My Fake Rake

by Eva Leigh

  She pulled back abruptly. His eyes opened, hazed by arousal. But that merely meant he’d had a physiological response—there was no greater significance.

  Mortification rushed through her. She had to find some way to correct this and put everything back to where it had been before.

  “Goodness.” She fabricated a laugh. “Anyone watching us would truly believe we were a courting couple. A job well-done. You’re to be commended.”

  For a moment, he said nothing as he stared at her. A brief look of bewilderment crossed his face and . . . hurt . . . ? But no, that couldn’t be. It was gone in an instant. Then he straightened and cleared his throat. Wryly, he said, “Never say that applying oneself to one’s studies doesn’t pay off.”

  “Right. Right.” She was repeating herself. Desperate for something to look at besides the tempting acreage of his body or the enticement of his mouth, she pointed her gaze toward where she’d last seen the lizards.

  Sebastian followed the direction of her look. They both observed as the lizards continued to circle, the male attempting to secure the female by holding her with his mouth.

  The female suddenly turned and ferociously bit the male on his leg. At once, the male released her. He scurried away underneath the rock, while the female continued to bask, seemingly content now that she’d discouraged her would-be suitor.

  A shame that Grace couldn’t bite herself as a reminder that the attraction she felt for Sebastian was simply a ruse. She would save him, and herself, future embarrassment.

  In only a handful of days, Sebastian would make his debut as a rake. He would play the part of her suitor so she could capture Mason’s attention, and she had to remember that the things he said and did were in service to that role.

  But, bloody hell, pretend or no, his kiss would haunt her to the end of her days.

  Chapter 12

  It was an unqualified disaster.

  The garden party was but one and a half hours away, and Seb had done his level best to attempt a dashing arrangement of his neckcloth—to no avail. The more he fussed with the length of white linen, the more appalling the result, until it now hung limply around his neck like a wilted onion.

  How had three days passed so quickly? Each afternoon, he’d spent hours in the ballroom of Grace’s home, with Rotherby quizzing him and guiding him in everything a would-be rake needed to know and do. The lessons had, in and of themselves, been readily digested. But it hadn’t been the proper way to kiss a lady’s hand that haunted his waking—and dreaming—hours. Nor had he stewed over the names of London’s most popular gaming hells.

  No. His thoughts had circled around Grace. The way her lips pursed just before she laughed. How her eyelids lowered a fraction as she contemplated a new fact or bit of information. The trails of gold he felt whenever she lightly touched her hand to his forearm.

  And that kiss . . .

  He thanked any and all available deities that she’d reminded him in the sunlit field that he was her pretend suitor only, and that whatever he’d experienced as they kissed—desire, yearning, feelings that were far from platonic—all of that existed in him alone. She had her sights fixed firmly on Fredericks.

  That didn’t mean he stopped thinking about kissing her, or that he didn’t want to do it again.

  He wouldn’t, of course, but he wanted.

  In two hours, Seb would pretend to court her in front of an audience—so she might attract another man’s interest.

  He hadn’t really thought things out when he’d decided to undertake the scheme.

  Even so, none of this mattered if he couldn’t sodding tie his sodding neckcloth because no sodding rake ever set foot outside without looking his sodding best. Sodding Rotherby had sodding said as much.

  The calisthenics he’d done at his sporting academy this morning had burned away his anxiety, but this neckcloth debacle brought it back to the fore. How could he feel calm and comfortable enough to play the rake if people were busy sniggering at the flopping fabric around his neck?

  Seb glared down at the neckcloth. Perhaps if he concentrated hard enough, he could make the damned thing obey his will and tie itself.

  Bang! Bang! His attempt at mind control broke apart at the sound of someone pounding on his front door.

  “Wait a bloody moment,” Seb yelled. He stalked through his rooms, muttering to himself. This was not what he needed right now, moments away from one of the most important events of his life.

  He threw open the door, revealing Rotherby and a slim, beautifully dressed young man with glossy black hair. The stranger carried a mahogany case under his arm.

