Never Resist a Rake (15 page)

“You fell off the roof once,” John reminded him.

“Oh, quite right. That must be it. Well, can't say as I blame her then, but my son has to come home, you see.”

“Why?” John kicked himself for a fool, but something in him hoped to hear his father say that he longed to meet him, that he wanted to ask his forgiveness, that he was sorry for the wasted years, and could they start afresh?

“On account of the hunt,” the marquess said as he shuffled along.

John's belly spiraled downward in disappointment. He should have known better. “Oh, you need his help when you entertain the visiting lords.”

“Oh, no. We've already set up the blinds and have beaters lined up ready for the shooting. It'll be grand. Always is.”

John wondered if everyone in Somerfield Park was dotty. They surely had to be if Lord Somerset was going to be allowed to handle a loaded weapon.

“Then if your son isn't helping you with the annual hunting party, what hunt are you talking about?”

His lordship put a finger to his mouth and made a shushing sound. “
Maman
says we're not to speak of it until it's time.”

John's curiosity burned. “That's all right,” he assured the marquess. “You can tell me.”

“Why, so I can. If one can't trust one's footman, who can one trust? The hunt my son must come home for is the Hartley Hunt.”

“The Hartley Hunt?”

“Yes, of course. He's Lord Hartley now, and it's high time he did his duty.”

“What duty?”

“Why, to wed and breed a gaggle of sons to ensure the continuation of the line, of course. So
Maman
has invited all the right sorts of young ladies, not a one of them less than an earl's daughter, mind you. One of them will bag him before the season turns.” Lord Somerset stopped mid-stride and sighed. “Mark my words. When a woman sets her cap for a man, it's all up with him.”

He'd suspected as much, but John swallowed back his indignation at this confirmation that he'd been summoned to Somerfield Park simply to serve as breeding stock. Something in his father's tone suggested he'd recalled a vivid memory, and while it was fresh in Lord Somerset's mind, John wanted to hear about it. “Is that what happened to you? A woman set her cap for you?”

“Yes. She beguiled me,” Lord Somerset said.

John was right. The way the older man smiled at the memory convinced him it was clearer than most of what scampered about his father's confused brain.

“I knew I shouldn't,” his lordship continued, “but I couldn't take my eyes off her.”

“Lady Somerset is a striking woman.” During the tea they had shared, his father's wife had impressed John as being equally lovely on the inside.

“Yes, she is, but no, I don't mean Helen. I learned to love her later, after our parents arranged everything. In fact, I loved her so well, we had to rush the wedding a bit.” Lord Somerset chuckled. “Shh. Don't tell.”

Then his face took on a wistful expression, and John suspected his father was in another time and place entirely.

“When I first saw my Sadie on the stage, her eyes lit with fire, her voice… Lord, the woman had a voice that would tempt angels.”

Lord Somerset was speaking of John's mother. So the old man did remember her. John remembered the sound of her voice as well. She used to sing to him sometimes, low and comforting.

“I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't help myself. I had to have her. Father was furious. If he could have disowned me, he would have.” The marquess hung his head. “Then, as it turned out, she didn't want me either. Father was even more furious.”

“What did you do?” John wanted desperately to know how things fell out between his parents. Why his mother had decided not to remain with a marquess was a mystery beyond his ability to unravel.

“I think…I think I need my valet,” Lord Somerset said, abruptly changing the subject. “I say, Toby, nip off and find Mr. Cope, will you?”

“Why do you need your valet, my lord?”

“Well, if I'm going to bed, I need my pajamas, don't I?”

“You're already wearing your banyan.”

The marquess looked down at himself and laughed. “So I am. You are a sharp one, Toby. Hightower said so. Don't know what Somerfield Park would do without him. That butler is always right.”

The marquess went into his bedchamber, leaving John in the dark corridor. Then he walked the short distance down the same hall to the room he'd been allotted.

It was a fine chamber, as befitted the heir to Somerset, firmly central in the Family wing of this floor. To all appearances, he was being welcomed by the Barretts with open arms.

Except now his father had let slip the reason he'd been sought out in London and dragged back to the country. They didn't want him. Not really. His grandmother intended to use him solely to further the Barrett lineage. No doubt once John begat an heir of his own on an approved earl's daughter, his usefulness to the Family would be over. They could relegate him, as the unorthodox heir, to the background and lavish their attention on the next marquess in the making, biding their time until that nameless one could take his rightful place.

