The Rake Enraptured Read online

  The Rake Enraptured

  Amelia Hart

  Kite Publishing

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 1817

  Good Heavens, the man annoyed her.

  He was so leisurely, like a well-fed cat in the sunlight. Pleased with himself, vaguely amused by the company, free from all troubles. Miss Wainwright hung on his words but he ignored the debutante almost completely for the more interesting game of Mrs Langston, recently enough widowed she was still in half-mourning. There was nothing about the sultry woman's behavior to show she was grieving. She gave Mr Colin Holbrook the sauciest sort of smile and laid an idle hand on her decolletage. Only to draw attention to it, of course, the white mounds of her flesh pressing out of the bodice, scarcely cloaked by the gauzy drape across it.

  Mr Holbrook was no callow youth. He never broke eye contact with her to follow that suggestive hand. Only looked straight into Mrs Langston's face with that faint curve of his lips, knowing and heated with his eyes half-lidded.

  Julia hated it. The sheer arrogance of him, certain he could have Mrs Langston if he only crooked his finger. He was right, of course, but the fact he so clearly knew it made him the most repulsive creature. A man should have some sort of humbleness in him, some nobility. Colin Holbrook - graceful and feckless - had not a drop of humility.

  He was impeccably dressed, his coat perhaps a little loose but in keeping with a country house party where all the men invited were keen sportsmen and hunters, impatient with dandyism. His inexpressibles were shockingly tight, so she had far more information about his physique than she thought necessary. He drew the eye, confound it. That was really the worst offense of all.

  Julia looked away, sick of watching him in surreptitious little sneaking glances that caught him charming one woman then the next. He was searching for a bedmate for the night, she was certain, and had not yet made up his mind. The surfeit of widows and married women - cronies of Julia's employer Mrs Trent - made the prospects rich. He was ignoring the innocent debutantes so far but they did not return the favor.

  She would like to draw those young girls aside and say: 'Have some pride,' and 'He will ruin you if you give him a chance,' but no one wanted to hear something like that from the governess. This was no place for dispensing advice, no matter how well-meaning. So she watched, and tried not to. Glared, and tried not to. Chose a seat that did not face him and then did her best not to crane her neck to see him when that deep, husky laugh of his rang out.

  Why did the admiration of many women make a man seem more appealing? It was that that did it, she was certain. With such a delighted flock of admirers, one was compelled to wonder about him. To speculate and want to know him better, if only to see what the fuss was about. The most gross sort of sheeplike behavior, and Julia despised it in herself.

  Perhaps she should just make her excuses to Mrs Trent and go upstairs to her small bedroom. It would still be hot up there under the eaves but she could open the single window, take off her dress and splash her face and chest with water from the jug, then lie down in the darkness and try to sleep. No one would miss her. It was a solid hour since anyone had tried to make conversation with her, and she had done her duty by the pianoforte. Mrs Trent did not like her to sing as well as play. She said Julia had 'a voice that draws so much attention. Quite vulgar, in its way.' Mama had once loved it, and Papa had thought it very pretty, but Mrs Trent hated to see her daughters outshone. A quiet melody played on the piano was quite enough display for Julia Preston, and that only because it was so much more elegant to have someone playing than silence.

  Julia stood and walked to the window, saw the terrace lit up beyond it, and decided to go out through the doors flung wide onto the mellow summer night. As she paused on the doorstep and half-turned to look back into the room her eyes wandered back to Colin Holbrook. He looked up at the same moment. Their gazes met. His glance was idle assessment. He took in her face, her figure in one sweeping assessment and then looked away, dismissing her from his mind. Self-awareness raised heat through her body and as she stepped outside she raised her hands to press moist palms against her hot cheeks. That man. Wretched creature, base and debauched. Why should she feel a pang that he thought so little of her? Why should it matter?

