The Rake

The Rake

By

Georgeanne Hayes

(c ) copyright Georgeanne
Hayes

C
over art (c) copyright Jenny Dixon

Smashwords
Edition

New Concepts
Publishing

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter One

Moreland Abbey's ancient
walls had not seen such a gathering in over a hundred years.
Demitria Standish knew that because she knew the Abbey's history
far better than any living Moreland. Glancing around at the knots
of people gathered in her Aunt Alma's hall as she moved among the
guests as unremarked as a wraith, Demi decided to qualify that
thought. Correctly speaking, the place had
never
known anything quite like the
gathering this evening.

The ladies were dressed in the elegant,
stylish draperies of the Empire style. Quite modestly, too, since
there were none of London's more daring ladies attendant with their
scandalously thin, and sometimes even dampened skirts, and even
more scandalous necklines.

The gentlemen were another matter.

They had a notable Corinthian among them,
none other than Garrett Trowbridge, Viscount Wyndham. Typically, he
was dressed with subdued elegance in almost unrelieved black.
Though she'd stolen several surreptitious peeks at him as she
wandered restlessly about the huge room that had in ancient times
been known as the great hall, Demi hadn't actually had to see him
to know that. He had attached himself to her cousin, Phoebe's,
growing circle of admirers some weeks before illness had forced
them to abandon the season and hastily depart London, and had long
since become a familiar sight to her.

Those men present who cherished the thought
of considering themselves in the good company of so notable a
sportsman were dressed in a like manner, though not nearly as
elegant since few could rival the handsome viscount in face or
form.

However, there were a number of dandies in
attendance and their attire was not nearly so subdued. They favored
more colorful attire and sported stripped or floral waistcoats
topped by coats of charcoal or navy. And even the dandies were
vastly overshadowed by the macaronis.

Those strutted among the ladies' whites and
pastels, the Corinthian's somber blacks, and the conservative
blues, grays and purples of the dandy, sporting all the brightest
hues of the rainbow. They favored the very extreme of fashion with
their wasp waists, exaggeratedly padded shoulders, enormous buckles
and buttons, and wore heels so high they minced when they walked.
Their waistcoats were gorgeous indeed; broadly stripped in bars of
scarlet and green, or black and white; some boldly embroidered with
cabbage roses, butterflies or bees, above breeches that sometimes
matched, and sometimes did not, the tightly fitted jackets they
wore over their gorgeous waistcoats.

Settling herself finally on the horsehair
sofa at a little distance from the one occupied by her cousin,
Phoebe, and Phoebe's admiring court, Demi studied these last with a
mixture of amused contempt and purest curiosity. Just as it was
inconceivable to her that Phoebe encouraged this set to dangle
after her, it was impossible for her to fathom why the macaronis
would wish to dress themselves as figures of fun only to attract
attention. She didn't care to be the object of curious interest
herself, and certainly would not wish it under those
circumstances.

She was happy enough to observe and be
ignored, which was just as well since she generally was. In truth,
she didn't even particularly wish to observe, having seen
sufficient social functions in London to appease her curiosity
about them, and would have simply remained in her room if not for
the fact that she knew her Aunt Alma would notice her absence and
remark upon it with disapproval once the guests had taken their
leave.

And no one displeased Aunt Alma with
impunity.

After a moment, she dismissed the macaronis,
for in truth she had little interest in studying their ridiculous
dress or observing their affected mannerisms.

She had a great deal of interest in
observing Garrett Trowbridge, which was why she'd chosen the
position she had, at no great distance from him, where her view was
almost completely unobstructed. Nerving herself, feeling as
breathless and lightheaded as if she were contemplating a leap from
the barn loft into a haystack, Demi allowed her gaze to skim
lightly over him as if she were merely glancing around the
room.

She was not surprised to discover Phoebe
held his entire attention, nor was she perturbed. Instead, some of
her uneasiness dissipated and a tentative surge of enjoyment filled
her.

She supposed there were more handsome men in
England, but she had yet to see one who appealed to her more. He
was tall, of medium build and as classically handsome as any of the
men depicted in the Elgin marbles. Despite his dark hair and dark
blue eyes, she would have been tempted to think of him as
angelically fair if not for the mischievous amusement that so often
glinted in his eyes. That was a dead giveaway that he was anything
but angelic even before she'd learned that he was considered a very
wild young man in his first years on the town and had scarcely
settled a whit in the years since.

Regardless, Aunt Alma had been avidly
anticipating receiving him as a son-in-law ever since he'd first
cast his interest in Phoebe's direction. Phoebe, herself, waited in
breathless anticipation for him to pop the question, as well,
though Demi was inclined to think that Phoebe was not so enamored
with his person as she was with his wealth and title.

As if sensing her gaze, Garrett looked up at
that moment and Demi looked down at her hands in her lap, frowning
faintly at her thoughts. In the next moment, one of the macaronis
spoke to Phoebe and Demi tensed, glad that fate had given her the
chance to guard her expression.

"I say, that companion of yours is a queer
bird. Is she a mute?" he asked with a titter, glancing toward Demi
out of the corner of his eye since his shirt points were so
exaggerated he had difficulty turning his head.

