The Rake (4 page)

She licked her dried lips. “I had thought,
since Phoebe is to be settled soon, that she might find a place for
me in her household.”

Alma Moreland gave her a look. “Are you mad?
You might well consider becoming a servant in your cousin’s home,
and I make no doubt that dear Phoebe is kind hearted enough to take
you on, but I will not have it said that I did not do my best to
see my niece comfortably settled in her own home.”

“
I am quite accustomed to
seeing to Phoebe’s needs. I shouldn’t mind it at all, and certainly
no one could doubt your generosity to me or your earnest efforts to
keep my best interests to heart,” Demi added
placatingly.

If possible, Alma Moreland looked even more
outraged. “Are you suggesting that you have been used as a mere
servant?”

“
Certainly not!” Demi
disclaimed immediately. “I am glad to help out in any way I can,
knowing what you have expended on my behalf … and cousin Phoebe is
very dear to me. I am only saying that I would not mind being a
help to Phoebe, for she is certain to marry well and will have a
large household.”

“
Which you would not be
qualified in any way to be of help to her!” Alma Moreland reminded
her sharply, not appeased in the least by Demi’s attempts to
placate her. “I will not hear of it! I have given Mr. Flemming my
approval, assured him that you would welcome his offer and you will
not disappoint me. Is that clear?”

Demi felt ill. She didn’t trust herself to
speak. Finally, she managed to nod. She was dismissed, but she felt
little relief. Rising a little unsteadily, she left the study. To
her dismay, Phoebe’s party was milling about the hall, on the point
of departure. She glanced blindly in their direction when she heard
her name called.

“
You are not coming with
us?” Phoebe asked, for the second time, Demi dimly
realized.

She formed her lips into the semblance of a
smile with an effort. “Thank you, but no. I have a touch of
headache. I believe I will lie down for a bit.”

“
Oh! You poor thing! You
must ask my maid to fix you up. She has a marvelous cure for
headache.”

Demi nodded and forced another smile,
flicking her gaze across the faces turned toward her before turning
away. Gripping the banister, she climbed the stairs with an effort,
feeling as stiff and uncoordinated as an elderly woman. It wasn’t
until she had collapsed upon her bed that the images resolved
themselves into individual faces. Lord Wyndham had been among them,
his gaze piercing although his face had been a mask of polite
boredom.

She wondered a little vaguely if she had
given herself away. She had smiled and spoke and comported herself,
she thought, remarkably well under the circumstances. Phoebe had
not seemed to notice she was laboring under any sort of distress.
She could not recall a single smirk that indicated any of the
others saw anything in her behavior to amuse them.

It was amazing, really, how often a group of
people took on the characteristics of a pack of wolves.
Individually, they were seldom predatory, but they had only to find
themselves surrounded by their peers to bring out the worst in
them, the search for weakness in a loner that they might use to rip
them to shreds.

She found she was too distressed to think up
an alternative to her aunt’s ultimatum. She suspected that, even
had she not been distressed, nothing would have come to mind. Her
aunt’s assessment of her situation was all too true. She did not
have enough education to seek a post in teaching. She had no talent
with either water colors or musical instruments that might make her
desirable to families with daughters. Without her aunt’s support,
she had no references and no connections to secure a place for
herself in service. Her lack of a dowry had been sufficient to
discourage any interest in her as a matrimonial prospect with the
exception of Mr. Flemming. Her aunt had made it clear enough that
she would accept Mr. Flemming’s proposal or find herself on the
street. The prospect of having no where at all to go was only
slightly more frightening than that of marrying Jonathan
Flemming.

She finally concluded that
it
was
worse,
however. On the streets, she would be prey to many men of Mr.
Flemming’s ilk, or worse, not just the one.

It was a great pity she had not been born
with the beauty to become a courtesan. She knew she would be a
pariah even for thinking such a thing, but it was almost better to
contemplate the life of a mistress or courtesan.

