Falling for a Rake

by Pendle, Eve

  She was a new wife having her husband’s so-called mistresses sniggered over in the most influential forum in the land. But her gaze said that she believed in him. This morning she’d told him her secrets. Earlier she’d come with him to visit his bastard child. And now she was in the House of Lords watching over him. They’d written his speech for tonight together.

  The distance between sitting and standing was an ocean of thick oil. It took all his effort to push to his feet and turn to the speaker of the house. “If I might have the opportunity to respond?”

  The speaker gave him a nod.

  On the return trip from Elmswell, while they’d sat companionably in the railway carriage, Emily and he had crafted a speech for him to make. It was a clever set of words, full of double-entendre, but subtly focusing on women as sisters, mothers, and daughters. Emily had tantamount to ordered him to tell the story of Fanny’s mother. He would, as if by accident, talk about the relatives of a woman in a lock hospital. It would make the lords think about how they might feel if one of these women were their own daughter. It was a sneaky, underhand speech that combined his usual glib attitude with Emily’s skill for civil insults.

  He couldn’t use it.

  “My Lords.” He took a deep breath. There was no returning from this. “My Lord is wrong about my having a mistress in Plymouth. I have a bastard daughter.” Noise erupted around him. His chest pulsed as if he might retch. This was a disastrous idea. He was going to destroy everything. He glanced up at Emily.

  Her mouth was pulled up at the side and her eyes were wide.

  He was fortified. She was watching with horrified fascination and he knew this was right.

  “I truly regret my actions. Nothing can make them right. Or change them. I’ve allowed you all to believe that I’ve done terrible things. All that I am. I’ve done many cruel acts. One thing I am egregiously blameworthy of is misleading many of you as to my true beliefs.” Every word was a scale falling from his body, leaving him lighter. Freer. Better. “I help a young woman in Plymouth whose mother was stolen from her when her mother was admitted to a lock hospital.”

  He watched the shocked faces of the lords as he told the story of Fanny. He told the story as he and Emily had planned it, minus the cutting asides.

  “The aristocracy and monarchy were brought into disrepute during the Regency. Our Queen has worked to rebuild that image,” Oscar finished. “But we do have an opportunity to right a wrong, and prove we are worthy of the term, ‘Noble Lords’. If we repeal The Contagious Diseases Act, we can galvanize Parliament into action and prevent the great injustices to women that are currently done in its name.”

  There was silence. No-one clapped, but then convention said one didn’t in the House of Lords or the House of Parliament. Then there was a single, quiet ‘hear-hear’. Markshall looked towards the sound instinctively. Lord Selby had stood and was nodding and calling, alone. Next to Lord Selby, Lord Lakenham, still seated, was echoing him. Markshall felt his mouth fall open. Above him, in the ladies’ gallery, there were calls of ‘hear-hear’. Then more Lords joined in.

  “Order, order.” The Lord Speaker knocked and called. “Thank you Lord Markshall, for that enlightening speech. We have all, I believe, understood the import of it.” He leveled a gaze left and right, giving a barely perceptible nod to Lord Florint. “If there is no-one else who wishes to comment…” The Lord Speaker looked but there was no indication of anyone wanting to follow Oscar’s confession. “Clear the bar!”

  Around him the rustle of robes indicated his compatriots going to divide into their respective lobbies. There was none of the usual repartee directed at him. Oscar remained seated in paralysis.

  “The Contents to the right by the Throne, the Not-contents to the left by the Bar!” The Lord Speaker’s voice rang out.

  Either one was content with the bill and allowed it to progress or rejected it to be sent back to the lower house. So many times, he’d remained on these benches, not content with himself but unable to say anything.

  The Lords were filing out. He was practiced at knowing how many votes there were likely to be for any cause, then assessing the way the lords went. It was going to be close.

