the fucking title with which he’d saddled his son.

  “I see,” she answered as she stopped again. The moon shone above them, peeking out from the clouds, and he could now see the ring of trees that circled them, a bench in the middle a little hideaway. “You two were close then?” Her voice dropped, dripping with sarcasm.

  He let a humorless laugh fall from his lips. “You’re ridiculously smart.”

  “Analytical,” she corrected. “It actually makes me a better musician.”

  “I can imagine.” He could. She had the perfect amount of artistic talent coupled with the exact amount of discipline and intelligence to make her truly gifted. What a shame she couldn’t go on tour as the great pianist she was.

  “So if you are in need of cash, why aren’t you marrying a rich lady to save your title and your holdings?”

  He clenched his jaw. That was the easiest solution if saving the title was what he had in mind. “I don’t want to save them. I’m going to allow them to burn down in a fiery blaze of rakish ruin.”

>   Chapter Four

  “Oh dear.” Her stomach dropped at his words even as her fingers tightened on his. Something truly dreadful had happened. She was certain of that.

  He’d said as little as possible, but Cordelia could fill in several of the details. He hated his father. Didn’t want to honor his title or even mourn the man’s death. And he wasn’t actually a rake either, despite his assertions to the contrary. It was almost as though he was pretending.

  “Indeed,” he answered. “No money, no heirs, no future for the Viscount of Dashlane.” His lip curled over the words and voice hardened like granite. “I won’t be trapped into a marriage, Cordelia.”

  He sounded utterly determined, immoveable in his assertion. So she believed him. If she were more beautiful, or better at flirting, or more talkative even, she might have convinced herself she could sway him. Not that she wanted him anyway. Did she? No, she’d already chosen a path. “Me either.”

  He gave her a small smile then. “Last men standing.”

  “Last man and woman standing.” She dipped into a small curtsey, still holding his hand. “If I were a man, as I said before, I could pursue my music career and have a family, but I can’t as a woman. So, I won’t.”

  “You do intend to be a career woman after all,” he murmured, almost to himself. “How interesting.”

  She shrugged. “I can’t perform. But I can write and sell music. I’m quite good at composition.”

  “I believe you,” he said, and he tugged her a bit closer. “So we’re actually in agreement then. Neither of us wishes to marry.”

  She nodded, suddenly a bit nervous. The champagne had worn off and the dawning realization that she’d openly propositioned the most handsome man in all the world to kiss her flamed her cheeks with heat.

  Her father’s warning about alcohol rang in her head.