Unfortunately, that was out of the question.
So, too, was the wild idea of taking to the stage. If she’d been
talented enough, her looks might not have mattered. If she had been
beautiful enough, a lack of talent wouldn’t have been a problem,
but she was fairly certain having neither would only land her in
the streets.

The immutable truth was that she was
completely at her aunt’s mercy, and her aunt had none.

By the time the maid came to summon her to
the dreaded luncheon, she had calmed somewhat and realized she had
no option other than accepting her fate. She felt distinctly ill.
She was also angry with her fate, but she knew she could not fight
it.

She got up, washed her face, tidied her hair
and smoothed her gown. Dragging in a deep, sustaining breath of
air, she left the room and went downstairs to face her future.

Chapter Three

Simple obedience, Demitria knew from past
experience, was not sufficient. Her aunt would expect her to be
pleased, or give the appearance of it. If she sat like a stone
throughout the luncheon, pale, uncommunicative, refusing to eat,
her aunt would take it in the same way that she would see open
defiance. She would be livid and she would leave Demi in no doubt
of it once Mr. Flemming took his leave.

She ate slowly, and with extreme care, to
keep from choking or being violently ill when her knotted stomach
rejected the food she swallowed determinedly. She managed to smile
at every mildly witty remark that Mr. Flemming made and even to
participate in the conversation beyond a simple yes or no to
questions put to her.

Alma Moreland sent her several approving
glances during the course of the meal. Instead of being relieved,
however, Demi began to think of them as gloating smirks. Slowly,
the shock wore off and anger began to simmer beneath the surface of
her calm. Presently, it occurred to her with a touch of surprise
that she hated her aunt. She hadn’t considered it before. If anyone
had asked, she would almost certainly have said, dutifully, that
she loved her aunt, but the truth was she had never felt any warmer
emotion toward the woman.

She had tried. In the beginning, when she
had first come to live with the Morelands, she had wanted
desperately to win her aunt’s affection. She had hungered for the
love she had lost when her parents were killed and had been eager
to please. In time, she’d come to realize that Alma Moreland simply
was not capable of feeling any affection for anyone beyond herself.
It was not only she who failed to engender it. So far as she could
tell, Alma Moreland had never felt more than a distant sort of
fondness for either Lord Moreland or Phoebe. What little she had to
give had been reserved for her son, and Demi was more inclined to
think that less akin to love than pride.

There had been a time when she was younger
when she had pitied her aunt, certain that some terrible thing had
happened to her that made her that way and that, deep down, she
suffered. Perhaps it was true, but Demi neither pitied nor
empathized with her any longer. Whatever might have occurred to
make her the cold, unfeeling, tyrant that she was, was not an
excuse for her complete disregard for the feelings of others.

Demi entertained herself thorough the latter
half of the meal with fanciful revenges, but in the end she was
obliged to admit to herself that there was little hope of her ever
being in a position of power that would allow her to seek any sort
of satisfactory retribution.

She was well and truly under her aunt’s
thumb and about to be passed off to another thumb that was probably
just as merciless.

Her interview with Jonathan Flemming was as
uncomfortable as she’d envisioned but, fortunately, even her own
personal purgatory had a time limit. Mr. Flemming professed a great
regard for her, all the while staring down at her bosom
lasciviously, as if she were sitting before him naked. Demi managed
to repress a shudder, pasted a smile on her lips and mouthed the
same lie. Her aunt returned to the room, professed her delight at
the match, allowed Demi to kiss her cheek, and she and Jonathan
Flemming sat down to haggle over the fine points of the settlement.
They were still ensconced in the parlor, discussing the nuptials,
when the party returned from their picnic.

Phoebe uttered a shriek of delight when her
mother announced Demi’s engagement and flew across the room to
congratulate Demi, evidencing every appearance of genuine
excitement. Before Demi knew it, she was surrounding by Phoebe and
her friends, chattering so rapidly and excitedly they reminded her
far more of a gaggle of geese than a half dozen young women. She
accepted their excitement and congratulations, wondering if they
were truly as happy for her as they appeared to be, simply excited
that someone was getting married in general, or, cynically, if they
were thrilled because they no longer had to concern themselves that
Jonathan Flemming might cast his handkerchief in their
direction.