  Rotherby’s gaze drifted down to Seb’s pathetic neckcloth. “Oh, dear. I see we’ve come too late to prevent the murder of your poor cravat.” He glanced at the man standing behind him. “Can it be revived, Beale?”

  “It will take some doing, Your Grace,” Beale replied, “but consider what miracles I’ve wrought with your wardrobe.” The well-appointed man clicked his tongue as he surveyed Seb from top to bottom. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  “These are my brand-new clothes,” Seb protested. He’d put on a dark blue waistcoat and a deep brown jacket, and sported buff breeches, which tucked into his tall boots. Only a moment ago, Seb had thought himself rather fine-looking in his attire, but apparently, his opinion was rubbish.

  “The garments themselves are fine,” Beale said airily, “but the assemblage requires attention.”

  “I’m sorry—who are you?” Seb asked.

  “Ah, right,” Rotherby said, stepping past Seb as he breezed into the room. “Holloway, this is my valet, Beale. I had a feeling you might require a little assistance, so I enlisted his aid.”

  Seb nodded curtly at Beale, who barely inclined his head in response as he approached Seb.

  The valet glanced around the front parlor of Seb’s rooms, his gaze touching on the piles of books on every available surface, including the floor. “I take it the housekeeper has gone on strike.”

  “When she tidies up,” Seb said flatly, “I can’t find anything.”

  Without a word of warning, Beale reached out and grabbed a handful of Seb’s hair.

  “Beg pardon!” Seb cried.

  “A good thing I brought my tools,” the valet said. “This needs work. I’ve seen less thatching on a Buckinghamshire cottage. And this.” He released his hold on Seb’s hair and ran a palm down Seb’s cheek. “Did you shave with a trowel?”

  It had, in fact, been the most attention Seb had ever paid to his toilette, but here again, he evidently had no understanding of what was required.

  “Um—”

  Beale held up his hand in a demand for silence. “Never mind. Strip to your smallclothes so I have a blank canvas.”

  Seb threw a worried glance at Rotherby, who had made himself comfortable by shoving a stack of books off the settee and taking a seat.

  “Do as Beale says,” his friend advised. “I find it best never to argue with him.”

  “Fine—but have a care with my books, old man. We can’t all of us afford enormous personal libraries.” Any further comment Seb might have made was silenced by Beale’s impatient tugging at his clothing.

  One hour and a considerable amount of work later, a dressed, shaved, and barbered Seb stood in the middle of his parlor as the valet circled him. Beale’s eyes were narrowed, and he tapped his finger against his chin, evidently in deep contemplation. From his place on the settee, Rotherby also studied Seb.

  “Well?” Seb burst out after several agonizing moments.

  Silence. And then Beale gave a small nod. “I am a virtuoso.”

  Seb regarded the valet cautiously. Was Beale being ironic, or was he sincere?

  “What do you think?” Seb asked Rotherby.

  “The most important thing is,” his friend returned, “what do you think?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” Seb looked down at himself. All the hues of his garments harmonized—at least, he believed they did, since
he had little understanding of color theory. There were no frayed cuffs, no loose buttons or worn patches. That was an improvement.

  When he’d refused to work at Holloway Ironworks, his father had severely reduced his allowance, which meant severe economizing. He had grown used to looking shabby—it was an indicator that he didn’t have to be John Holloway’s obedient son. Still, he hadn’t realized just how threadbare he’d become.

  As little as clothing indicated a person’s integrity and the truth of their heart, pretending as though garments didn’t matter was naïve. It was slightly galling.

  But to play the game, one had to obey the rules, as well as wear the uniform.

  “Take a look in the mirror,” Rotherby said.

  “I don’t have one.”

  Rotherby shot to his feet. “You truly do not possess one? Not a pier glass or even a tiny looking glass?” When Seb shrugged, his friend let out a noise of frustration. “How the hell do you shave?”

  “By touch. My hands are perfectly capable of sensing the amount of beard on my cheeks and chin. I don’t need to see anything.”

