The Rake Enraptured (3 page)

She stood and walked to where she thought the door was, an effort of me
mory and concentration that did not quite succeed as she kicked an obstacle with a slippered foot and bit back a cry of pain.

Suddenly her outstretched hand was in his and he drew her on in an altered direction. She trusted him too swiftly, and found herse
lf suddenly hard up against that chest in the dark.

"Only stay, little dove, and I will make your body sing,' he said, his voice low and full of promise.

"You are three sheets to the wind," she accused. "Woefully drunk."

"Not so drunk I cannot taste t
he sweetness on your ripe lips. Smell your womanly fragrance. Feel your softness. We would fit well, sweet one. Only try me and you will see." He curved his body subtly to enfold her, leaning over her, giving her a heady impression of dominant masculinity that made her ridiculously weak-kneed with a desire to surrender to it, and give him what he wanted. What – in this small and foolish moment – she wanted.

But she was not a creature of physical need and impulse. She screwed up her face in disdain.

"I think not," she said with cold precision.

"I am so very lonely. I drink to drown my sorrows. Stay and comfort me."

"If you are alone it is only because you were rude to your latest conquest. If you had let her think she could rule you she would be here now. If you regret it I'm sure you have only to walk the corridors, tapping on doors, and someone will let you in."

"You think me so universally appealing? It has been my experience when a woman assumes a man may easily make conquests, it is because she is eager t
o be one of them."

"Are you implying that I-" She curled her lip in incredulous scorn. "I think not."

His hand rested on her cheek, his head tilted towards her and she felt the warmth of his breath on her face, the sultry space between them full of possibilities. Then he released her, stepped around her to pull the door open and scan both ways. He turned to her, took her head in his hands and pressed one final hard kiss against her lips, which parted involuntarily. He paused, then deepened the kiss, languorously lingering at her mouth, drugging her with his allure. Finally he released her.

"The way is clear," he said, and she blinked and came back to herself. She looked at him, wide-eyed, then whisked throug
h the door without another word and hurried back to her room as if pursued, errand completely forgotten.

CHAPTER THREE

It was the fifth course, and manners had loosened. The gentlemen had been drinking freely, the ladies less so, but still enough that the noise of conversation and laughter was near oppressive in the over-heated room. Julia wished someone else would command the servants to open the windows to the night. She did not dare take on the authority, and Mrs Trent was occupied with a heavy-handed flirtation with her most prestigious guest, Lord Grayson. Julia could not look at the two of them next to each other, smugly complicitous, without feeling sick.

Mr Trent mopped at his sweating brow with his handkerchief, but did not notice his own discomfort, enraptured by a vigorous description of
a glorious hunter Mr Oswald had for sale. Mr Oswald was half out of his seat as he gesticulated to draw a picture of an animal leaping high over every obstacle.

The horse would soon be a
nother addition to the overcrowded stables, no doubt. Mr Trent's enthusiasms were easily roused but he was not a discerning man.

Julia was divided. On the one hand she liked the excitement the Trent's lavish house parties brought into her quiet country lif
e, which was filled with children and books and long walks, and little else. Thirty to forty guests, all determined to wring what pleasure they could from each other's company, games, entertainments and hunting on the estate. On the other hand, this gathering was hardly one she would choose for herself. The Trents did not mix with intellectuals or the well-educated. Their guest list was instead the most fashionable Mrs Trent could manage.

Really it was very tedious by this point in the evening. She poked h
alf-heartedly at the pork chop Mr Dale - seated next to her - had served her. She did not like pork. Vainly she wished someone would pass the splendid dish of duck that adorned the upper reaches of the table, but no one there seemed inclined to surrender it.

Mr
Holbrook was seated halfway down the table, a good serving of duck on his plate and the plates of the two women next to him. She had watched him serve them with great attention to their tastes, through one course after another. He held his wine better than many of the others, though a hectic flush was in his cheeks and his husky laugh rang out often.

