Falling for a Rake

by Pendle, Eve

  Markshall straightened as he stepped off the ladder and looked at the journalist. He was pale, and one hand remained on the top of the ladder, gripping it with whitened knuckles. He held out Emily’s hat and Miss Green dove forward to take it.

  “It’s irregular to have such an accident on a harmless diversion such as a fern walk, but I assure you that my fiancée and I are quite unharmed, thank you.” Markshall gave the man a curt nod.

  It was a good thing Miss Green gasped at that moment, otherwise Emily’s own sharp intake of breath would have been entirely audible.

  “A secret engagement!” Miss Green’s eyes lit up. “La, how romantic.”

  She’d said to Markshall that Miss Green would make a romance out of them, but she hadn’t realized he would collude with it. For a second, she considered denying it. But Connie’s debut and the newspaperman and the scandal of her being photographed without even a hat on swam before her eyes. She pasted her most tired and distressed smile on her face. “Indeed. We will tell you all about it as soon as I have had a bath and a good meal. I am famished.”

  “Ems,” came her father’s booming voice. Her parents were hurrying towards them, and the crowd parted to allow them to come through. Her father caught her up in a hug.

  Relief flooded into her. It would all be over now. Papa would help her sort out this mess. Tears prickles at her eyelids.

  “I thought fern hunting wasn’t supposed to be dangerous, Ems. Are you all right?” He squeezed her tightly.

  “Yes,” she whispered back.

  He released her and stood back, his dear, familiar face with whiskers flecked with gray. “Well, let’s get you–”

  “How do you feel about your daughter’s secret engagement, your Grace? Did you know about it?” The journalist had crept up.

  Her father turned slowly and leveled the man a quelling stare. “I’m glad Lady Emily was with someone so ready and able to help her when the need arose. I don’t think you will find a story here.”

  “Oh, not at all, your Grace.” The newspaper man simpered. “If it were merely a little accident, I don’t think our readers would have been interested. But a romance? Lovers trapped together, that’s always interesting. Perhaps you would like to put an advertisement in the paper about the engagement?”

  “Call on me this afternoon.” Markshall had moved over to stand next to her. “Lady Emily and I will talk to you then. You shall have your story, one way or another.” He gave his address to the journalist. “Please excuse me until later, your Graces, Lady Emily.” He bowed to both her parents and her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him saunter away.

  * * *

  His head throbbed with every purposefully normal footfall. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. He repeated the refrain with each forward motion.

  He had known he ought not to pursue her. The attraction had been too visceral, too much like falling, and now he couldn’t stop this. He had no idea how to prevent this train of events that he had put in motion. If he hadn’t come down to Devon, sick in body from the London fog and sick in mind from thirty-five years of being who he was, he would never have seen her. He wouldn’t have had that feeling, like tumbling, when he’d seen her again at the Waddington’s dinner. If he wasn’t the man he was, he wouldn’t have followed her in the spring countryside, justifying that it was in character, only to drag her into his pit of wrongdoing.

  Marriage to him would be worse than being ruined. He ought to know. Being him was hell. He wanted to go back and rip his own tongue out rather than do this to her. He berated himself all the way back to the village and on the ride on a hired mare back to his house just outside of Totnes.

  What had possessed him? Talking of the past, where he’d failed so utterly to take responsibility, that was– No. That bloody journalist was the problem. He’d asked that pointed question, and some nascent chivalry he hadn’t even known he possessed had roared that her honor was at stake and that the only respectable solution would be if they were engaged. Stupid, stupid impulse.

  He would break it off. It would be much better for her than being forced into a union with a monster like himself. Her father would forgive her indiscretions, send her home for a few weeks and it would all be forgotten by May Day.

  But then, what would they do about the journalist? He’d fallen straight into his hands, like a blinking fool. He hadn’t really had a story, just speculation. Now, he had a scandal. They’d have to marry; satisfaction blasted through him.

