Falling for a Rake

by Pendle, Eve

  In a way, it was she who’d sidestepped trouble. At the time he’d had other mistresses and wouldn’t have given them up. The child would have become another resentment between them. Rather like Oscar had been for his parents.

  “Now she’s settled with a clear story and a generous monthly income, it would be misguided to propose marriage to her.” It was ironic that the culmination of his selfishness had been a better ending than if he’d done the right thing.

  He’d thought about this for many nights, examining ideas from all angles as he tossed and turned in bed. On the one hand, he ought to raise his daughter. On the other, she was better off with her mother as a legitimate daughter of a respectable widow than the acknowledged bastard of a degenerate earl. He ought to go and propose marriage to Lydia, but such a marriage would make them both unhappy.

  In the end, he’d contacted Lydia’s sister, Lady Lakenham, and ensured regular payments. The Children’s Society in Elmswell was an additional check so he would always know if Annie or any child near her needed anything. Annie had made it through the riskiest years, but the threat of consumption and other illnesses was always present.

  “I don’t think Lydia would welcome me if I came courting now,” he added.

  “No.” Emily turned and walked away, circling the room, brow creased in thought. “But what if we just courted?”

  He stared at her uncomprehendingly for a second, not understanding her leap of reason.

  “The two of us. We don’t actually have to marry.”

  Not marry? The feeling of guilty comfort was replaced by a sensation like the ground had fallen away. “You mean, a false engagement?”

  “Temporary.” An infinitesimal shake of her head corrected him. “Not false.”

  “False in the sense that we don’t intend to marry.” His mind was shuffling through the implications. He would get to spend time with her. She would eventually be free to marry someone suitable, whilst saving her reputation. It was an excellent idea, so why did he want to hit something?

  “Well.” She waved her hand as she turned away. “If one must be pedantic about it, yes.” Moving to the sofa, she sat and indicated to him to sit next to her. “What do you think?”

  “To me, it’s an admirable idea.” He had been reconciled for years to his isolation. For lovely, companionable minutes he had illicitly thought she would be with him for the rest of their lives. “I have no want of a wife.” As soon as the fuss about this incident was elapsed, she would forget and go on in innocence. He wouldn’t impose on her with his longing or his lust. He would salvage what he could from this little time they had and keep it close, a precious thing to take out and look at when the knowledge of who he was and what he’d done was unbearable.

  “I’m glad that’s settled.” Emily folded her hands primly in her lap. They were elegant, long-fingered and her nails were neat and rounded. “We should–”

  “But you said you’ve already lost one fiancé?” No gossip, her father had said. “Will you be judged harshly? To lose one fiancé is unfortunate. To lose two might be considered careless.”

  She stiffened. “I think we can be more discreet than that.” Her voice was acerbic. “Besides, I don’t intend to marry.”

  “Very well.” He didn’t want to examine how much the pressure on his chest eased that she didn’t intend to be another man's wife.

  “We’re agreed?” Emily leaned forward a little.

  “We’ll have to settle on a story of how we became engaged.”

  “Oh. Yes.” She tilted her chin up and Markshall couldn’t imagine a sweeter scene. “Do you think ours was a whirlwind romance?”

  “Love at first sight.” She was easily beautiful enough for a man to fall in love with instantly. An unprepossessing loveliness in the glints of blond and brown in her hair and the sweet plumpness of her mouth.

  The look that she shot him was suspicious, and he could see her remembering what he’d misguidedly told her last night. “When did you propose?”

  “After the Waddington’s ball.” As soon as possible. “I was entranced by you.”

  “And I said yes?” Her eyebrows shot up, even as she leaned in slightly.

  “Yes. You took a chance.” He moved closer. Their mouths only inches apart. The air between them was hot with their breath.

  “I took a chance,” she repeated. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

  “You recognized a fellow tortured soul.”

  She flinched away.