Yes, they were all terribly amusing. Perhaps she could reach the dish of pickled onions if she stood only a little.

Mr Capstan was telling a tale of the battle at Salamanca as if he had been there, gesturing widely to indicate the sweeping movements of troops.

"The third division went in there, after the heavy cavalry, and mopped it all up. Brilliant work. My nephew was in the thick of it. The bravest sor
t of lad you could wish for."

"Was that the one where
we took out the French command early in the battle, and the whole lot fell apart?"

"Oh I daresay. Perhaps," replied Mr Capstan carelessly. "Still, it was well done nonetheless. You were in the cavalry,
were you not, Holbrook? Were you at that one? Do you remember how it was?"

Mr
Holbrook looked up from his conversation with the woman next to him, and sent Mr Capstan a very cool look. "I do not recall."

"Oh
, but you must. The excitement of it, and all the horses charging. I can just imagine. You'd remember that. If you were there."

"One would hope so," said Mr
Holbrook, and turned away, looped long fingers around the neck of a decanter to refill his glass.

"Well tell us then, man. Which battles did you fig
ht in? Which was your favorite? Where did we do best? Salamanca was three thousand of our men dead to thirteen thousand of theirs. Can you top that?"

"Top that?" Mr
Holbrook's voice had a bitter note, subtle but clear to Julia. Mr Capstan was oblivious. "No, I don't think I can top that."

"You were an officer, though. I suppose you had little part in the actual fighting."

Mr Holbrook turned his head slowly, and simply looked at the man, who blinked back at him blearily.

Mr Richards leaned forward, grinning
widely. He was around the same age as Mr Holbrook - in his late twenties - yet without the same polish. "Oh, you'll never get Mr Holbrook to speak of it, but he was the best of officers. Some like to stand at the back and call out 'Go on! Fight!' Not our Holbrook. He was at the front, calling "Come on, lads, let's get them." Mr Richards slapped the table and made the cutlery jump. "Come on!" He laughed.

"Good man," said Colonel Witing, raising his eyebrows and nodding a silvered head to Mr
Holbrook. "Heard a great deal of you, one way or another, but little of your career." The way he drew his upper lip a little sideways, not quite a sneer, told Julia he had heard much the same stories of Mr Holbrook as she had.

Mr
Holbrook pressed his lips together sardonically and raised his glass a trifle in acknowledgment of the compliment, yet still said nothing.

"But no grand tales, Mr
Holbrook? Nothing to tell us?" said Mr Capstan. Julia wished the man would take the hint. Mr Holbrook obviously had no desire to talk of his battle experiences, and while she did not like him, in this moment she felt he deserved peace on the topic. Not every man who returned from the French wars came with glorious tales to tell. While Mr Holbrook was not a gaunt, hollow-eyed soldier like two others she had seen return to the neighboring village, still he might have witnessed awful things that lived with him still.

"Though I can appreciate your enjoyment of the valor of our brave men, Mr Capstan, I think ta
les of battles heavy going for mixed company. I thank Mr Holbrook for his restraint," she said, and never mind the rudeness of interrupting talk so far up the table from herself. She cut across several conversations, and heads turned.

Mr Capstan snorted. "
Of course a little governess has no experience of the world and wants to swoon at the slightest hint of violence. You're free to go if you dislike it so much." He dismissed her with a contemptuous flick of his head, and shoveled another section of duck onto his plate.

Julia sat stunned for a long moment, then turned back to her own cold, dry pork chop. She picked up her knife and fork, and began to mechanically saw at it.

"I think Miss Preston has missed out on the gravy, Miss Cross," said Mr Holbrook to one of the women sitting next to him. "Would you pass it to her?" The gravy boat was solemnly passed from hand to hand until it reached her. "And would you like some duck, Miss Preston?" Mr Holbrook caught the eye of one of the footmen. "The duck, for Miss Preston," he said, and the man came forward to take the heavy platter and place it within arm's reach.