  “My lord, more documents arrived this morning about the chimney sweeps issue.” His valet took his coat as soon as he walked into the house and followed him upstairs. “What happened to your hat?”

  He cursed.

  Jones watched him impassively and didn’t reply.

  “Arrange me a bath.” Oscar wiped a hand across his face. “And get another hat. I’ll need one for this afternoon when I visit my fiancée’s family.” He’d thought when he’d grabbed up his hat before starting up the ladder that by doing so, he’d retained some semblance of dignity. The look on Jones’ face suggested that was not the case. Thankfully Emily’s smaller hat had fared better, but they both must have looked like they’d been dragged through a hedge, fallen down a hole, or... just come from bed after a particularly violent session of lovemaking.

  “Yes, my lord.” Jones’ voice and eyebrows remained level. “The papers are on the table.” He unobtrusively left as Oscar gave in to the need to collapse into a chair.

  The yielding surface reminded him of his exhaustion after not having slept all night, and of the pain in his back, buttocks, and head. With one heel, he dragged a nearby chair towards him and put his feet up.

  “That chair is now muddy,” Jones said as he re-entered the room.

  “Well, we can add that to the list of a dozen things I’ve done wrong in the last day.”

  “I have sent a request for a milliner to bring a selection of hats.” Jones knelt and undid the laces on Markshall’s boots, frowning at the mud. “Shall I choose, so that you can at least prevent a baker’s dozen of poor decisions?”

  Oscar smiled despite himself. “Yes, you better had.” He lifted first one foot, then the other when Jones indicated and Jones removed his boots efficiently. “Did you manage to get Fanny home safe last night?” Yet another responsibility Oscar had failed.

  “Of course. The young lady reported that she is progressing well, and a note from her mistress concurs.”

  That at least was a relief. “What is the news on the increased costs of adult, rather than child, chimney sweeps? Is it good?”

  “Only a very marginal increase in cost, as you predicted.” Jones reappeared behind him and tapped him on the shoulder to indicate that he ought to allow him to take off his waistcoat. Markshall complied then snatched up the report from the table and began to read and think of suitably facetious comments.

  “I don’t want a child dying up my chimney.” Markshall read the sobering number of young boy chimney sweeps who perished in their work. “Think of the mess.”

  “Think of the inconvenience.” Jones moved efficiently behind him. “When one can’t have a fire in the morning because there is a dead child in one’s chimney.”

  Yes. This was familiar. This was who he was. He was calmer. He was dissolute. He was a lazy lord, making snide remarks that discomforted the proud men in Whites and the House of Lords. He would go to London tomorrow and support Lord Selby by making nasty comments. Finishing reading the report, he threw it back onto the table.

  “Send a telegram to Lord Selby about the chimney sweeps bill saying that we need to close that loophole about boys or girls. After all, the act in ‘40 has been flouted for years. I don’t want some idiot noticing that we discuss boys acting as chimney sweeps, and deciding that little girls are exempt. Their petticoats would catch fire rather easily.”

  “Immediately, my lord.” Jones indicated the dressing room and Markshall went through. Somehow Jones had readied a bath in less time tha
n it would have taken most people to boil a kettle.

  “Go on.” Markshall stripped off his trousers and stockings. There was no point in trying to avoid Jones’ interrogation. “Say what you have to say.”

  “Essential as it is to consider your comments on the chimney sweeps bill, might I enquire what you would like to wear to visit your wife-to-be?”

  “You can ask the other question, Jones.” The question that his valet was diplomatically avoiding: where he had been last next night and how it had resulted in a proposal.

  This whole situation was a paradox. He couldn’t marry Lady Emily; she wouldn’t want him. He didn’t want a wife and had spent years avoiding acquiring one. And yet, he wanted Lady Emily desperately. She had passed his test with the ease of brushing a bit of lint off her coat. She could not forgive him. And that was just as it should be, as he could not exonerate himself.