And it seemed his future wife's pedigree was important enough that the dowager had decreed she must be at least the daughter of an earl.

Rebecca's father was a threadbare baron.

He shoved that thought away. Even if she met the dowager's requirements, John wouldn't saddle her with his mess. She was too fine, too innocent, too open a person to be burdened with a shut-off fellow like him.

As his hand closed over the doorknob to his chamber, an idea to thwart the dowager's plans for him, and have a bit of fun while he was at it, popped into his head.

“So she wants to see me with an earl's daughter, does she?” he murmured. “As luck would have it, I have one in mind.”

When I had my coming out, nothing could separate me from my bosom friends, with one notable exception. If a match with an eligible party was in the offing, all bonds of sisterhood were strained to the breaking point.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“Thank heaven Somerfield Park isn't too terribly distant from London. Else I couldn't bear all the sheep.” Lady Winifred Chalcroft removed the charming little capote from her blond head and settled on the foot of Rebecca's bed. With un-Freddie-like attention to her wardrobe, she smoothed out her column gown's sheer overlay to ensure it didn't wrinkle. “There were simply endless flocks of them on the way here. Honestly, how can anyone enjoy rusticating in the country when there are museums and plays and lectures to be had in the city?”

Remembered pleasure from her time on the roof with John rushed back into Rebecca. She bit her lower lip, trying to avoid a blush. “Country life has its charms.”

“No doubt, if one is content to be a cabbage. I, for one, prefer to improve my mind. Gallivanting along the hedgerows, trying to avoid animal droppings, is not my idea of time well spent.”

“I believe there is an extensive library here.”

“Well, that's a mercy.” Freddie narrowed her eyes at Rebecca. “You look terribly wan, and there are dark smudges under your eyes. Are you unwell?”

Rebecca pressed her palms to her cheeks. With all the young ladies descending upon Somerfield Park, she had to be in her best looks. “No, I'm fine. I just didn't get much sleep last night.”

“Oh?”

“I was on the roof for a meteor shower.”

“That's right. The Leonids. Well, where are your notes? Did you time the event? How many meteorites did you observe per hour?”

Nothing could have been farther from her thoughts at the time the stars began to fall. “I'm afraid I only observed the phenomenon.”

“What? A cow could merely watch the Leonids shower, Rebecca. Where's your sense of scientific inquiry?” Freddie shook her head. “Well, never mind. The meteorites should return tonight, and I'll make a detailed record. The roof should be a good vantage point, eh? Perhaps this won't be a wholly wasted fortnight after all.”

“Does that mean you've given up winning Lord Hartley?” Rebecca wandered to the window and looked down on yet another coach pulling up the long drive. Once it stopped, the butler and footman leaped to open the carriage door for the visiting dignitaries and handed them out with aplomb.

“Oh no,” Freddie said, waving a hand airily. “Father is adamant that I give becoming Lady Hartley my best, and you know when I set my mind to something, I rarely fail.”

Rebecca smiled at Freddie's roundabout way of patting her own back. Then she spared a moment to pity John. All day, carriages like the one below had been arriving at the house's great double front doors. Some of the finest families in the kingdom spilled from those elegant equipages. If all the young ladies who alighted from those carriages were of the same mind as Freddie, Lord Hartley would have to step lively to evade capture by one of them.

But surely after last night, the fact that these wellborn ladies were after him wouldn't be enough to turn his head. She and John had formed a bond in shared pleasure. Rebecca was a part of him now, no matter what he had to say on the subject.

A soft rap came at the door.

“That'll be Olive with your gown,” Freddie said, then raised her voice. “Come.”

“My gown?” Rebecca said as Freddie's maid bustled in bearing a smallish valise and a largish hatbox.

“Yes, you silly goose, have you forgotten already? I had that pale pink one of mine resized for you.” Freddie turned to her maid. “Step lively, Olive. It'll be wrinkled enough without your shilly-shallying.”

Since Rebecca had never seen Olive move at less than a flustered trot, she didn't think the maid could be accused of shillying a single shally.

“I'm sure it will be fine,” Rebecca said. Beggars couldn't be choosers, in any case.