Mr Dale, reminded of his duty, cut off several slices and put them on her plate, and she murmured her thanks. A moment later she looked at Mr
Holbrook and felt a strange thrill of fellow feeling as he tilted his glass at her in the same way he had to Colonel Witing, but with warmth that looked almost like admiration. The shared glance only lasted a moment but it heated her right through and she was glad when he turned back to Miss Cross before the blush she could feel coming lit her cheeks.

When she looked up again she caught Mrs Trent's glare and felt the weight of the woman's disapproval that she had drawn attention or caused any sort of stir. Julia bowed
her head, hiding the grim line of her mouth. It was hard to be properly meek and subservient at every moment, even after five solid years of practice.

But that was her place, now, and she must do the best she could.

The pork chop was much better with gravy, and the duck, oh yes, the duck. Sublime. The French chef was fully capable of creating the exquisite, and clearly his hand had been present in the preparation of the duck. Some underling must have managed the pork.

Mr
Holbrook did not look at her again, but she found herself watching him under her eyelashes, and wondered if there was perhaps more to him than she had assumed. Though if so, he hid it well beneath the lively charm that had both Miss Cross and Mrs Daventry completely ensnared.

CHAPTER FOUR

The cool shade was a pleasant refuge against the heat of the sun. Julia watched the children splashing about in the stream, and fanned herself lightly with the sheaf of notepaper she had brought with her. Lucky children, to be able to remove shoes and kirtle up skirts or roll trouser legs high enough to wade into that cold water. Not that sixteen-year-old Amy should really be allowed, these days, but Julia was a soft mistress when it came to removing freedoms she herself missed.

"Well done, Bert. Take him to Pressie," she heard the girl say, and Albert lunged for the bank with his hands carefully cupped one over the other. A frog, she presumed.

So it turned out to be, the small creature's skin slick and shining as Albert revealed it to her. It blinked solemnly at them.

"Don't let him jump out," she told him. "That's it. He's just a little one. Probably two or maybe three years old. Fully grown adults are about this big." Julia measured a distance with her fingers.

"We can't find any spawn," he said, his freckled face screwed into a frown.

"No, it's too late in the season for spawn."

"Can I keep him?"

"You can certainly put him in this jar for now, and we'll give him a tiny bit of water to keep him moist, but we won't keep h
im. We'll just sketch him then put him back in his home."

"But I want to keep him."

"No, he'll die if we do that."

Albert looked mulish, and Julia resigned herself to a tussle later over frog ownership. For now she held out the jar and he posted his captiv
e inside, then took the jar from her and went back to the stream to ladle water in with a scooped hand.

"No more than half an inch," she called out.

"An expert in frog care and maintenance? That's a useful companion for a small boy to have."

She stared str
aight ahead, frozen between annoyance and the embarrassment of memory. "Mr Holbrook," she managed.

"An excellent place for a summer afternoon. May I join you?"

"I wish you wouldn't."

He laughed and sat.

"Surely you'd prefer to walk with all the lovely,
willing
young ladies?" she said, hearing voices now through the trees. A group of guests moved through the picturesque glade by way of the manicured path, invisible from where she sat. She resisted the urge to peer and see if she and Mr Holbrook could be overlooked. He grinned at her.

"Your question is a quandary. In truth I can't answer yes or no. 'Yes' is untrue, but 'no' implies you are neither lovely nor willing. I can vouch for at least one of the two."

"I deny the other." But his flattery warmed her despite herself. "I have work to do here."

"Yes, very onerous."

"It would create an unfortunate impression if I were seen with you."

"Is your credit so poor, then?"

"My-" she turned to glare at him. "Say rather yours is so execrable not even I could redeem it."

"Ouch."

"Don't pretend you care. You encourage condemnation with willful disregard."

"Do I?"

