by Pendle, Eve
He shoved his bowler hat onto his head and snatched up his cane.
“Jones!” he called, “send the footmen out to find me if Lady Markshall returns home.” He couldn’t sit inside, twitchy with anxiety. Without waiting for a reply, he took the stairs two at a time down to the hallway and grabbed up his walking stick. When the front door opened he thought the footman was being efficient.
Emily strode into the hall, bringing with her the scent of fresh air.
He stopped.
She tossed her hat onto the sideboard with a thud and frowned at him. “Where are you going?”
“Where have you been?” He half growled, half roared the question, even as he couldn’t take his eyes from her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her hair glinted in shades of gold and chestnut in the sunlight and her lips were the color of decadent red wine. Effortless authority emanated from her like a perfume.
“I visited Connie and disowned her because she’s Lady X–. Then I went to the park and galloped until my mare was winded.” Finger by finger she tugged her gloves off with staccato movements.
Oscar gaped. Off to the side, the footman who’d opened the door slunk away. Now she said she’d been riding he noticed there were splashes of mud near the hem of her dress. Her hair was falling from its style at the edges. She’d really been galloping.
“You can’t go out.” She took the walking stick from his hand and let it fall with a clatter to the floor. “Because we’re going to bed.” She turned a smile on him like the summer sun coming out from behind a cloud.
He blinked in confusion. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Better than two in the morning, no?” She turned on her heel and went to the stairs, skirts swaying. “I’ll have plenty of light to see you.”
He had no choice but to follow. He would follow wherever she led, for the rest of his life.
Upstairs, he closed her bedroom door firmly behind them. He’d not been into her rooms since their marriage. She’d come to his rooms in the dark, never inviting him into her space.
“You said I should admit who I am.” She said from the middle of the room, leveling a stare at him. “Well. You were right. I’m quite wicked. I’m not a Perfect Lady and although I do like ferns, I like other things as well.”
She approached Oscar slowly, examining him as she did.
Oscar smiled as he understood. She was owning herself and her actions. He’d asked her embrace who she was, and this was it. Even this Medusa version of his wife was much too good for him, but he no longer cared.
When they were almost chest to chest, she ran a finger down his lapel while she licked her lips with unambiguously sexual intent. “I said I didn’t want you, and that was a lie.”
“So, what are you going to do?” He breathed the question like a prayer. Being a tigress suited her.
“Take off my clothes.” Her eyes sparkled as she brought her hands to the buttons down the front of her bodice. “And tell you I love you.”
Markshall’s smile spread into a grin of pure delight. From her, who knew regret and guilt and accepted him and herself despite it all, he could accept and give love. “I don’t deserve anything as good as you. I love you. I’ll do anything for you. You just have to order it.”
“Take off your clothes.” She was watching him as greedily as he was her.
“As you wish.” He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the ground then reached for his tie.
“Then make love to me.” Her voice was serious, maybe even threatening, but there was a little catch at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t recommend you spurn me. I’ve some form on taking my dues.”
* * *
Afterward, he gathered her up into his arms, so she lay half across his chest. He was warm, and Emily was drowsy with satiety and contentment.
“Do you care about me?” It was a silly question really, but it popped out of her mouth without any censorship. She wasn’t going to guard every word anymore.
“No.” He breathed the denial into her ear. He laughed softly and ran his hand over her bottom, lingering at the crease. “I love you.”
“I’m glad.” She hadn’t realized she’d tensed, but she eased her limbs back into repose. “Because if you tried to leave, I’d shoot you.”
He huffed with laughter. “I’d deserve it. Now, would you like to see your wedding present?”
“You bought a wedding present? But I have a present. You.” She gave a saucy look down to his waist.
As she’d expected, his response was an approving groan. “Tempting though it is to continue to show you all the functions of that present, there are enormous boxes clogging up the drawing room.”
He rolled them out of bed and Emily was upright, giggling helplessly before she knew what was happening. This was what she’d thought married life would be. Joy. Companionship. She hadn’t realized going to bed in the middle of the day and threats of bodily harm would be part of it, but life was unexpected.
She insisted Oscar help her dress to the extent that she wouldn’t scandalize the servants; old habits don’t die. He threw on his usual lounge suit, now even more rumpled than it had been.
Oscar’s smile was crooked, almost sly as he waved her into the drawing room. On the floor, as he’d said, were stacks of simple wooden boxes, marked Edward Barnard and Sons.
“Is it an enormous gold font?” she asked.
“It comes in several boxes for you to put it together yourself. I’m rich, but this wasn’t quite as costly as the Queen’s Lily font.” He nodded, urging her forward.
She knelt, undid the clasp on the nearest box and lifted the lid. Nestled in wood shavings there was a glint of silver. It took both hands to remove the first item. A silver coffeepot covered with an engraved pattern of… what else? Ferns. Then a sugar bowl with tongs, cream jug, teapot, and a tray. All with a matching fern pattern. The beauty of it expanded in her heart and spread through her.