  Damn. He didn’t know why he’d said that. It had momentarily seemed correct, but of course, it wasn’t. She was untarnished. And he was, well. He was a rakehell.

  There was a noise in the hallway, and Emily looked up. “Papa?”

  Markshall sat back. “Now we have our story, we ought to go and meet the journalist.” It was a good thing this was a temporary engagement and there would be some acting required for their story. It wouldn’t do for him to get too used to spending time with her. If he couldn’t keep away, Lady Emily would just be another broken thing he eventually left behind.

  The Duke stormed into the parlor. “The evening newspaper has been delivered. I suggest you read it before you talk to any more journalists.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Falls, Frolics, and Fernication,” Emily read aloud from the front page of the newspaper. She kept her voice calm, as befitted a lady. “The readers of this newspaper will be familiar with the risks that those who gather ferns on our beautiful cliffs undertake. None more so than Lady E- and Lord M-, who fell down an old disused mine shaft along the cliffs. Trapped in a dark hole, they didn’t mention how they passed the night when this journalist enquired. They emerged, disheveled but unharmed. We do not speculate about why they weren’t looking where they were going when searching for ferns.”

  She put no intonation onto the words, as though she had no idea what the innuendo was. If she had, she might’ve been sick. Years of being dignified every minute of the day, denying herself the pleasure of going for a good gallop, then an innocent fern hunting trip was turned into a lascivious tale worthy of Fanny Hill.

  “We do not speculate about what sort of fronds might have been found. Though we do note that such fern gathering does occasionally involve some frolics that do not become esteemed personages, like the daughter of a duke.” What had happened was bad enough, but this made it sound positively sordid.

  “I’ll sue them for libel.” Her father clenched his fists.

  “No.” Markshall brows were low with annoyance. “That would only draw out the scandal. This will be chip-paper tomorrow.”

  There was no case for libel. What did they directly say that wasn’t in some way true?

  “Fernication, though?” her father griped. “Journalists have no idea how to write properly these days.”

  “The article continues.” Emily waited for Markshall and her father to look back at her before she read on in a monotone. “This frolic has a fortuitous ending, with the affianced couple being rescued in the morning with a cherry picker. Though we hope that no forbidden fruit were picked in this fern hunting expedition.” All the hairs on her arms seemed to stand up. Did they really mention fernication, forbidden fruit, the most notorious rake in London, and her, in the same article?

  “Well, on that I can concur.” Her father glared at Markshall.

  “It’s spring. There’s no fruit yet. The flowers are just being pollinated,” Markshall replied, with all the appearance of naivety. “There are no cherries being picked now. Certainly not by me.”

  Her father’s expression further darkened. Pollinated flowers... How ferns reproduced, via their spores, was not terribly well known. Flowers though, with their phallic stamens, were an obvious allusion.

  “The Ladies’ Association of Fern Enthusiasts and Hunters,” Emily hurried on because surely nothing in this article could be as bad as fisticuffs between her father and Lord Markshall. She needed the worst to be revealed and then they would fac
e it. “Colloquially known as the Lady Hunters, established in 1871…” She scanned down the column. “The rest is quite innocuous.” Except that it was putting scandalous nonsense right beside details about women’s fern hunting. “Or at least, usual. The dangers of pteridomania, how women shouldn’t over-exert themselves, how the actual collection is beneath ladies of quality and they should restrict themselves to embroidering fern patterned fancy-work.”

  She put the newspaper down. That horrible journalist. Her stomach descended further. This would set back her ambitions to extend the Lady Hunters group by months, or maybe years.

  “You are going to allow this to stand?” Her father rounded on Markshall. “What about reputation?”

  “My reputation is being upheld.” Markshall shrugged. “I’m a rake, I’ve acted like a rake. And Lady Emily’s reputation is safe. They mention our engagement.”

  “Our false engagement,” Emily corrected him.

