To Wed a Rake by Eloisa James
“Accompanying a lovely young lady,” he said mildly. “May I offer you a glass of ratafia?”
“What’s the o’clock?” she demanded.
“Two in the afternoon.”
“I’ll have a brandy,” she said. “I never drink before nuncheon, you know, but one might have a sustainer now and then.”
He motioned to Cooper. Of course, his butler had had the brandy poured from the moment his godmother entered the room.
Suddenly she thumped her stick. “No flummering me with your pretty manners, Kerr. You’ve always had the gift for sweet talk. But this is serious.”
“I know it,” he acknowledged, sitting down. “I don’t mean to tease you. I’ve sent a letter to my man of affairs, informing him of my upcoming nuptials. I do want to assure you that I never meant to duck my responsibility to Miss Loudan. At first, I didn’t wish to pressure her, given her mother’s prolonged illness, and then somehow the time slipped away after Walter died. I can’t go to St. Albans this week—”
“A horse is no excuse!” she interrupted.
“We’re bringing the vote on the Habeas Corpus Act to the House this week. Since I sponsored the move to revoke its suspension, I need to stay for the hearing.”
“Ah,” she said begrudgingly. “I suppose that’s a better excuse than some. So why did you offer me all that Spanish coin about your horse and your tailor and the rest?”
“Because I greatly dislike having my affairs curtailed or arranged due to gossip circulating through the group of ccohe groufoolish people that passes for the ton,” he said, and there was steel in his voice.
“That’s the way of the world,” she said, but she looked into her glass rather than at him. “At any rate, there’s nothing about habeas corpus that requires you to make a fool of yourself with French prostitutes.”
“If you refer to my escort at the opera, Marie is not a prostitute,” Gil said, a little half smile playing on his lips. “She’s a generous woman, that’s all.”
The countess snorted.
“I thought she’d distract people’s attention from the rumor that I might marry Mademoiselle Benoit,” he noted.
“Well, it did that. Now everyone’s wondering which member of the French nation you’ll bring to the Cavendish masquerade.”
“What costume shall you wear?” he enquired, changing the subject.
Her eyes snapped at him. “I’m going as Cleopatra,” she said. “And I’ll thank you to go alone, Kerr. I’ve no wish to see you escort yet another light-heeled Frenchwoman and make me hesitate to open my correspondence in the morning. You’ll come alone, and the following day you’ll go to St. Albans and marry Emma, if she’ll still have you.”
“Her refusal is, of course, always a possibility.”
“Don’
t look so damned hopeful about it!” his godmother snapped.
Chapter Five
Bethany Lynn was beside herself with anxiety. Her elder sister had, by all appearances, utterly lost her mind, and nothing Bethany said seemed to convince her otherwise. “Kerr will never believe you’re French!” she said desperately. “Everyone says that he did nothing but drink and seduce women when he was in Paris. He’s an expert on the subject of Frenchwomen.”
“Of course I can fool the man,” Emma answered, clearly unperturbed. “I shall pretend I’m with Mama. She never spoke a word of English in the last two years of her life; there were times when I felt I was forgetting my native tongue.”
“You don’t look in the least French.”
“Sometimes I feel as if I understand men better than you, for all that you’re married,” Emma said. “My expectation is that if I throw on a French accent, babble a few phrases, and appear happy to see him, my true nationality will not matter. I’ll make him believe that we first met in Paris.”
“He’ll never believe that,” Bethany insisted.
“You just said that Kerr admits to being so routinely drunk that he could have had a clandestine encounter with the Empress Josephine without remembering. What’s more, I know the name his intimates call him. I’ll use it to prove our acquaintance.”
“What is it?” Bethany asked.
“Gil. His godmother, the Countess of Bredelbane, wrote me with that bit of information. She writes quite regularly, trying to make up for her godson’s neglect.”
“I’m not convinced,” Bethany said stubbornly.