She finally decided that it was more than
likely the second of the two possibilities. They were Phoebe’s
friends, not hers. If they had been her friends, they would have
been commiserating with her, not congratulating her, or possibly
the last of the three conjectures. They were none of them in any
danger of Mr. Flemming’s attentions, though. He was of good family,
and apparently well enough off, but he was obviously also aware
that he was not considered a great prize on the marriage mart and
Phoebe and her friends were above his touch.

The men who’d accompanied the party promptly
scattered at the announcement, like a flock of birds startled by
the huntsman’s gun, disappearing almost before anyone was aware of
their intentions. The moment Phoebe and her friends ebbed away,
gathering in an excited little knot to pry the particulars from
Alma Moreland and Mr. Flemming, Demi rose and headed toward the
door.

She’d almost made good her escape when
Phoebe stopped her. “You are not leaving when we are right in the
middle of planning the wedding?”

Demi smiled wanly. “I feel certain that I
can leave it in Aunt Alma and Mr. Flemming’s capable hands.”

Alma Moreland sent her a narrow eyed glare,
but for once Demi found she simply didn’t care. Jonathan Flemming
was another matter. She didn’t particularly like the look he sent
her and forced another smile. “In any case, I don’t feel at all
well and see no reason to expose everyone if I should be coming
down with something.”

As she’d hoped, that comment was sufficient
to quiet even Mr. Flemming’s objections to her departure. She left
amid instructions, well wishes, and suggestions, moving down the
hallway toward the stairs. She’d already reached the foot of the
stairs when it dawned upon her that her aunt would almost certainly
be up to check on her before very long, to ascertain whether she’d
lied or not.

Changing directions, she made her way
through the study and out onto the verandah that ran nearly the
width of the manor in back. The sun was dipping near the tops of
the distant trees and already the air was cool. She shivered,
chaffing her arms and wishing she’d thought to grab a shawl. As
tempting as the thought was of returning for one, she dismissed it.
She’d escaped and she wasn’t about to be caught merely because she
couldn’t bear a little discomfort.

A faint whiff of something burning tickled
at her nostrils and she looked around to discover its source. Lord
Wyndham was lounging against the wall near the balustrade that ran
round the verandah, smoking a cheroot. Nodding, she hurried down
the steps and crossed the garden, walking as briskly as her skirts
allowed, ladylike be damned.

She had no destination in mind, but as she
reached the edge of the garden, she gathered her skirts in her
hands and, lifting them out of her way, darted across the meadow.
She had not run in years, not since she was a little girl and
certainly not since she’d begun to wear a corset. She discovered
very quickly that the skirts were not the only impediment to
putting as much distance as possible between her and Moreland
Abbey. She had not run far when she was forced to stop. Struggling
to catch her breath, she dropped to a walk once more, but a wave of
nausea washed over her. She came to a complete halt then, struggled
to will it away and finally lost the battle and dropped to her
knees.

She’d no more than finished being violently
ill when someone offered her a handkerchief. She didn’t even glance
up. “Go away!”

“
No. You are
ill.”

Demi squeezed her eyes
closed when she recognized his voice. It needed only that in a very
long day of trials. She would not have cared if Jonathan Flemming
had stood by while she wretched, in fact the more she repelled him
the better she liked the thought. But the stunningly gorgeous and
perfect Lord Wyndham? The object of her secret devotion? Was she to
have
no
memories
even to look back upon with fondness? She took the handkerchief he
offered almost angrily and wiped her face and mouth. “I’m fine now.
Thank you! Please go away.”

Instead of answering or retreating, he
grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet. To her surprise,
instead of turning toward the house, he glanced around and headed
toward the nearest tree. Demi followed him numbly, wishing the
ground would open up and swallow her, but even that solace was
denied her. They reached the tree without incident. Once there, he
shrugged out of his coat, draped it around her shoulders and urged
her to sit.