  Neither of them should forget that. This was the best way to prevent Connie’s debut, in just a few weeks, being jeopardized. She’d wrecked her own chances of marrying and having a family, but she would protect her sister’s happiness. Even if Connie sometimes seemed to resent Emily more than a sister ought, given the concern Emily lavished on her.

  “Your what?” Her father snapped around to glare at Emily.

  Markshall gave her a look that said, ‘This was your idea, you explain it’.

  “You know that since...” Breathe. She could do this. “Since James, I have had no desire to marry.” She’d said it. “I suggested that we keep up a facade of an engagement for a few weeks.”

  She didn’t deserve to marry, and she wouldn’t rely on any man’s faithfulness. Especially not Markshall’s, given how he’d ruined that poor girl and broken hearts.

  “It will take more than a few weeks,” interrupted Markshall.

  Her father’s brow wrinkled in concern as he regarded her. “Is this what you want?”

  “I don’t have many appealing options. Who will receive me, or more importantly, Connie, after this article gets out? We’d be shunned.”

  “Was this your idea or his?” Her father turned to look suspiciously at Markshall, no doubt wondering how exactly this had happened. It looked an awful lot like an irresponsible man trying to wriggle out of his blunder.

  Markshall looked at her with hooded, satirical eyes.

  “It was my idea, Papa. I don’t think Lord Markshall and I would suit.” The most notorious rake in the country and the perfect lady. They were obviously not a match.

  There was a flicker of something in Markshall’s eyes. For a second a lump formed in her stomach. But her phrasing was suitably euphemistic. She didn’t want to reveal his shame, but she couldn’t forgive any man who abandoned a woman. Marriage was out of the question. There were no circumstances under which she would ever love such a man.

  “I’ve done my duty. I’ve offered for Lady Emily. We are to be engaged until she breaks it off in some fit of pique in a month or so. Are we quite done here?” Markshall examined his cuffs. “I’d like to get back, as I’m expecting a telegram.”

  “Well.” Her father nodded with thoughtful resignation. “If we are to maintain this charade, you ought to come for a family dinner tonight.”

  * * *

  Back at his house, Jones wordlessly handed him two notes.

  Dear Lord Markshall,

  Excellent point, thank you for bringing it to my attention. Your support would be valuable if you could come to London.

  Lord Selby.

  Lord Selby was clearly desperate for back up to ensure that this quite radical House of Commons bill, proposed by the Tories no less, also went through the more conservative and privileged House of Lords. Of course, it was ironic to call the members of Parliament radical or liberal. This wasn’t a workers' union. But compared to the hereditary peers... It was all relative.

  Markshall flicked Lord Selby’s note into the fire and read the second. As usual, it was a copy of what Jones had sent on his behalf.

  Dear Lord Selby.

  I believe little girls are similarly flammable and equally good sweeps as boys.

  Yours, etc. Lord Markshall.

  Oscar smiled. “I think sometimes you are as good at being me as I am, Jones.” He threw this telegram the same way as the last.

  “Better, as I am available to send and receive telegrams at all times of the day and night, my lord.”

  “Maybe you can attend to this evening’s duty for me, too. I must attempt to charm my wife-to-be’s family over dinner.” That or disgust Emily even more thoroughly so she would curtail their engagement before it hurt him as much as he deserved.

  A false engagement. Why had he agreed to such a thing? Apart from because it was the only right and sensible course of action, as Lady Emily had said. Why did he feel so wretched about it then?

  “You’re not leaving for London tonight, my lord?”

  Jones had understood the same from Lord Selby as he had. “Tomorrow morning. You had better unpack my formal frock coat.”

  “May I ask, my lord, what happened?” Jones nodded, not even pretending that he hadn’t already packed in anticipation of Oscar wanting to leave immediately. “You’re usually very particular about not getting into compromising situations with young ladies.”

  “I thought you weren't going to ask,” Oscar grumbled.