“From what I’ve heard in the village,” Emma answered, knowing that she was about to shock her little sister, “if one wishes to seduce a man, therappe are only two tools that matter: alcohol and a scanty gown. Most of the stories I hear have to do with either a drunken man or a naked woman. Or both.”
“Who is telling you such things?” Bethany demanded. “You’d think the village women would have more respect for the delicacy of a young lady.”
Emma snorted. “And if I was so delicate, who would help birth the village babies?”
Bethany scowled. “You know what I mean.”
“The point is that if I can’t get Kerr to drink himself into a fever of lust, I’ll simply unclothe myself, and that will do it. By all accounts, a man cannot resist the sight of the undressed female form. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Suddenly Bethany had a little smile on her lips that made Emma feel a sudden stab of envy. Her little sister’s betrothal dated back to her fifth birthday, just as did Emma’s, but Bethany’s future husband, John, appeared on their doorstep after Bethany’s sixteenth birthday, took one good look at his bride’s brandy-colored curls and blue eyes, and promptly began begging for an early ceremony. That was in sharp contrast to her own betrothed, who had driven out to St. Albans to formalize the betrothal once he was of age, stopped by casually a few times if he happened to be hunting in the district, and hadn’t been seen at all for the past three years.
“You should probably leave your hair down,” Bethany said, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing. “And show lots of bosom.”
“I can do that,” Emma said, pulling pins from her dark red hair. It fell to the middle of her back.
“Frenchwomen always wear maquillage,” her sister pointed out. “You would laugh to see how many ladies in London paint a red circle on their cheek and think it gives them the air of a French comtesse.”
“I already use maquillage,” Emma said.
Bethany peered at her. “Oh. You’ve darkened your lashes.”
“And my eyebrows.”
“You’re locked away in the country, and you wear the very best gowns and face paints. And yet you look—well, you look absolutely delicious, Emma. Why?”
“I feel better when I am properly dressed. But I do think you’re right. I’ve been without an audience.”
“This is absurd!” Bethany said, reversing herself. “Kerr will recognize you. Be serious, Emma! He may not have visited in a few years, but he’s seen you on at least five or six occasions, and one does tend to examine the face of one’s future bride rather closely.”
“He won’t recognize me with a mask on,” Emma said, grinning at Bethany.
“A mask? You mean Vauxhall?”
“No. I was thinking of Lord Cavendish’s masquerade ball.”
“Oh!” Bethany said with a gasp of excitement. “What a brilliant thought, Emma! I have an invitation.”
“A masquerade will be an excellent arena for our first meeting in years,” Emma said. “I’ll wear that Elizabethan gown and mask that belonged to Great-Aunt Gertrude. Do you remember it?”
“She was our great-great aunt,” Bethany remarked. “Of course I do! Remember how angry Father was when I tried it on and trailed about in the dust? He said the jewels on it were worth as much as my dowry.”
“A few years ago I had it cleaned and stored properly in a wardrobe,” Emma sai C01Dn thed. “It was far too beautiful to leave as a supper for moths in the attic. It will make a perfect disguise. I’ll go as an Elizabethan lady, and wear the mask that accompanies the dress. It covers most of my f
Her sister was still biting her lip. Emma sighed. “You haven’t changed an iota from when you were seven years old, Bethany. Have a little faith in me!”
“That’s just it,” Bethany said. “You haven’t changed either, Emma. You’re playing to win, above all. But you may not wish to win, if you think about it. Marriage is too important to turn into a game.”
“You give the evening—and marriage—too much importance,” Emma retorted. “I’d just as soon marry Kerr as any other Londoner. He’s handsome, wealthy, and titled. More importantly, if I find that I don’t like him on closer examination, I’ll call my carriage and be away. He will never know that he was assessed and found wanting. I’ll simply write him a note annulling our betrothal, come to London, and find a husband more to my taste.”
Bethany gave up. “I shall be waiting in the carriage. If anyone shows a sign of recognizing you, you must leave immediately.”