  He looked up. Emily was leaning over the rail, hands gripped. She was watching him with her mouth slightly open, astonishment and expectation in her face. Potential roiled through him. He’d changed his affiliation and told the truth. Holding Emily’s gaze, that truth propelled him to his feet and to the right of the Throne. Into the Content Lobby.

  The long room was paneled with dark-wood-paneled, a wide corridor with short benches at the side and the teller’s desk before the door. The voices and quiet speculation of the lords ahead of him, red-clad, didn’t have the sharp edge of his usual compatriots. The honest earnestness made him itch. He must have made a sound because first one man turned, then another, until they were all stopped, looking at him.

  “Through you go, then, Lord Markshall,” said someone, off to the side.

  He took a step forward and with flicks of their robes, the others made way for him. And as he dared to look up, he had grins, scowls, hard stares, calls of welcome, and a couple of pats on the back.

  “Better late than never,” came from behind him as he went past the teller.

  When he emerged back into the chamber, he blinked in the sudden light from dark. Lifting his eyes upward, he searched from Emily, his fixed star. He found her, seated and calm now, watching.

  The vote proceeded as he returned to his back-bench seat, hostility in the shoulders of every man around him. He held his breath. For this vote, he’d given everything.

  “The Not-Contents have it.”

  As simply as that, the repeal attempt had failed. Combined with the vote against it in the House of Commons, it was dead. He’d thrown away half a decade’s political work from the shadows. He’d failed.

  * * *

  He was a newborn into this world of honesty. His habitual companions curled their lips and turned away from him. The lords who were his closest allies regarded him with confusion and suspicion. Lord Bradley shook his head as he walked past him in the hall. Lord Selby gave him his customary nod. His front as a rake was gone and the low walls of honor were low, leaving him vulnerable.

  Emily appeared at the entrance from the Lady’s gallery. He’d disregarded the clever speech she’d written. He’d told the world she was married to a monster. She could just walk past him and he wouldn’t blame her. He’d assumed her expression earlier had been egging him on, but perhaps that had been wishful thinking on his part.

  Emily rushed straight into him. He caught her in his arms and squeezed her. Her slight body pressed to his felt like a fortress.

  “I’m proud of you.” She whispered, her mouth next to his ear.

  He gripped her hand in his and kept her close, pressing his face into her hair because he didn’t know what to say. The emotion in his heart might explode into a hail storm of hurt and disappointment and love. By any standard, he’d lost tonight. He’d lost influence and they’d lost the vote to repeal. Women, both prostitutes and not, would continue to be accosted quite legally. That was a disaster. But he’d gained Emily’s approval for his confession and that was a delicate flower of hope amongst the rubble he’d created.

  “Lord Markshall.”

  He turned to find Lord Lakenham.

  His expression was thoughtful as he tapped his fingers against the top of his cane. “That was not badly done.” He nodded as though to assure himself the scene had really happened.

  “Thank you.” Markshall could have been a child standing in front of his father, or God, for all Lord Lakenham’s mild affirmation felt like.

  Lady Lakenham came around them to stand next to her husband, and Markshall saw their gazes meet. “You might see Lord Markshall at your club, don’t you think?”

  That was decidedly not a dinner invitation. He’d never thought reconciliation would be possible and couldn’t even hope for it now. But t
o be acknowledged by the Lakenhams would be some small contact with Annie. It would be forgiveness, of sorts.

  “I’m sorry to say, I don’t believe we’re members of the same club,” Oscar replied. “Being of the other side.” Each political party had clubs favored by their members, and Lord Markshall was a member of a Tory-leaning club. It had suited his purposes, but they would never meet there. Lord Lakenham’s club was through-and-through radical.

  “Naturally.” Lord Lakenham nodded and gave a little smile. “But I’m certain you could afford another membership, were you to want to. I would be happy to be a sponsor if you find yourself wanting a change of scene.”

  He’d have been less surprised if Lakenham had hit him. “There does seem to be a theme of change at the moment.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Lakenham’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

  “Lady Markshall. A pleasure to see you again.” Lady Lakenham gave them a tight smile and put her hand on her husband’s sleeve. “Darling, we need to get on. Lady Selby is expecting us for dinner.”