  “That explains why you always look like a threadbare carpet.” Rotherby waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Never mind. Trust me when I say you look the epitome of a stylish rake. Wouldn’t you say, Beale?”

  “The image of you in that abomination of an ensemble has been burned into my mind.” The valet clicked his tongue. “But, was I not scarred by that mental picture, I would consider you the most modish rake in London.”

  Rotherby pointedly cleared his throat.

  “After Your Grace, of course,” Beale added. He stepped back, permitting Rotherby to approach.

  Seb watched his friend’s expression carefully. “You’re certain? I look presentable?”

  “More than presentable. You are an Incomparable.” Rotherby kissed his own fingers. “Beale has transformed you.”

  Seb exhaled. He wanted, needed, to be everything Grace desired him to be, and he could not consider failure. He’d been a disappointment to his family—he refused to disappoint someone he truly cared about.

  “But none of what I or Beale say signifies.” Rotherby tapped a finger to the center of Seb’s chest. “It’s what’s here that matters. Think of all the lessons you’ve learned over the past week, all the confidence you’ve gained.”

  Seb’s head swirled with all the information Rotherby had imparted to him, and his body twitched in recollection of the countless drills he’d performed—walking, bowing, standing, and making conversation. Especially making conversation. His belly knotted as he thought about a party full of strangers, but as he tucked the leather gloves Grace had given him into his pocket, he ran through the horrendous situations that might unfold.

  Was it possible that he’d disgorge the contents of his stomach on the shoes of an MP? Yes. But would he? Unlikely.

  He now possessed an arsenal of tactics to help him move through his anxiousness. Concentrate on his breathing, keep the gloves in his hand to anchor him in the present moment, ask questions, and listen to the responses.

  He could do this.

  “Everything we’ve done this week,” his friend continued. “It’s all stored within you. It was already there. We just gave it shape and direction.”

  Seb ran a hand down the front of his waistcoat. The silk whispered against his skin, grounding him to the now moment. He would not think of what would happen in half an hour, in a day or week or month.

  “My carriage awaits us downstairs,” Rotherby said.

  Seb drew himself up and it was a measure of the excellence of his tailoring that his clothing didn’t hinder his movements, rather heightening them instead. No wonder so many societies relied upon special ceremonial garments to induce in the wearer a sense of pride.

  “Let’s go be rakes,” Seb said.

  Nervousness skipped like a stone along Grace’s spine as she stood with her family in Lord and Lady Creasy’s garden. She could find no calm in the potted hosta plants or in the waters of the many fountains that dotted the large green space—a sure sign of her agitation.

  The viscount and viscountess were justly celebrated for their lush and sizable garden here in the heart of Mayfair, and their annual party during the Season’s height was a highly anticipated event—especially because invitations were hard to come by.

  Grace and her parents attended annually. She often broke away from the other guests to poke around beneath hedges and in the sunny patches along the paths, searching for reptiles. Not today. Today, she stood with a rigid back between her mother and her brother’s wife, the two other women chatting easily.

  She almost envied them. Neither her mother nor Anne knew what was to happen today, but Grace did, and she gazed longingly at circulated trays bearing flutes of sparkling wine. Yet she couldn’t take a sip. She needed all of her wits about her.

  Her gaze shot toward the top of the terrace’s steps. Still no sign of Sebastian. God—when would he get here so everything could finally begin and she’d no longer be held in this agonizing suspense?

  “What’s got your stays so tight, Gracie?” her brother, Charles, asked. “Is there a heated controversy in the world of toads and frogs?”

  She shot her brother an aggrieved look. It didn’t matter that they were no longer children—teasing her continued to be one of his favorite pastimes.

  “Ah, don’t quiz her so, Charlie,” their mother said with the same weary tone she’d used since her children were in leading strings.

  “I haven’t been to any social event this Season,” Grace said tightly. “This is my first.”