  The moon was a slender sickle overhead and torches burned in sconces against the walls. She crossed the pale slabs of stone that made up the terrace and walked down the steps into darkness, hearing the familiar crunch underfoot as she reached gravel. The scent of the fir trees was sharp and resinous, and she stopped and looked back to see the well-lit windows.

  It was beautiful in there, golden and filled with the bright colors of ornate dresses, a smaller complement of pastel-toned debutantes. Talk and laughter were a hum in the hot air. Julia leaned on the pillar at the base of the shallow stairs. The faint coolness of the stone was welcome, and the solidity of it after the giddy suspension amid the ton.

  She was not quite one of them, yet not so separate that she could be something else. Always betwixt and between. She fingered the cloth of her gown, well-made and appropriately delicate muslin, but aging now, two years behind the fashion. Her alterations could not disguise the basic line of the gown. No, not one of the beautiful people anymore. That was not such a tragedy in itself. But evenings like this were unsettling, and made her long for things that were past.

  When figures came to the doorway to look out, she drew back into the shadows of the trees. They would not see her in the darkness. But they stepped out. Two women, then a third, and then a gentleman. She recognized his silhouette. Mr Colin Holbrook of course, who must think it only his natural due to enjoy a ratio of three to one when he savored the company of women.

  Sour. I am a sour old maid, spying and spiteful. She pressed her lips together.

  One of the women laughed and struck Mr Holbrook with her fan in a teasing gesture, and Julia sighed. They walked up to one end of the terrace, paused then turned and walked back, talking quietly, the women a little awkward as they fluttered around him in a subtle jostling for position, for attention. He was indulgent, charming and self-assured, dispensing his favor with easy benevolence.

  Just pick one, she thought, irritated anew. Pick one and haul her off to a bedroom somewhere. Better that than dragging the process out endlessly. But it seemed he enjoyed his game too much, for he lingered and lured until Julia was in a fever of impatience to have them go away so she could return to the house unobserved. She did not want to walk past them and feel those cool, uncaring eyes of his on her again.

  She had stood for more than ten minutes before he brought the game to a close, directing his covey to the doors and then taking Mrs Langston's hand to draw her back at the last moment. He pressed her hand to his mouth in a fervent touch and said something to her, too low for Julia to hear. She laughed in satisfied delight and put her hand on his chest, her head tilted back on a languid neck, her face raised to him in invitation of a kiss. He did not give it to her, but put his hand possessively to her jaw, and repeated himself. She shrugged and smiled with a smugly curved lip, and Julia thought she toyed with him now, sure of her prey. They were well matched in decadence. Her answer, when it came, held a triumph that edged close to the contempt of the master for the slave.

  He did not like this so much, for she saw his eyelids droop over his eyes and his face change a little, a flicker of disdain. But he played on, his smile returning after a moment, not light-hearted nor so intense as before, but casual. He did not shrug in response but it was there in the way he held himself, the prize not so valuable to him now. Mrs Langston realized her mistake, for she clutched at his hand as he released hers, and challenged him, giving him a look under her eyelashes. He laughed, very soft, and whatever he said to he
r was not quite kind, for as he went inside Mrs Langston stood very still and clenched her fists. Then she hurried after him.

  An assignation? Suggested, deferred, and then the offer withdrawn? Julia lifted her skirt and went back up the stairs. No, it did not matter to her. Let them arrange what they liked. Let him fill his bed all night with every woman in the house, and it made no difference to her. She would go upstairs. No one would miss her. Perhaps if she was cunning about it she could take one of the candles without anyone noticing, and then read in her room for some hours. That would be a luxury indeed. The housekeeper counted the candles every day, and there were none allocated for the servants. A governess might not be a servant, strictly speaking, but when Julia had first thought to make off with one of the smoky tallow candles for her own use she had received such a vicious glare she was in no doubt she had crossed a line.

  She pretended not to notice at the time - one could not let a servant think one was cowed by them, or that was the end to any semblance of superiority - but chose not to repeat the error. It was lonely standing midway between the gentry and the servants, and if she managed the delicate interaction just right the housekeeper thawed and would chat a little, in a confiding sort of way, feeling elevated to talk to such a superior sort as the governess.