  They turned to go.

  No forgiveness there then, as if he deserved any.

  “Oh.” Lady Lakenham glanced over her shoulder. “Your at-home day is Tuesday?”

  Emily’s eyebrows flicked up in surprise. “Yes.”

  Lady Lakenham nodded and they continued away.

  He looked across at Emily.

  Emily was next to him and they were together. A mix of good and bad, if she would ever admit it. She was everything to him and he’d done what she asked. There was no more hiding for either of them now. He just had to convince Emily to let him in.

  * * *

  He pulled her onto his lap as soon as they were in the carriage on the way back to the townhouse from the Palace of Westminster. Conflicting sensations coursed through her. The comfort of him, the excitement, her pride in his public revelation of his covert goodness and the crush of disappointment that they’d failed to overturn the Contagious Diseases Act.

  “Emily,” he whispered, a smile in his voice. His hand came up and cupped her cheek. After everything that had happened, from the terrible dream, to confessing her sins, to visiting Oscar’s bastard daughter, she couldn’t help it. She was weak. She leaned into his caress.

  His fingers curled and tugged her head towards her. There was a moment where her mouth was next to his, their breathing synchronous, before his lips touched hers. Softly at first, moving as a question.

  Yes. The answer was yes because he made her crazy. He made her wicked and unable to control herself. She opened her mouth to him and he took the invitation, tangling his tongue with hers. One of his hands held her jaw, gently, like he was holding something delicate and precious. His other hand had banded around her waist, holding her close so their chests were pressed together.

  Their kiss turned ferocious, filled with all the triumph, remorse, and disappointment of their day.

  “Will you come to bed with me tonight?” he said, just audible above the rumbling noise of the carriage. “When we arrive home, not sneaking in under cover of darkness.”

  Fiery panic surged through her. She wasn’t ready. Too much had happened, everything was too raw. Her confession, his reveal. Emily pulled away. “I can’t.” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. It was because she wanted to so badly.

  “I need you.” There was entreaty in his voice.

  “It’s late. Connie’s debut is tomorrow.” She refused to turn to see his face. He would pull her in, make her think they were the same and could be happy, imperfectly, together. “We should get some rest.”

  “Come with me.” A command this time.

  “I’m sorry.” She swallowed painfully. To come to his bed, willingly, would admit that she was in love with a rake. However reformed a rake, a Perfect Lady didn’t do such things. He’d accepted what she’d done without question, but she couldn’t accept herself or him, or the implication that they were the same.

  He exhaled hard. “And yet you’ll come to me in the middle of the night.” The words had serrated edges, cutting into the dense quiet around them. “You changed things, Emily. You told me to be better, to admit who I was. And I have. In front of the House of Lords, no less. I’ve visited my sordid past and you supported me in it.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t understand what he’d asked. It was as if he’d had a completely different day to her. Somehow, he’d come to the conclusion that after all their base impulses had caused chaos, they should indulge them further. She’d told him she’d shot James in a fit of rage. He’d taken her to visit his ill bastard daughter, the result of his callous lust when he was younger. The Repeal had failed because men believed they ought to have clean sin provided. How could he have seen all these things and decided what was needed was indulgence of their carnal comforts?

  “Face who you are, don’t pretend it’s a dream. Or a nightmare.”

  She stiffened and moved across the shadowy carriage. “What do you mean by that?” They’d talked like this before, in the dark. Premonition, or maybe memory, chilled her, creeping up from her toes and fingers into her torso.

  He shrugged. “Just that you’re hiding.”

  “I don’t understand you.” Hiding was the right thing for a lady to do.

  He picked up his cane and twisted it in his hand. “You obsess over your safe ferns and polite manners. You don’t come to my bed in the normal way because you think I’ll taint you.”