  Charles said, “Remember how, in your come-out year, you hid in the retiring room at Lord Darvington’s? I think you were in there for three hours.”

  “Two and a half,” Grace answered. Heaven help her, if her family couldn’t stop themselves from recounting her every youthful folly. “And I had danced for fifteen minutes before. I just found the rest of the night to be . . . uninteresting.”

  She didn’t mention that during her dance with Lord Darvington’s son, she’d caught him making a face at his friends, as if he was impossibly bored.

  “You won’t be ducking into any retiring room today.” Charles glanced meaningfully at the steps to the terrace. “Mason Fredericks just arrived.”

  Heat flooded Grace’s cheeks. She couldn’t stop herself from looking over at Mason. Sunlight turned his light brown hair almost golden, and his eyes twinkled as he said something to Lord Creasy to make their host laugh heartily.

  She tore her gaze away from him. In an airy voice, “Why should that be of interest to me?”

  “Because,” Charles said with a sly grin, “as soon as I said his name, your face went red as a bottle of claret.”

  Damn, was she as transparent as that?

  “You do lose your composure whenever Mr. Fredericks is around, dearest,” her mother said sympathetically. “And lately, you sigh when his name is mentioned.”

  “And you—”

  Grace cut off her brother. “Yes, right, I understand your meaning.” She tried to take the advice she’d given Sebastian, concentrating on her breathing. “I may be somewhat discomfited because he’s here, but it’s nothing worth publishing in the Hawk’s Eye.”

  She kept silent about the other reason her nerves were taut and her pulse throbbed in her neck. Sebastian was due at any moment. The plan was truly about to begin.

  “I imagine that Lord and Lady Creasy are themselves quite agitated,” Grace’s mother said. “After years of inviting the Duke of Rotherby, he’s finally agreed to attend. That’s a considerable coup.”

  “I’ve heard that he’s bringing a friend with him,” Anne added. She added in a shocked whisper, “A commoner.”

  “Not any commoner,” Grace’s mother said with the triumphant air of one who has exclusive gossip. “The oldest son of the iron magnate, John Holloway.”

  “Wasn’t Holloway at Lord Stoulton’s the other week?” Charles ask
ed.

  “Yes, and he brought one of his other sons with him. No one knows much about the eldest son, but everyone knows Holloway’s richer than the Royal Mint.”

  “Does that mean that your friend Mr. Holloway is John Holloway’s son?” her mother asked.

  “He is,” Grace said.

  “Strange, I’ve never seen your Mr. Holloway at any gatherings.”

  Her brother chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be amusing if he was the commoner coming with the duke?”

  Blast. She and Sebastian hadn’t discussed the fact that they had a preexisting relationship, so they would have to improvise when they encountered each other today.

  But this concern was only one of many thoughts spinning through her head. Not only was Sebastian about to arrive, Mason circulated nearby.

  The object of her desire moved easily from group to group of attendees, laughing, chatting. Everywhere he went he was met with smiles and enthusiastic bonhomie. The nearer he came to where Grace and her family stood, the faster her heart raced. Would he remember how awkward she’d been at the British Museum?

  “Mr. Fredericks,” her mother said when Mason was only a few feet away.

  “Lady Pembroke.” Mason bowed as he addressed everyone in her family. “Lord Wale, Lady Wale,” he said to Charles and Anne. He turned to Grace and her belly seemed to cartwheel across the lawn.

  “Lady Grace,” he said brightly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Wonderful to see you away from the animal graveyard that is Montagu House.”

  Her heart lifted, while she struggled to keep from fidgeting beneath his gaze. As lightly as she could manage, she said, “I’d liberate the animals from the Royal Menagerie at the Tower but that might be unwise.”

  “They might wreak havoc amongst the populace,” he said with a grave nod.

  Happiness sparkled in her chest. Striving for a wry tone, she said, “It’s not the populace I worry about so much as my fearing for the animals’ safety.”

  “Quite right.” He inclined his head, conceding her point. “Who thinks of the animals’ well-being?”