The fop beside him, his bosom companion,
snickered. "You can't mean to compare her to a swan? It would be an
offense to the poor bird," he commented in a tone that was
perfectly audible to everyone in the group, and to Demi, as well,
despite his pretense of voicing his witticism sotto voce.

Phoebe Moreland tried to look both shocked
and offended. It took no great intelligence, though, to see that
she was not-so-secretly amused, as well, and trying very hard not
to be pleased over the fact that her admirers considered her cousin
so unfavorably. "For shame, Mr. Randall! And you, too, Mr. Henson!
That's monstrous cruel and I'll not have it! Demi Standish is my
cousin, I'll have you to know!"

She glanced toward Demi, adjusting her
expression to a nicety to one of both compassion and
protectiveness. "Of course she can speak! It's only that she has
a..uh..a bit of a lisp and she's uncomfortable talking to anyone
she doesn't know well."

Garrett Trowbridge fixed Phoebe with an
unfathomable look that nevertheless made her squirm. At nine and
twenty, he was the eldest and most dashing of her court of
admirers. Wealthy, titled, and blessed with a face and form that
had made many a damsel before her cast hopeful, covetous eyes in
his direction, his advent into Phoebe's circle had been quite a
feather in her cap as far as her fond parent was concerned. For
herself, Phoebe wasn't certain whether she was more flattered or
disconcerted by his interest since she, unfortunately, had the
uncomfortable suspicion that he was also the least enthralled.

Of a certainty, he was the least to be
depended upon. She had been convinced when he appeared in the
countryside hard upon the heels of her rustication that he meant to
press his suit. Instead, like a will-o-the-wisp, he was there and
gone again, attending almost every function she attended for a time
and then disappearing for days or weeks on end before he reappeared
once more.

An expression of amusement settled upon his
handsome features as he very pointedly and measuringly studied each
member of the group before finally his gaze came to rest upon the
two macaronis, decked out in all their most beautiful finery. "I
sincerely trust you don't mean to liken us all to fowl, Henson.
While I suppose it's true the assemblage here might be rather
unflatteringly compared to a gaggle of geese, pouter pigeons,
clucking hens, or.…" He paused significantly as he surveyed the
macaroni's attire from the tip of his pointed shoes to the
elaborate wig upon his head. "…Strutting peacocks, I'm sure they
wouldn't care to have it pointed out to them and I well know I
wouldn't."

Henson tittered nervously. "Well! Upon my
word, Trowbridge! There's no need to take me up! It was merely an
observation."

"And an impertinence," Trowbridge responded
lazily.

Phoebe frowned, casting an accusing glance
in her cousin's direction, as if Demi, by her mere presence, was
entirely responsible for the uncomfortable situation. "I do hope
you don't mean to be unpleasant to poor Mr. Henson, my lord."

Garrett's dark brows lifted in a mild
expression of surprise, as if he, who was quite notorious for
dueling at the drop of a hat, couldn't imagine that she was
suggesting he would provoke a fight. In fairness, he'd rarely been
known to, for he was in general a very agreeable fellow. However,
he was not so amiable that he ignored blatant insults, nor was he
at all loathe to accept whatever challenges fell his way. "On no
account, my dear! I was merely, as Henson before me, making an
observation. However, as I can see I've distressed you, I'll tender
my apologies and withdraw."

With that remark and a smile that
encompassed the group, he rose and sauntered away.

For once Demi was scarcely aware of his
departure. She was concentrating fiercely upon pretending to be
deaf and completely unaware of the remarks she'd overheard. Aunt
Alma's remarks about eavesdroppers echoed in the back of her mind,
but then she hadn't been eavesdropping. They had known she was
there, had almost certainly known she would overhear. It could have
been nothing but deliberate. The thing was, she couldn't understand
why.

Phoebe's behavior, she understood well
enough. Phoebe was fond of her in her own way. However, it had been
plain from the time Demi had first come to live with the Morelands
after her parents' deaths that she was considered an interloper.
Phoebe had resented Demi's inclusion in 'her' family from the very
first.

It hurt nonetheless.

Henson and Randall's assault were
incomprehensible. She'd never, to her knowledge, done anything to
warrant such an attack. She frowned, wondering if perhaps she had
not concealed her contempt of their affectations as well as she'd
thought. Or maybe it hadn't even needed that? Possibly it was
sufficient that she had shown no admiration?

That thought dulled the prick of hurt and
she dismissed it as something too insignificant to allow it to
wound. She didn't care for their opinion, after all.

She did, however, care about Garrett
Trowbrige's opinion. She would far rather he had not heard that
exchange between Phoebe and her beaus.

It wasn't that she considered it at all
likely that Garrett would notice her in a favorable way. She was
not nearly beautiful enough or wealthy enough for that,
particularly when she fell under Phoebe's shadow. But it would be
far better to be ignored than to be looked upon with pity or
contempt.

She wished suddenly that she had not yielded
to the temptation to see Garrett and the apprehension of provoking
her Aunt's wrath and joined the guests. She wished she could simply
vanish from their midst.