“No, no, we must do the thing properly,” Emma said. “I’ll take a room at Grillon’s Hotel as a French widow. That way no one could connect the two of us.”
“Go to the ball in a hackney, from a hotel!” Bethany gasped. “Absolutely not! You would be ruined if anyone found out. You will take a room at a hotel over my dead body!”
“I’ll allow you to drive me to the ball,” Emma said soothingly.
But Bethany was not fooled. The smile on her sister’s face was that of someone who had never lost a challenge yet and had no intention of losing this one. She was alive with joy. There was nothing Emma enjoyed so much as a challenge: the higher the stakes, the better.
“No hotel,” Bethany added,
trying to sound firm.
“Of course not,” Emma replied.
Chapter Six
One Week Later
The carriage rocked over the cobblestones on its way to Burlington House, where Cavendish was holding his masquerade ball.
“What if someone recognizes you?” Bethany moaned. She was indulging in an agony of second thoughts.
“No one will recognize me,” Emma said patiently. “I haven’t been to London in almost five years, since before Mama grew ill. And I never properly debuted, you remember. Just think of it as a game of charades, nothing more.”
The sparkle of passing lights reflected in the gleam of Emma’s jeweled dress. She was sitting opposite Bethany, facing backward since her dress took up the entire seat. It laced up the front and then cut wide over her breasts, flaring into sleeves whose brocade flowers were picked out in jewels.
Bethany gasped. “We forgot to discuss—to discuss—”
Emma raised an eyebrow.
“The baby!” her sister sputtered.
“Oh that,” Emma shrugged. “I certainly understand the mechanics. And given Kerr’s reputation, he should have no questions in that area.”< F01Dn row.
/p>
“But the mechanics—” Bethany moaned, her alarm clearly growing.
Luckily, the carriage was slowing down; Emma judged she had better hop out before her little sister tried to issue a veto on the evening. “Deficient though I may be in experience,” she said, “the trifling embarrassment of allowing my fiancé to do the necessary will not overset me. It must be done at some time, must it not?”
Bethany seemed to be having trouble catching her breath.
Emma sighed. “Unless I have been gravely misled, the act is nothing to which one should attach undue sentiment. Although I have no particular feelings about where this event takes place, I should prefer a location other than the carriage. In fact, I shall insist that I, as a representative of the French nation, should not be deflowered in a carriage.”
Bethany gulped.
“I suppose that you did the thing properly, in a dark room under the covers,” Emma said kindly. “But you know that I’ve never had a grain of proper sentiment about me, Bethany. I have no particular feelings for Kerr. But I do think that it will be an excellent thing for our marriage if he discovers that he has, in essence, been ‘hoist with his own petard.’”
“Is that Shakespeare?” Bethany asked dubiously.
“I have to win the challenge,” Emma explained, “because otherwise Kerr will see no particular reason not to continue in his indifferent ways. I think it best to take him in hand before we marry.”
“Oh, Emma, I wish I’d never told you Kerr’s comment! John would not approve of this evening,” Bethany moaned.
Emma laughed. “Of course your husband wouldn’t approve, darling. He’s a sweet, thoughtful man who is a perfect match for you.”
“That’s not the point. Kerr isn’t sweet nor thoughtful!”
Emma waved her hand to silence her. “Neither am I, darling. Neither am I.”
Bethany looked up at her sister and bit her lip. Truly, Emma didn’t look sweet nor thoughtful either. She looked dangerous, her eyes glinting wickedly over her mask, her gown’s tight lacing enhancing her breasts. “I’ll be waiting in the carriage for you.”
Emma grinned. “You needn’t wait, love.” She descended from the carriage and then peeked back in. “I’ve taken a room at Grillon’s Hotel, and my maid is already waiting for me there.”
They probably heard Bethany’s shriek in the next cou
nty. But Emma just waved good-bye and adjusted her mask.
The competition had begun.