Olive shot her a shy smile and quickly unpacked the gown, spreading it on the bed and smoothing her palms over the pink silk. It was an ethereal watery color and reminded Rebecca of the eastern sky as night retreated, before the heat of the sun warmed the heavens to a rosier hue.

The color would have washed Freddie out completely, since she was pale to begin with, but it would be perfect for Rebecca, with her chestnut hair and cool-green eyes.

“Oh my,” she whispered in awe. “This gown is far better than fine. It might have been made for me.”

“Well, don't stand there gaping like a codfish, Rebecca.” The smile in Freddie's voice mitigated her harsh words. She was clearly pleased by Rebecca's reaction. “Try it on.”

Olive's deft hands helped her out of her thrice-turned green day gown and into the pink silk. Freddie's measurements proved true. The bodice was snug, the décolletage daring but not vulgar. The empire waist rose to the exactly right place. The skirt portion flowed over Rebecca's hips like water and spilled onto the polished floor.

“Oh, that train is
le
dernier
cri
,” Freddie exclaimed, clapping her hands over the foot and a half of silk and lace that trailed Rebecca. The maid shot her a questioning look. “It's something of a pun, Olive.
Le
dernier
cri
literally means ‘the last word.' Won't Rebecca's derriere give everyone reason to watch her walk away with a train accentuating her charms like that?”

“It does make me feel like a princess,” Rebecca said happily, as she turned this way and that before the long looking glass in the corner. She couldn't wait to see John's expression when he saw her in it.

Freddie choked on a laugh. “Not quite a princess, my dear. Let's not succumb to delusions of grandeur, but you'll do. Indeed, you will.” She nodded approvingly. “Have you any jewels?”

Long ago, her father had pawned every piece of jewelry Rebecca had inherited from her grandmother on her mother's side. It was supposed to form part of her dowry, but nothing was safe from the requirements of a debt of honor.

“I didn't think to bring anything but ribbons to the country,” she lied. She'd always rather Freddie think her above such fripperies than unable to have them.

“Well, a ribbon at your neck might be fine for day wear, but it won't do for that gown,” Freddie said. “Olive, fetch my freshwater pearls. They're simple but elegant. They should do nicely. Now slip on your gloves. You have some white satin, don't you? Good. Oh, wait till you see the cunning little headdress I had my milliner work up for you.”

“You didn't have to do that.” She'd never be able to repay her friend's generosity.

“Pish! I wanted to.”

Freddie dove into the hatbox and came up with a fetching confection of lace and seed pearls. An ostrich feather curled around the headpiece, and once Freddie positioned it correctly, the plume nodded above Rebecca's head.

The two girls gazed into the mirror together. Rebecca couldn't say which of them looked more pleased by the results of her transformation. Freddie might be brash and abrupt sometimes, but she had a tender heart and a generous spirit.

“You're so good to me,” Rebecca said, giving her an impulsive hug.

Freddie waved her away. “Piffle. What are friends for?”

A prickle of guilt niggled at Rebecca. Last night, she'd been all tangled up with the man her friend had set her cap for. She hadn't felt disloyal to Freddie at the time. After all, Freddie hardly knew John, and it wasn't as if her heart was engaged. But now, she and Freddie—and every other woman of marriageable age visiting the great house—would be in direct competition for his favor.

She ought to step aside for Freddie. After all, Rebecca wasn't really up to scratch. She ought to put her efforts into helping her friend's cause. John trusted her. She could do a great deal to improve Freddie's chances.

Her chest ached at the thought. When she and John were together, the difference in their stations didn't matter a jot. She knew things about him, personal things like his astounding confession about how he really felt about having been with too many women. She knew about his boyhood hurts. She didn't think he'd ever tell anyone else about that. She longed to ease the bitterness he felt toward his family. It was eating him up, and she hurt right along with him.

Which of the other wellborn daughters coming to Somerfield Park were interested in John for himself instead of the marchioness's coronet he could offer them?

When Rebecca looked up at the night sky this evening, she wondered if she could find a world where things like rank and wealth didn't matter. Where was the place where love trumped all?

“Oh! I brought the slippers to match too.” Freddie began pawing through the valise and hatbox looking for them. “Lovely little beaded things. Your feet may be a tad bigger than mine, but even so, I should think you'll do well with them. It's not as if your dance card will be completely full in any case. Not with all the higher-ranking debutantes available.”