“Do you like it?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I thought you could use them. You could use the set when you host events for fern collecting. Or meetings to arrange new pamphlets. As a political wife involved in Whig negotiations, if you so choose. Or it could be just for family dinners if that’s what you’d prefer.”
She fingered the sugar bowl. He’d said she didn’t really like ferns but bought her an excess of fern-related items. These were just the sort of thing she’d have wanted, but never justified the exorbitant cost for solid sterling silver items from a premier silversmith.
“I want you to do whatever you wish. You can behave however you feel appropriate. I’m sorry I pushed you to be bad. You can be anything.”
It wasn’t a lot of silver receptacles. It was acceptance. They were freedom. He’d given her all the things she’d need, and the permission, to be herself, whatever that meant. And he’d chosen the most expensive way to say so.
“I want you to trust me,” he added into the silence.
“I do trust you.” She rose. “Thank you.” She trusted him and herself not to be perfect but to be good. She trusted herself to lose her temper proportionally and not hurt anyone. He was saying that she could continue to be the Perfect Lady if she wanted to. And she knew now that she didn’t need to.
“There’s still more,” he said as she approached him. “That contains a tureen and a wine ewer,” he was pointing at one of the other boxes, “and that one has a fruit platter and three candelabras.”
She grasped his hand and watched his dark blue eyes as she brought his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss into his palm. “Is there a cherry picker?”
“Always.” He pulled her into his arms and she caught a glimpse of his demonic cherub grin. “Any hole you choose, I will be there with you.”
Epilogue
20 August 1886, Devon
It was just like Honiton lace, as she’d imagined. In the little dip between trees was nestled a pretty, fronded fern. Emily nudged aside a branch and pointed. “Look,
Charlotte.”
“Ooo.” Her daughter peered over her shoulder at the fern. “Is that the affy fern?”
“Yes, I think it is.” After all this time. Dryopteris affinis.
“William, please stop that.” Oscar’s voice came from behind them. “Or I will tickle you.”
There was a beat.
“I warned you.” A screech of laughter from her young son followed that pronouncement.
“Can we have it, Mama?” Charlotte looked up at her, golden curls framing her face and eyes bright.
“We’ll take only one of the plants, leaving the rest to grow strong here.”
With careful digging, they extracted the smallest of the ferns and placed it in the basket, already prepared with soil and moss for this purpose. Emily carried the precious fern back to Oscar, who was chasing William with comically exaggerated paces at a very slow pace to account for his six-year-old speed.
He grinned when he caught her eye and a burst of happiness went through her. “Look.” She held out the basket.
Oscar gave up the chase and came over, kissing her lingeringly before he leaned over and glanced into the basket. “It’s very nice.” Then he looked again. “That’s affy fern.” His voice held a wonder. His blue gaze met hers, so pale and clear she fell into his eyes anew each time they made love.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“After a decade. You finally have your fern.” He squeezed her hand. He knew how much it meant to her.
But then, it wasn’t as if she’d searched for it hard since they’d met. Other things had been more important. The Lady Hunters had become more of a social debating society with annual fern walks than a pteridology society. They’d had daily horse rides together, reckless chases years ago and more recently as a family with Charlotte on her own pony and William riding with Oscar. And of course, bringing up their children was now their main occupation.
“After a decade, The Contagious Diseases Act has been repealed.” Finally. They’d almost given up hope of sense prevailing. “It’s the year for it.”
“If you’d told me we’d have a ten-year-old child by the time either of us had achieved our goal...” He shook his head.
“We wouldn’t have done anything differently.” She wouldn’t have her life, with Oscar and the children, any other way.
“Probably.” He huffed with amused agreement. “Don’t worry, there’s more to do.”
“Daddy, daddy!” Charlotte emerged from where she’d been examining the remaining ferns. “We found the affy fern!” She ran and threw herself into Oscar’s arms in a flurry of skirts.
“Really?!” He caught her and spun her around until she squealed with delight.
“Can we go for afternoon tea now?” William asked, coming up to Emily and poking impatiently at her basket.
“Of course. It’s time.” She nodded to Oscar and they turned and walked back towards the waiting carriage.
“Charlotte, I don’t think I’ve ever told you that you were born–” Oscar began.
“Exactly a year after your mother and I met and fell in love,” Charlotte chimed in a bored sing-song voice.
Oscar laughed delightedly.
“Well, we fell, at least,” Emily said. “But I remember it happening differently to that.”
He winked at her broadly. “Never let the truth get in the way of a good romance.”
Author’s Note on Historical Accuracy
Being a novel, I have taken some historical liberties with parts of the story. But they might not be exactly the ones that you think.
