The Rake Enraptured Read online

  "You are abundantly clear, Madam. I do not mistake your meaning. I have done nothing I need be ashamed of-"

  "Then you are more unprincipled than I can comprehend," Mrs Trent hissed.

  Julia sucked in a sharp breath. "I have done nothing-" She cut herself off. How could she prove it, if the woman was determined to judge Julia by her own standards of behavior? "I see you are determined not to believe me. I have never told you a lie, neither do I now. But yes, you have my silence, and I will go without troubling you further."

  "And you will hold your tongue." The tone of command was tainted by uncertainty.

  "I have too much dignity to gossip about the foibles of others. I trust you will cultivate the same self-control, whatever your false beliefs."

  Julia heard Mrs Trent's indrawn breath at this, but after a moment the woman conceded: "It will be best for both of us if there is no scandal."

  "That is true," Julia said steadily. For a moment she considered pushing the point and demanding the right to continue in her position. But no, Mrs Trent would be a nightmare to work under now she had a grudge to hold. She had it in her to be a cruel mistress. Julia was not so desperate as that. "I expect a glowing letter of reference, enumerating the many advances of your children under my tutelage. Once I have it in hand I will go."

  "You will have it." The words were said grudgingly, but Julia knew a bargain had been struck, and felt it was the best to be expected of this sorry night's work. She inclined her head and dipped into the ghost of a curtsy, then walked away, head held high, slippered feet crunching over the gravel path.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  February 1818

  Colin watched Timmins draw the curtains closed, shutting out the sight of snow flurries dashing against the window pane. "I've no taste for it, in truth."

  "She's a delightful piece. I think she has an eye for you, if you're so inclined," said Lieutenant-Colonel Matthew Brinks, lounging askew in his chair, rakish chapeau dangling from a casual finger.

  Colin raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Offering to share, are you?"

  "If you'd be kind enough to take her off my hands, you would do me a favor."

  "Ah. You've found yourself another. I'm afraid you'll have to manage your own headaches. I'll not aid you."

  "I can't see why not. She's a true athlete in the bedchamber, and you've been living like a monk these days. You could do with such a diversion to welcome you back to town."

  "Kind of you to think of me, but no, thank you. Thank you, Timmins. That will be all." The serving man nodded, finished the task of refilling Matthew's glass, set the decanter down on the sideboard and withdrew, closing the door of the study behind him. The room was cozier now with the heavy velvet curtains drawn, candles blazing, and flames of the stoked fire leaping high in the grate.

  "What's got into you?" Matthew asked idly. "I've never seen you pursue business with such fervor." He pointed his hat at the pile of open ledgers and sheaves of notes on the desk, then dropped it to take up his glass. "Determined to outstrip us all in wealth?"

  "As if I could better your fortune. No, but I find I need something to occupy my mind."

  "Do you? Reconsider the lady-"

  "Not that sort of something."

  "Why ever not?"

  Colin hesitated, contemplated telling the whole story, and decided against it. "Truth be told," he said, settling on a lesser factor in his decision to switch courses, "I'd let things get into a shambles. Can't allow such a fine inheritance to go to waste. Not every man is granted as much."

  "It can be hard to receive, when it comes in such a way," said Matthew, and Colin ducked his head against the sympathy in his friend's voice.

  "Yes."

  "It's good you pay it some heed. Sebastien loved the land, and he loved you too. He would never have grudged it to you, save that you dissipate it."

  "True, true, though I'm not such a wastrel as all that. But yes, he did love it and I haven't given it all it deserves. I'm doing my best to rectify the neglect. It will all come right soon enough."

  "Such a waste," said Matthew, and Colin knew he was not speaking of land management.

  "Yes," he said again.

  Matthew stared sightlessly into the fire. "Sometimes I think of how it would be if they were still here. Sebastien. David. Mad, laughing Harry. Harry would have taken that jade off my hands before I even gave him permission."

  "He would, and taunted you she was much better serviced at his hand."

  "He would. By God, he would." For a long moment they were silent.

  "That charge. That last charge, when I saw him go down-"

  "I know," Matthew said, soft, interrupting Colin before he could break their unspoken pact not to talk of Waterloo or the horrors there.

  But Colin was in the mood for catharsis. "You cannot imagine what it is to watch a brother fall and not be able to go to him, to turn your horse and go back."

  "He was like a brother to me too, though not of blood. But it was a knee-to-knee charge. You could not swerve. If you'd faltered we would have been spitted."

  Colin saw again that moment, bright-edged and etched in memory, the froth on the horses mouths as they heeded rein and spur, as they stretched mighty hearts to the utmost to answer their masters and went into the smoke of the cannons. Ah, they showed the French how cavalry were not yet useless on the field of battle, how a horse rearing up to crush a man's skull could still make him yell with terror and break formation rather than hold firm and take the charge. They had broken through, taken the position, slaughtered the gunners.

  The 71st cavalry, the fine froth of nobleman's sons and their horses, smeared bravely across the field of battle, and gone.