Freddie's words made tears press against the backs of Rebecca's eyes. Her friend didn't mean to be cruel, she reminded herself. Freddie was simply devoted to the truth, however unpalatable it might be. In a ballroom filled with earls' daughters, Rebecca would naturally be a wallflower.

But
I'll be an extremely well-turned-out wallflower
, she told herself.

While Freddie continued to mutter about the whereabouts of those slippers, Rebecca wandered to the window and looked down at yet another coach arriving. A strikingly beautiful woman stepped down from a smart equipage.

Freddie's fashionably blond tresses were so fair as to be almost white. This lady's long curls glinted golden in the sunlight as they escaped her flattering scoop-shaped capote. Her gown and matching pelisse were an eye-catching poppy red, a hue few wellborn misses would dare. However, instead of overpowering this woman, the flamboyant shade only accentuated her natural beauty. From her dainty satin half boot to the
coquelicot
ribbon on her bonnet that matched her outrageously bright gown, she was dressed in the first stare of fashion, despite the loud color.

But her bold fashion sense wasn't what made Rebecca's heart sink to her pelvic floor.

It was the fact that the footman didn't help her alight from the carriage. Neither did Somerfield Park's butler.

John Fitzhugh Barrett stepped lively to hand her down himself.

* * *

Lord Somerset wasn't available to greet his guests for the hunt. Lady Somerset had stepped in to welcome the visiting lords and ladies with her typical unruffled dignity. However, by midafternoon it was clear she was flagging, so John had asked that he be allowed to take her place.

“Thank you, Lord Hartley. What a thoughtful and brilliant idea,” she said. “I confess to being all in, and there are a number of things I must tend to before our first dinner this evening. I wonder if Richard might join you to make introductions.”

His half brother was called away from poring over the estate's ledgers to greet the
bon
ton
as they alighted from their equipages. To his credit, Richard introduced John as “my brother, Lord Hartley” and not as “the upstart usurper who stole my birthright.” John doubted
he'd
have been half so gracious if their places were reversed.

It was a measure of the prestige of Somerset that the lords to whom he was presented did not shun him as the denizens of White's had when he was on his own in London. Instead of being cut by the ladies, John lost count of the number of giggling debutantes who made dipping curtsies to him or flirted with him from behind their fans on their way into Somerfield Park.

Clearly, the “Hartley Hunt” was in full force.

After all the lumbering coaches, John was surprised to see a single fellow come whipping down the tree-lined lane driving an open gig meant for speed instead of comfortable travel. Richard's face split in a smile as he stepped forward to greet the gentleman, whose sandy hair was disheveled and whose waistcoat was spattered with mud from flying over the country roads.

“In a hurry to meet the Grim Reaper, are you, Seymour?” Richard said.

“Not at all. This gig is devilishly fast, but perfectly safe.”

“It's not the gig I'm worried about,” Richard said. “It's your driving.”

“I'm careful enough.” Seymour grinned. “I'm trying to save myself for your sister Petra. She's offered to end me more than once. I'd hate to deprive her of the pleasure.”

Then the fellow turned to John. “And you must be the man who rescued my friend from a lifetime of boredom in the House of Lords. Lawrence Seymour, your servant, sir,” he said to John as he tossed the reins of his high-stepping filly to a waiting hostler. “Didn't that sound nice? I'm actually philosophically opposed to being treated as a servant on any level.”

John shook Seymour's hand and decided he liked Richard's friend.

“I'll see Seymour to his room,” Richard said. “It'll be my last chance to remind him that meddling with any of our sisters will require us to nail him to a stump and set the stump on fire.”

John laughed as they headed into the house. “Our sisters,” Richard had said. “Us.” John wished it were true. All his life, he'd wished for a father and a family. He'd never been part of an “us.” With Lord Somerset's growing dementia, the chance to be recognized as a son was slipping away. Was it possible that John might have a half brother and sisters who were truly willing to make him part of their circle?

He pushed the wish aside as childish. Rebecca was right. He wasn't six years old anymore.

Another coach broke free of the tree-lined drive. John recognized the Endicott crest embossed on the side. Family was a dicey proposition. He could choose his friends, and they were all finally here. He pushed past Mr. Hightower and the footman to open the coach once it rolled to a stop.