I first discovered The Contagious Diseases Act during the research for my first book, Six Weeks with a Lord. That book is set during the 1865 rinderpest outbreak (a cattle disease). When I stumbled upon this article by History of Women about ‘The Contagious Diseases Act’, I realized there was another fascinating, if horrifying, story.
The Contagious Diseases Act was real, as was its manner of introduction. The awful details about lock hospitals are true, too. The fight against it was real (including the ridiculousness of a campaign against it that excluded women). It was repeatedly extended and justified as being in the public interest. And it really did take until 1886 for this appalling practice to be stopped. There was a Repeal bill in 1875 and it failed.
That’s where the fiction starts. It’s unclear exactly what happened to the bill in 1875, but I can say for sure it didn’t play out as depicted here. I don’t know whether the bill was debated by the House of Lords and it’s quite possible it wasn’t. I hope you can forgive this.
Pteridomania is also completely true. Ferns were a craze in the Victorian era, especially among young women. It gave women a reason to go out in the fresh air and often fern gathering trips would have men and women together. People (alright, men) speculated about the social harm obsession with ferns could do.
Thanks
Thank you for reading Falling for a Rake, I hope you enjoyed it.
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Also by Eve Pendle
Six Weeks with a Lord
Grace Alnott’s dowry comes with a condition: she must marry a lord. Desperate for money to rescue her little brother from his abusive but aristocratic guardian, she offers half her dowry in return for a marriage of convenience.
Everett, Lord Westbury, needs money for his brother’s debtors just as cattle plague threatens to destroy his estate. Grace’s bargain is a perfect solution, until he is committed and realizes gossip exaggerated her wealth. So he makes his own terms. She must live with him for six weeks, long enough to seduce her into staying and surrendering her half of the dowry. But their deal means he can’t claim any husbandly rights. He must tempt her into seducing him.
Their marriage is peppered with prejudices, attraction, and secrets that will change everything.
A Pineapple in a Pine Tree
Five years after breaking Amelia Chilson’s heart, he’s back. Robert Danbury wants the mistletoe kiss Amelia denied him years ago, but nothing more; loving a woman again is an unthinkable risk.
When they’re caught innocently in bed together and Robert has an instant to choose: Amelia’s reputation, their lost love, or his conscience.
Turn the page for an excerpt of A Pineapple in a Pine Tree.
More by Eve Pendle
Excerpt: A Pineapple in a Pine Tree
Chapter One
24th December 1817
Amelia Chilson was bored of red roses. She rethreaded her needle yet again with red silk and began stitching the edge of a petal. The sounds of her parents’ friends laughing came from next door into the library where Amelia had slipped away to work. No-one would miss her and if this embroidery wasn’t finished by after Christmas her little enterprise would be ruined by disappointing her socialite client.
The door swung open and Amelia looked up to see her mother.
“You ought to be playing parlor games.” Her mother seemed to float rather than walk, elegant as ever. “I need to talk to you.”
Amelia put the embroidery away into her trunk as her mother approached.
“I have some news, and I hope you won’t be upset with me.” Her mother pulled up a chair and sat opposite her.
“How could I be?” Concern trickled down Amelia’s back even as she pasted a cheerful smile on her face. These Christmas parties were important to her parents and, even if she had to hide away in the library for a couple of hours to ensure that her wealthy patroness had a romantic embroidered cushion as a Burns Night present for her fiancé, she wanted her mother to be happy.
/> “We haven’t talked about seating arrangements for dinner tonight.”
“I don’t mind you seating me next to Mr. Harris.” That wasn’t strictly true, but she could put tolerate his poor jokes and boasts about his aristocratic connections.
“That’s…” Her mother looked away, out of the window where the snow was falling gently on the ground as the light faded. “Well, the thing is, the way the table plan is, I have to put you next to Robert.” Her mother tapped her lips and swallowed. “He’s coming for Christmas.”
“Robert?” That name. It still made her heart pound even after, how long? Five years? “Robert who?” Her mother couldn’t possibly mean... Robert. The last time Amelia had spoken to him, she’d hissed that she never wanted to see him again.
“Robert Danbury.” Her mother’s mouth twisted with guilt.
“No.” She could not see Robert Danbury. “You told me the Danburys were coming. You didn’t mention their son.” Robert Danbury, the only man she’d loved and thought she’d marry. She’d have stayed in London, filial duty be damned, if she’d known he’d be here.
“Please understand, darling,” her mother pleaded. “The Danburys have been very worried about him. He’s been practically a recluse since his wife died.”
Her heart twinged for him, but she rejected the sensation. After all, he wouldn’t feel anything for her.
“They wrote and asked if he could come for Christmas with his daughter.”
“Mother…” Her hope of marriage had disintegrated like a thread burning to ash when she’d watched Robert announce his engagement to Miss Isabella Garway, a prettier, more vivacious lady than her.