  "I know. I know," he said almost dreamily. "Yet it seems the greatest betrayal, when I look back. Did he see it? Did he see me go on and leave him behind? Did he feel abandoned? Is there truly anything more important than brotherhood, in this world or the next?"

  "Dark thoughts."

  "I am sick of it all, you know. I thought I could lose myself in the pleasure of life, celebrate what I still had, that they have not. It's hollow though. It's all hollow. Someone . . . something made me see it's just . . . I didn't want it anymore. There's been enough waste."

  "You think too much, my friend." Matthew drained his glass to the dregs in long swallows.

  "Not enough. And maybe too late. Still, I am trying."

  "Trying for what?" Matthew set the glass down and smiled his crooked smile, still boyish despite the darkness in his eyes. "Are you to be a noble, parfit knight? Or are you turning monk in truth? What is your recipe for redemption?"

  "And that is it, isn't it? We almost need redemption. How close did we come? How close did I come? I have a soul, still, for all I treated it lightly."

  "God, man, a little debauchery never did any man harm."

  "Did it not?" Colin stared at his friend, not seeing him. "I beg to differ."

  "What, then? A life of solemn rectitude? No more bed sports, no more frivolity? Are you to be a noble country squire then, doughty and staid?"

  "I hope to be something of the sort," said Colin steadily, meeting the mocking tone with seriousness.

  "What? Good gad, man, never say it." Matthew abandoned his languid pose and sat up, frowning in consternation.

  "It's the truth."

  "No. Really. I am deeply offended. The world has gone awry. You were never made for sobriety."

  "I meant to try. And I find it fits me better than I had imagined."

  "Blasphemy."

  Colin snorted a faint laugh despite himself. "It's not such a tragedy as that. Don't be a ham."

  "Six months in the countryside and you've come to this. We've missed you while you've rusticated, of course, but I never imagined you had fallen so far from sanity."

  "It's you who is the Bedlamite."

  "Leader of our revels. Say it's not so."

  "King among fools, more like."

  "And now you're to be a sq
uire? I'll not have it!"

  "You can't shame me. Call me king of turnips and monarch of cabbages. In truth it's satisfied me to set myself to do something worthwhile."

  "Presiding over the squabbles of farmers?"

  "There has been some squabbling. There's a world of innovation out there, and the hidebound dig in their heels when I try to drag them into the nineteenth century. My tenants are a curmudgeonly bunch. I plan to set up a model farm to demonstrate the results that are possible-"

  "Are you even the same man? What have you done with Colin, you false creature?"

  "It must be in the blood. I find I have a head for it. Astonishing, after all these years frittered away in leisure as the pampered and useless younger son."

  "Don't think you'll convert me to your strange religion."

  "I don't imagine it for one second."

  "But you're happy, eh? You don't seem as cheerful as usual."

  "Determined, would be the word. I have an endpoint in mind. A goal, if you will. Until I've achieved it I- Well, I shan't speak of it until it comes about."

  "I wish you luck, whatever it is. But do tell me you'll be at the prize fight between Regan and Peterson. It's this Tuesday. You must have heard about it, even knee-deep in parsnips."

  "The Agricultural Society are receiving accounts of the best ways to preserve root vegetables that same day. I thought I might attend to receive the very latest in methods-" but Matthew's look of incredulity was too much to allow Colin to keep a straight face. "Yes. Yes, I'll go to the fight. I'm not so changed as that."

  "And Lady Ketteridge's Ball? You must have received an invitation. That woman has a nose like a bloodhound. I'm sure she sniffed the scent of you the instant you set foot in the city."

  "Possibly. I haven't read my invitations." He waved a careless hand at the salver on one corner of the desk, and Matthew got up and went to rummage through the neglected pile.

  "Here it is," he said, flourished it triumphantly and then opened it.

  "Don't stand on ceremony, will you?" said Colin, a little sour. He had grown out of practice with the casual abrasiveness of his gentleman-soldier friends. Six months of calm civility on his estates had altered him more than he realized.

  "Never. It's to be the first of March. Are you fixed in town now for the season? Surely your root vegetables and curmudgeonly farmers can do without you through the depths of winter."

  "I should prepare for the spring planting-" he said, enjoyed Matthew's exaggerated roll of eyes, then went on more seriously, "In truth there's one other matter - rather important - to which I must attend before I decide my schedule."

  "What's that?"

  "A question. An important question that must be answered. Then I will have a better idea of my plans."

  "So is this before or after the ball?"

  "Soon. I haven't settled on an exact time or date, but soon."

  "Well do get on with it then. And come to the ball. I hear it is to be the most lavish affair of the season."

  "Well of course. Bridget never does things by halves."

  "No. Of course. Bridget is an extremist." Matthew smiled an insinuating smile.

  "Lady Kettering, I should say."

  "So you should, o ye new-minted monk."

  "Out with you, scapegrace."

  "Ejecting me?"

  "Yes. Go to your card party, or soiree, or whatever you have planned for the evening. Leave me to my accounts."

  "It is dinner with the Hammonds. You should come. You know they never stand on ceremony. They'll be delighted to see you. I'll wait for you to change."