  Jones knew about Oscar’s past, but hadn’t seen it. He knew Oscar as a man who lulled Tory lords into a sense of complacency while he worked towards liberal principles. A mole, a spy of sorts for real politicians like Lord Selby. He’d only ever seen Oscar play at being a rake.

  Lady Emily had made him lose his head. Following her had been destined for disaster. And he wasn’t sure why he had done it. There were prettier ladies. Younger and sweeter women who would soothe his soul and forgive his sins and he avoided them all. Why become obsessed with a spinster who elegantly put him down?

  “Just put out some clothes, Jones.” He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. He wasn’t sure if he himself understood.

  * * *

  “What brought you to this part of Devon, Lord Markshall?” Emily’s mother asked. The ladies had retired to the drawing room, and Markshall and her father had joined them soon after. Emily was watching each interaction with a calm smile that belied her sore shoulders.

  “I suddenly had the urge for sea air refreshment, your Grace. Like the Queen, I have a house for just that purpose. Though it isn’t as large as Osborne House, my garden ornaments are stone, not concrete.” He smiled charismatically as he showed off his wealth to her mother. “And yourselves?”

  It was odd he’d chosen a house on the far side of Plymouth. Brighton was so much more convenient to London and much more fashionable. This was a long way for fresh air.

  Her mother told how they had agreed to Emily’s request for a new county to find different ferns in. In truth, it was an annual trip away from Cumbria she organized with the Lady Hunters and then persuaded her family to facilitate. Her father was always too kind-hearted to say no.

  Lord Markshall had been deference and charm all evening, listening to her mother talk about her waifs and strays charity back home, nodding as she explained how the girls were trained as domestic servants. His comment about it being very convenient that such charity provided well-trained maids-of-all-work at a very reasonable rate of pay was accepted by the rest of the family without a question. Though it had caught at Emily’s mind as a little ambiguous. It made the enterprise seem a bit more self-interested than she was used to thinking about her mother’s charity.

  But he had attended with seeming interest as Connie told him about the plans for her coming-out ball and her presentation at court.

  “It has to be a spectacular, memorable ball,” Connie was saying. “I want to have a good time. I can’t wait to be out and not have my family monitoring my every move.” She shot Emily a dark look.

  Emily had heard Connie’s
petty grievances too many times to do anything but feign attention while her mind wandered to ferns. She needed a better location for their trip tomorrow. Somewhere with lots of rock outcrops and shady woodland where rare ferns could still be found despite decades of pteridomania.

  “Hugo is reading philosophy at Oxford. He will be down for the holidays after exams in a couple of months.” Her father loved to boast about his only son, two years Emily’s junior.

  She could go further west, towards Cornwall. But then there might be more old tin mines and that was a peril she'd not repeat.

  “Will he be in London for the season, your Grace?” Markshall seamlessly went from placating Connie to enchanting to her father. “Or come down here?”

  “Oh, no, we only have this house for another week. Hugo will join us in London then come back to Cumbria later.” Her father smiled. He loved being back in Cumbria. “And yourself? Are you staying here until summer?”

  Markshall shook his head. “I visit quite regularly, but I’m more drawn to the lights of the city. I am previously engaged to see some friends in town tomorrow evening and must leave in the morning.”

  Leaving? A bolt of alarm went through her.

  “But my lord, I don’t think you have considered that it is necessary for you to attend to your intended at this delicate time.” Her mother was looking at him like he was galloping towards an eight-foot fence.

  He couldn’t leave her to face the gossip and the journalist alone. She might not want to marry him, or indeed to know him, given what he was. But she didn’t want to be asked about their so-called love affair alone. What if she said something he contradicted?

  Markshall nodded deferentially to her mother. “Lady Emily would be welcome to join me in London. Perhaps you might all accompany her.”

  “I’d like nothing more than to accompany you." London? That hotbed of tittle-tattle? Was he insane? "But what effect do you think that might have on the current situation of our notoriety?”