  That wasn’t it. She understood now that he wouldn’t hurt her. He would bring out the worst in her. The cold seeped into her core.

  “You think it will change what happened, what you did. It won’t.” He couldn’t speak so easily of a taboo, and yet he continued. “He’s dead.”

  The air went from her chest like she’d taken a fall from a horse. She turned away, pretending a momentary fascination with the closed curtains of the window. “My ferns are nothing to do with James,” she lied.

  “You used to hunt, why don’t you now?” He’d leaned forwards, she could hear his voice closer. “You’re married. Anything we do is within that promise – ‘till death do us part. Get out on a damn horse and join a fox chase. When you ride in Hyde Park, you’re a shadow of the horsewoman I see in you. And if you’re such a good shot, why the hell don’t you go to my estate and shoot things?”

  The thought of galloping with the hunt was a hot spark. The idea of a gun in her hands burned through her. He wanted her to do things that had destroyed her life and many others. He was mad. “Because that’s not who I am anymore. I like my ferns. I’ve changed.”

  She could hear his skepticism in the silence.

  “You do like your ferns. But that’s not you.” He reached out and with the tip of his finger drew her chin up so she looked straight into his eyes, midnight blue in the dark of the rattling carriage. “I see you. I see a woman of passion, who shot her fiancé rather than stand by while he betrayed her.”

  He saw everything bad in her and brought out all the rest. Her heart galloped in her chest at the tiny, gentle but firm gesture of his touch. “That’s in the past.”

  “It’s not. Regardless of your effort to be the Perfect Lady, who you really are seeps around the edges.”

  “I like my ferns.” She turned away. “I’m the daughter of a duke.” She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she might admit he could be right. “And now you’ve reformed, I wish you would try harder to live up to the appropriate standard.”

  “I’m a barely reformed rake,” he growled. “I’m trying to be decent and good, for you. I’m not hiding anymore. I faced what I did in my youth. I stood before the world and declared my previous self a cheat and a fraud. Whereas you’re still behind this perfect, insubstantial façade.”

  “It’s not insubstantial.” She’d built it solid stone by stone, each one denial and control. “And being perfect is an honorable imperative.”

  The carriage stopped. Emily didn’t wait for the footman. She gra
sped the handle, pushed open the door and leaped to the ground, uncaring for the optics of her actions for any viewer. Not that there would be any more than the servants at this late hour. She strode into the house and was almost to the staircase when Oscar’s voice stopped her.

  “Then you’ve failed.” His steps were quick and hard on the marble floor. “If being perfect is all that matters, you’ve failed. But you’re wrong.” He came up behind her. “Everyone fails at perfection eventually.”

  “I won’t.” Close, so close, and she wanted to turn and dig her hands into him. She ought to run away. Blond, blue-eyed, his jaw square in an unfashionable way picked out in the gaslight, he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. He looked as though he could pick her up with one hand and bend her to his will.

  “Emily, you already have.”

  There was a way to be perfect. There had to be. She couldn’t listen to this. Stumbling forward, she headed for the staircase. “Why are you saying this?” she muttered, almost to herself.

  “Because I love you.”

  She stopped. The word ‘love’ held them both still, in its thrall, for a long moment. It penetrated into her and warmed her, spreading through her body and threatening to make her weak. She’d given up on being loved. The possibility of it, with the tender fierceness in his voice, made her want him by her side, in her bed, and in her person so they were never divided. It made her want to throw herself into his arms and promise to be with him forever, for when either of them was good or bad. Better or worse.

  Knowledge came through, just in time. It was a savage sort of love, ugly, that wanted her to be less than perfect. He didn’t love her. He wanted her to be like him.

  A whisper suggested that his was an accepting, freeing love. But she pushed it out.

  Emily walked away. No-one could love her after what she’d done. He’d been so convincing as the devil-may-care lord when they’d met. He’d told falsehood after falsehood in aid of The Contagious Diseases Repeal Bill.