"Certainly. You are a wolf who does not even bother with sheep's clothing." She turned back to look blindly at the oblivious children. "No Mama would ever leave her daughter alone with you."

"But I have yet to ruin a single young lady." His tone was almost wistful, and she assumed he laughed at her beneath it.

"Not for lack of trying."

"No, I swear I have been very careful."

"Careful to cover up the truth, you mean. You and desperate parents, I've no doubt, conspiring to conceal your actions."

"You paint a very grim picture."

"Can you say there's no truth to it?" As she looked directly at him once more, she could not see the laughter she expected. His eyes were serious, a bright, vivid blue in the light of day. A dissolute man like Mr Holbrook had no right to such clear eyes.

"Where do you get such slander?"

"There are plenty willing to tattle about you." Over three years of annual visits, his fame had spread among the servants and villagers. One would hardly credit the tales, until one saw him in person, saw his ease and the arch of that idle, speculative eyebrow, saw the perfection of his face and form. Angel or devil, he could not be merely human. And how the women hung over him, endlessly tempted. Devil he must be.

"Apparently. But my fame is exaggerated."

"Notoriety would be more appropriate."

"Whatever you please. Say rather evil minds will always find something ill to speak, truth or not. You have a very sharp
tongue, for one who goes creeping into the bedrooms of gentlemen in the dark of night."

She saw she had nettled him, and was not sure whether to be pleased or sorry.

"Hardly gentle
men
. I neither knew it was the bedroom of a gentleman, nor wished to be there. I escaped from the hallway, and found myself in a place almost as bad as witnessing my employer-" She cut herself off.

"Your employer?"

"It is not my secret to tell," she said, pursing her lips. Not even in self-defense would she make that mistake. "It's enough that I didn't want
anything
that happened that night to happen."

"Comprehensive."

"And clear, I hope."

"Perfectly. Also a fabrication."

"Do you say I lie?"

"I'm not pointing the finger. Say rather I have enough of that experience you claimed on my behalf, to know when a woman is pleased to have me hold her."

"You are mistaken."

"No."

"What do you hope to gain from this conversation, sir?" she said, with icy precision.

"It seems to have degenerated into a squabble. I wished only to bid you a pleasant afternoon."

"It would be pleasanter if it did not have you in it."

"You are incorrigible," he said, and there was a note of unwilling admiration in his voice.

"Should I admire you, who are everything I despise? Casual and philandering, egotistical and debauched."

"I don't think I've ever had such a scold. No, but I admit I don't expect one in your position to be so fearless."

"My position?"

"You who must live subje
ct to the will of others. You who must dress just so," with a flick of his fingers he indicated her pale gray muslin day gown, almost the same shade as her dull evening gowns, "and behave just so to keep a position that pays poorly and commands little or no respect."

"How clearly you enumerate my disadvantages. Very well. Yes, all that is true. Would you prefer I bow and scrape like a servant for fear you will apply to the Trents to have me turned off?"

"Others would act so."

"Is that what you like?"

"God, no. Quite the opposite."

She looked at him, and he at her, his eyes searching her face. "Why bother with this?" she asked in honest confusion. "I have nothing for you. I am nobody."

"I do not know. It was an impulse."

"An ill-thought one. Go away."

He looked at her gravely for a long moment, then smiled a faint smile. "Very well," he said, and got to his feet. "Good afternoon." He tipped his hat and walked off into the trees, an easy, lithe stride at odds with his excellently tailored clothes.

"Mincing dand
y," she tried out in an ill-natured murmur too quiet to reach his ears, but did not like the sound of it on her own tongue. It did not fit him, and besides: "I am becoming a shrew." Twenty-five, a confirmed spinster, a disregarded governess and now, albeit briefly, the object of attention for a rake. An unpleasant character to lay claim to, but there it was. No point denying the truth. "You would be scandalized, Grandmere." But no, if her dear grandmother and mentor was here the old lady would probably laugh and shrug and snap her fingers, tolerant of the vagaries of people.