  "Honestly, no, I'd rather not." The Hammonds gatherings were the penultimate sort of debauchery, little short of an orgy to be found in various rooms of their house while others held more sedate pursuits such as cards and conversation. A representation of society in microcosm. "I'll avoid the temptations. Old haunts, old habits. You know how it is."

  Matthew cocked a dubious eyebrow, standing with his feet widespread and thumbs cocked in his waistband like the pirate he was at heart. "Not really, but I'll take your word for it."

  "Give my regards to the Hammonds. Tell them I'll ride with them in the park any morning they choose, only send me word."

  "You're safe there. They never rise before noon."

  "I know."

  "Ah. Well then, I shall depart." Matthew picked up his hat, and walked to the door. There he paused and inspected a sleeve minutely. "Are you happy, Colin?" he asked without looking up.

  Colin considered the question carefully. "I will be." He nodded. "I will be."

  "Good. Good. Goodnight."

  "Goodnight."

  Matthew went out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As Colin directed his horse up the long drive, he felt more uncertain than at any time since he had last been into battle. No, on reflection this was worse, because at least then he had known his enemy, known what to expect. Now he had no idea how she would greet him, what she would say. Then he had stood to lose his honor, some part of his body or his life.

  Now his happiness was at stake.

  It had been a hellish six months, almost seven. His lips bent at the thought. Mawkish of him to find a hell in the absence of a single woman, but there you were. There was no accounting for love. It had astounded him how she accompanied him in spirit everywhere, her sternly upright figure at his side in imagination, always watching. The vision of her became the standard by which he judged himself, her imagined snippy commentary a presence that was almost real, until it become his own internal dialog, his own standard, the excellence he expected of himself. He did not always achieve this standard, but he was close.

  For a moment he saw a warm smile in her eyes, the same he had seen her turn on the children when they were unexpectedly clever. But no, he was not a child to be approved of. He would rather see that blissful look he thought her face had worn for the confoundedly short time he had her in his arms, trembling and joyous.

  If only it had not been so dark that night.

  Or calm and peaceful contentment, and a hand that would slip into his own, small and perfect with her fine bones and gentle clasp. It was ridiculous, really, that a man who had known almost every pleasure of the flesh - and distastefully rejected only the most extreme - should long to hold a single hand. Should fantasize about it like some innocent schoolboy, besotted and lovelorn.

  How could someone known for so short a space of time have such a profound influence? He did not understand it, only knew the pain he had felt when she turned those deep blue eyes on him and called him a disappointment and a waste.

  It would not have hurt if she had been wrong.

  He had always known it, through a lifetime of knowing his own existence was incidental in the scheme of things. He could live or die or waste every advantage and while his friends and lovers would mourn if he passed, his going would leave no scar on the world. The second son, improvident and leisurely, with too much money and time to spend.

  So what did it matter if he drank to excess, and gambled, and pursued and pleasured women? What did it matter until a precise and upright woman of good character stole a heart he had not been quite certain he even possessed. Stole it away and then had the nerve to not even want it. Heartless jade.

  Immediately he repented the thought. No, not his Julia. Concerned for the fate of rude little Albert Trent sent off to Eton for the tender mercies of the masters and other boys; smiling at Amy Trent in shared pleasure as the girl fumbled and mostly succeeded her way through dance steps at a family party; taking the children to wade in the stream and catch frogs instead of cooping them inside a stuffy schoolroom. And caring enough about the welfare of another human being to refuse to mouth polite and empty words when he crossed her path. Oh no, not Julia. Julia with the quick wit and acid tongue, etching a groove into his sybaritic narcissism.

  It was not compassion, nor anything like it. No, it had been straight truth, delivered to him with indignation that he would treat the
world so. Brave woman, and fierce. There was no one like her. He laughed softly as he recalled some of the things she had said to him. Rude. Shockingly rude. But she had cried for him, too. Cried for the waste he had made of himself.

  Then at the very last, in the dark of night, still trembling with her spent passion and he shaken by his own pent-up lust, that rueful sigh and the confession that now she understood his wicked women, having discovered her own fallibility.

  Always inevitably truthful, with a brutality that spared not even herself. A hard-headed woman, made to forge a good and worthy life at her man's side, and well worth the winning.

  He reined in his horse at first sight of the house, bulking dark and stolid against the white of the snow. Would she be inside with her charges in the schoolroom even now, bent over some piece of work? He could picture her clearly, those cool, clear blue eyes looking up at him from a child's copy book. The horse shifted beneath him with an impatient snort, and he nudged her on. She went willingly, lifting her feet in a way that let him know she thought the end of their journey near, with the main road behind them and a house in sight down a long gravel drive. Too well did she know his old schedule of languid house parties in the countryside. A schedule that was part of his past, not his future.

  Yes, he would have Julia, would win her. He had the proof now, as she had demanded. Six months of celibacy. An almost complete alteration in lifestyle in fact, though that change had been the inadvertent product of abstention from sex. For he had not dared become drunk in mixed company. Heaven forbid he discover he was weak while drunk, and wake in the arms of some other woman, some casual affair. How could he hope to face Julia if he did that? So he did not drink. But his friends were dismally tedious when he was sober and they were not.