  “It’s not my place to ask, my lord.” Jones stepped forwards and undid Oscar’s cravat. “Just to prepare your quips and your clothes.”

  “I only require your help with my clothes actually, Jones.” Oscar smiled even through the pain in the back of his neck as Jones removed the wilted necktie and undid the buttons of his shirt.

  “The quips are free.”

  Oscar managed a wan smile. What could he possibly say to explain? He held out his hands for Jones to undo the cuffs. “There was an incident with a lady.”

  A knock at the door interrupted.

  “That will be the milliner.” A good thing, because he couldn’t elucidate his behavior. Or excuse it. “Go and choose a hat, Jones. And see if the old one can be repaired if you want it.”

  Jones hesitated for a second then dipped his head and left, closing the door behind him.

  Oscar stripped off the rest of his clothes and sank into the bath. The hot water burned, and it felt like penance.

  Chapter Six

  Emily’s family had rented a modest townhouse, probably only a dozen family rooms, plus servants' quarters in the attic and basement, in a pretty square with a central garden. He gave his card to a footman over six-foot tall and waited in the parquet-floored hall after a maid took his top hat and greatcoat.

  In the palace of Westminster, a place unrivaled for grandeur, he lounged on the red benches and ignored the tons of gold leaf and heraldry that covered every wall, floor, ceiling, and window. But in this room with some second-rate landscapes and a staircase covered with a deep-red Axminster carpet, Markshall rubbed his damp palms together.

  “She’s waiting in the blue parlor for you.” The Duke closed a door behind him as he came into the hall. He stopped in front of Oscar. “I’ll say the same thing to you as I did to Emily. She’s not a little girl. You’re not children. I’m not going to shout and stomp and tell you what to do. But I do not want gossip.”

  “Neither do I.” The last thing he needed was an examination of why he had a house near Plymouth.

  The Duke scowled at his interruption. “My wife will be very distressed by any embarrassment and my daughter does not deserve it. My younger daughter is about to have her debut. Please sort this mess you’ve caused out. I will be in my study if you need me. Harry will be outside the open door,” he added meaningfully, indicating the footman.

  “Thank you, your Grace,” Oscar said, but the Duke had already stridden off.

  Lady Emily was standing looking out of the French windows when he entered the blue parlor, which lived up to its name with gentle Wedgewood color painted walls. The soft white light coming from the cloud outside acted like a mounting board, drawing his gaze inwards. Her hair, not quite blond, nor quite brown, but a mix of dark and light, was swept into a neat patisserie-like construction on the back of her head, revealing an expanse of neck before the modest neckline of her dress pale green dress with embroidery of ferns around the hem.

  They were on their own again, and again he had no idea what to say. All he could do was drink her in, as though she were cool, sweet water and he had spent his life in an inferno of dry heat. He ought not to drag her into his life any further than he already had, but along with that knowledge, there was a savage satisfaction that she could be his. For her, he wanted to be as far away as possible. But for himself, he could watch her all day.

  “Lord Markshall.”

  He hadn’t thought that she’d heard him enter the room. He wasn’t Oscar to her now, he noted. “Lady Emily.”

  She turned away from the window. He was punched anew with the sway of her purposeful walk as she approached him. A queen might be less haughty and exalted than her. Maybe that was why he dropped to one knee. An instinctive reaction to her beauty and superiority.

  “Lady Emily, I have come here to petition for your hand in marriage.” Had he? His heart beat hard in his chest. Apparently, he had. “I humbly ask you will consider my suit and be my wife.” That had come out easily, naturally, with as much flow as satirical remarks in the House of Lords. And honestly speaking, there was an element of cynicism in the words, even if he couldn’t move his gaze from Emily or change his expression from pitifully earnest.

  “You are determined to stand out, my lord.” She indicated his silk waistcoat, the only flash of color in his otherwise black and white, respectable ensemble that Jones had set out for him.

  That wasn’t yes. But what had he expected?