  That was the problem with going upstairs: while she was here she could pretend she really belonged in this world, still. Idly rich and pampered, worthy of respect and some intelligent conversation. The children were pleasant enough in their way now she had them straightened out, but one did miss the company of educated adults.

  Yet watching the tawdry assignations that lay underneath it all, the faithlessness and empty sexuality of it, made the facade of little value. She would go upstairs. She did not belong here anymore.

  As she went in she saw sets were forming for a dance. One of the more influential young ladies must have applied to Julia's employer. Dancing had not been part of the plan, but Mrs Trent prized her reputation as a congenial hostess.

  Julia stopped. Dancing. Ah, she loved to dance. Not that she would necessarily be asked, but perhaps. She went to sit down nearby the dancers, placed herself on the edge of her seat with an air of alert good humor, looking around and smiling. Where was Mr Thurgood? He had talked to her for a solid twenty minutes about the model farm he had established on his estate, and she had been so politely attentive. Perhaps he . . . ?

  But no, he was standing with Mr Pettigrew, speaking and waving his hands in animation, oblivious to the rest of the room.

  Mr Bryant was already standing partnered and waiting, and Mr Oliver was nowhere to be seen. Well, that was the sum total of her current acquaintance among the young men. She would wait a few minutes, just in case, but the prospect was unlikely.

  "Miss Preston," came a commanding feminine voice from her elbow, and Julia twitched then turned the motion into a composed turn.

  "Mrs Wainwright," she said calmly, and lifted her eyebrows in polite enquiry.

  "Miss Preston, I would like to introduce to you Mr Colin Holbrook. I think he would make an exceptional dance partner, and must certainly be longing for a little congenial exercise."

  Julia swallowed back a burst of inappropriate laughter, and swiveled further in her seat to take in the frozen expression on Mr Holbrook's face, his elbow held firmly in the hand of the doughty Mrs Wainwright. Evidently the matron had had enough of her impressionable daughter dangling after the rake.

  This time the look he flashed at Julia held mild dislike, his dignity ruffled by this abrupt treatment. There was no polite way he could avoid the imposed duty.

  "Delighted, I'm sure, Miss Preston," he said through his teeth. Yet he did not hold out his hand. "Though perhaps Miss Preston prefers to observe. We should not disturb her."

  "You are all consideration," Julia said with false sweetness, and his eyes narrowed.

  "Yes. Very considerate," said Mrs Wainwright, her lips tight and her nostrils flared. She gave Julia a very speaking look that implied a duty laid upon her, and Julia sighed under the weight of it. A governess must do as she was told when commanded by a bosom chum of her employer.

  "I believe you are a very good dancer, Mr Holbrook. So I have been told," she lied smoothly. No one had spoken of him to her.

  She sensed him take firm hold of his temper, and become resigned to the inevitable. A certain tension went out of him. Now he did hold out his hand, well-shaped and civil. He inclined his head.

  "If you would do me the honor, Miss Preston."

  "Delighted, Mr Holbrook," she said, put her own smaller hand in his and stood. His hold was light, disinterested, and she felt an odd tumult in her chest at the contact, a weird lurch of excitement and shame, and terror that he would guess how he affected her.

  "Have you been enjoying the evening?" he said as he transferred her hand to the crook of his elbow. He spoke absently, by form, and did not look at her as they stepped away from Mrs Wainwright and towards the half dozen couples who stood in the cleared space at the end of the large room. The first chords of the country dance sounded from the piano nearby.

  "Very much," Julia said.

  "The weather is very pleasant."

  "Ideal, and so delightful for a stroll outside."

  "Yes, quite," he said, and his complete lack of self-consciousness confirmed her belief he spoke without attention. He directed her to her place, his touch certain and impersonal, and took up his own position in front of her.

  The gentlemen bowed, the ladies curtsied, and they began.