Chapter Seven
The footmen who had been set to guard the door of the Cavendish ball were having a difficult time of it. They’d had to turn away at least a score of people who had no invitations, and more recently, five whose invitations were obviously fraudulent. One could tell from the very way they walked that the invitations wouldn’t prove to be genuine, James thought to himself. They didn’t have that air of command.
Not like the prime article getting out of the carriage now: tall and slender, but with a bosom that made his mouth water. She had buckets of red hair, all curled and looped down her back, and the contrast between all that red hair and the white gleam of her plump breasts made James NUld bit h’s knees feel weak. He hardly glanced at her card, so mesmerized was he by the faint smile in her green eyes as they regarded him over the edge of her mask.
“Here you are, my lady,” he said, breathlessly handing back the invitation, even though they’d been expressly told to keep them so that no one could hand them out the back window to a friend.
“Merci beaucoup,” she murmured, and the shiver went straight down James’s legs. She was a Frenchwoman, she was. And if all Frenchwomen were like this, the world would be a better place.
The ballroom was brilliant with a shifting mass of bright silks, swaying feathers, and the glint of gems. Off in the corner, a small orchestra was making a valiant effort, but people were far too excited to dance. The whole ballroom was filled with Marie Antoinettes and Julius Caesars, screaming with delight when they glimpsed each other and darting across the room to press powdered cheek to powdered cheek.
Emma felt a pure stab of excitement. It had been too long since she went to a ball. Painting sets for Mr. Tey was fascinating in its own way. But painting was a lonely skill and offered none of the heart-thumping pleasure of a masquerade. She drifted through the crowd. People parted before her, drawing back, their voices drifting toward her: “Who’s that…really?” “It can’t be…darling, I’ve never seen her before….” And then: quite clearly: “Those are real diamonds; she’s no governess.”
She felt a peck of annoyance at herself. She should have come to London so she would know who all these people were. There was no doubt that she would recognize Kerr, but not his friends. A gentleman was standing just to one side, gaping at her as though she had fallen straight from the sky. She dropped her eyelashes, slowly, and then looked at him again. He had such a mindless expression that she felt certain he would be a friend of Kerr’s.
It appeared the young lord was called Duffer, a thoroughly appropriate name. He almost stumbled over his own boots in his haste to kiss h
Kerr was seated at a table playing vingt-et-un, his head bent to the side, studying his cards. Emma paused for a moment, letting Duffer’s hand slip from her arm. Her future husband (if she decided to give him the honor) was remarkably good looking: tall and dark, with a gypsy face and slanted eyes. He wasn’t wearing a costume, just a stark black coat and a carelessly tied scarf, but he looked better than all the peacocks he was sitting among.
“Kerr!” Lockwood hissed at him. “Wake up, man. There’s a woman behind you!”
The last thing Gil wanted was trouble with women. Tomorrow he was going to St. Albans, and…
He looked. She was trouble. Trouble in all the ways he most liked.
“My lord,” the woman said huskily. “You are playing with such devotion that you haven’t noticed me.”
“I’m afraid that I’m at a disadvantage,” Gil said, rising and bowing. “I am Gilbert Baring-Gould, the Earl of Kerr.”
“Mais, monsieur,” she cried, drawing back, her voice breaking slightly, “Darling Gil, you haven’t forgotten me, have you?”
Gil blinked. Surely he hadn’t—
“Oh, but you have forgotten me,” she said, her voice dipping into a husky lament. “Hélas, gentlemen—”
She cast a brilliant smile around S smp>
“Dangerous?” Gil said. He was almost certain he’d never met her before. Except perhaps there was just the faintest hint of something familiar about her. “Absent-minded, perhaps, but not dangerous.”
“You admit it,” she said, pouting.
Lockwood was clearly anxious to assuage her disappointment. He stepped forward and kissed her hand. “Ah, mademoiselle,” he said softly, “my heart is French, I assure you. I could never forget the merest press of your fingertips.”