  “My valet insisted that red, a strong, masculine color, was too bold to come courting in, but a softer version was perfect.” He'd even worn a frock coat and allowed Jones to tie a starched cravat in a complicated knot.

  “Pink.” She tilted her head. “I quite like it.”

  His breath stopped as she reached down and touched the edge of his lapel to feel the silk of his waistcoat. His head began to hurt again. It took all his strength not to stand and take her in his arms, or to lean into her touch.

  “Is that what we are doing?” She didn’t meet his gaze, continuing to focus on his waistcoat.

  It took him a moment to follow her direction. “Yes, I believe we are courting. At the very least, I believe I am courting you.” His heart seemed to expand and contract more with every beat as he said that.

  Never had he courted a lady seriously. Given all that had happened, he supposed now he wouldn’t. It was predetermined they would marry. This was merely a formality. There was no thrill of the chase or heart-rending uncertainty of whether he would win her affection well enough for her to say yes to his proposal. She would say yes because otherwise, her standing in the community would be as flat on her back as everyone would imagine she had been while they were trapped together.

  She made a little sound in the back of her throat, and Markshall was instantly transported to other times when she might make that sound. In his bed when they were married, for instance, while he was deep inside of her, thrusting in and out and driving her to the edge of wildness. It was an ill-advised thought and he immediately regretted it as his cock twitched in response to the image.

  She took a long breath and rubbed her naked, ungloved palms together. “Why didn’t you marry Lydia?”

  Her question was a bolt of lightning. A trial of character just like he’d tested her. He was suddenly aware that his knee now hurt from kneeling on the wooden floor. It was also not a simple yes or no answer that could be dealt with from a position of supplication. He rose to his feet. There was a plethora of facetious and clever ways to answer this.

  “Because it would have made her miserable,” he said after a moment.

  “A sad countess.” She looked up and her complicated green eyes speared him. They were hazel eyes, a mix of colors that made the stable tones of the room or her dress seem dull. “Go on.”

  It wasn’t just a query about why he, a young arrogant lord, had ruined a lady of good family. Emily was asking why he was proposing marriage to her rather than rectifying the situation with Lydia. It all began with arrogance and ignorance.

  “How do we learn about what happens between a man and a woman? Do our parents tell us? Not
mine. My father died when I was fifteen. But he barely acknowledged me after establishing my gender at birth, so it wasn’t a loss.”

  “Your mother?” Emily had her hands clasped and looked understandably unimpressed.

  “Hardly better, but she waited to see me be a rakehell before she died about seven years ago. It's not taught in school.” He continued despite her skeptical expression. “We might have compulsory education to eleven now, but it doesn't encompass anything about how marital relations ought to be. If you're not the sort to pick up pamphlets with well-meant religious nonsense in them, how does a man learn anything about the act? From other men.”

  “That is not an excuse.” She enunciated every word like he was hard of hearing.

  “It's a reality. I did not marry her because I thought it was her fault. It was a bit of flirtation, a bit of fun and fumble.” It had only been once, but that was enough. “I passed on to her what I’d heard about preventing a child. It was only years later I learned that pennyroyal or other abortion concoctions one sees advertised as providing ‘regulation for menses’ weren’t the simple solution I’d been told.”

  “It depends what you mean by a solution.” Emily brows were low with concentrated thought.

  “As you say.” This was one of many topics he read about because of Fanny. Understanding a little girl meant understanding her mother. His eyes had opened to dangerous remedies and injustices. He’d realized he was uniquely able to help by spying on fellow rakes. “Pennyroyal tea doesn’t work. Those snake-oils don’t always work, though I suppose killing the mother does end the pregnancy. I doubt that’s what most women intend.”

  “And.” Emily made a beckoning gesture.

  “When she wrote to me saying she was pregnant, I thought she'd plotted to catch me in marriage. By not seeing her, I thought I was cleverly avoiding her trap.”