  It was hard to concentrate on her steps with him there so close, but she had practiced the same dance only this week with her charges and the steps were fresh in her mind. She did not meet his gaze but stared over his shoulder and focused her attention on her feet. When they stepped forward to touch hands the sensation startled her each time, this contact with some part of his body riveting even through the fabric of their cotton gloves, but he seemed not to notice, his expression distant, even absent. She lowered her eyes, confused by the intensity of the awareness she felt around him.

  What was it? Was it the undeniable masculinity of him? He moved well, smoothly in time to the music, and there was no doubt he was handsome with an excellent figure. Still he was everything she despised about the dissolute beau monde. He should inspire only disdain.

  She was not so wise a woman as she had fondly imagined. He made her heart beat hard. Ah, she hated him.

  When his gaze flickered down to meet hers he must have surprised a revealing look in her eyes, for his eyebrows went up in surprise. A moment later his mouth twitch, a subtle quirk of amusement. When they were close enough to speak without being overheard, he said "Miss Preston? Have I displeased you?"

  "Hardly."

  "You look very cross."

  "I had an unpleasant thought. Pray do not concern yourself."

  "How very uncomfortable for you."

  The dance parted them, but moments later when he took up her hand again she saw the look of amusement had deepened, and there was a faint, devilish spark in his eyes. "I can't allow you to languish in discomfort." He had that air about him of pleasure at his own wit, at her expense, so she found she longed to slap the smirk from his face.

  She smiled with pure frost behind it. "You are too kind. I am certain the discomfort will immediately pass. In fact it is gone already."

  "What was this thought?"

  "Best not to revisit it." She looked away from him, head high on a rigid neck, feeling like the bones of her spine were fused, her muscles taut with the effort to with hold her own thoughts and reactions and be the model of perfect dignity.

  "You are very stern."

  "Am I? A blessing of my profession."

  "Not a curse?"

  "Not in the right circumstances."

  "Are these the right circumstances?" he said, and now he grinned. She saw the white flash of his teeth from the corner of her eye.

  They parted again, and Julia smiled stiffly at her new p
artner, her employer Mr Trent, as he clasped her fingers in turn. He was obligingly partnering his sixteen-year-old daughter in the dance. Amy was a little clumsy, but earnest, her eyes fixed on her feet as she counted the steps and held Mr Holbrook's hand without ever looking up at him. Mr Trent beamed benevolently at Julia.

  "Doesn't she show well? You've done a fine job with her, Miss Preston. A fine job indeed. I know she's not naturally apt."

  "She's very willing, sir. A great deal can be made of a willing student."

  "Quite right. Quite right I'm sure, though I think you are too modest. What a pleasant evening this is." He looked around the room with magnificent complacency.

  "Yes it is. Such a delightful party of people," she said, politely insincere.

  "The best. Mrs Trent is so discerning. Such a good judge of who is most likely to please. I vow I enjoy her entertainments more than anything in the world."

  "How happy for you. You are blessed indeed. How was the hunting today?" she asked.

  "Splendid. Simply splendid. Four brace of pheasants between us, and I flatter myself more than one was my shot. A marvelous turn out. Compton is the best groundskeeper we've ever had."

  "You must be delighted."

  "I am. Absolutely." He took Amy's hand again, released Julia's, and she was left to Mr Holbrook.

  "So, Miss Preston?" he asked, teasingly persistent. "Are these the right circumstances for sternness?"

  "You belabor the point. I did not mean to make myself a target of your levity. I simply meant you do not disconcert me by accusing me of sternness." A hint of exasperation colored her tone. "Your mockery is not appropriate."

  "Is that a reprimand? Am I too humorous? Should I be put in my place?"

  "I do not pursue futile pastimes."

  "Is that a riddle? Would you like me to guess at your meaning?"

  "No need. Only that I would not reprimand you because it seems a futile endeavor."

  Again his eyebrows rose. "Futile?"