Never Resist a Rake (18 page)

The wellborn gentleman's propensity for gambling never ceases to amaze, especially since most wagers are guaranteed ways of exchanging something for nothing. Ladies also have the urge to indulge in games of chance, but they satisfy this need by giving their trust to men…with similar results.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Rebecca slipped into her chamber and leaned against the closed door. The snick of the latch released her pent-up frustration, utter bewilderment, and simmering rage. She covered her mouth to muffle the keening that threatened to escape. Her knees sagged. She was surprised they still held her up.

So
this
is
what
hell
is
like—or at least purgatory. Painfully aware of what's happening but totally unable to change a thing.

Her cheeks ached from the false smile she'd plastered on her face all evening. She'd hidden behind it as if it were a medieval visor, a place of relative safety from which to view the world around her—a world that had been stood on its ear from the moment John offered his arm to Lady Chloe.

Rebecca had been so monumentally stupid. From the first time John demanded—and received!—a kiss from her, he'd played upon her ignorance. He'd amused himself by toying with her on the roof. John had wakened her sensuality and revealed her vulnerability. Only by the slimmest of margins had she escaped total ruin.

She lit the candle on her dressing table. It would be another half hour or so before the maid she shared with her mother came to help her out of her gown. In the meantime, she sat, toed off her slippers, and peeled off her stockings. She balled them in her fists and then threw them as hard as she could. They fluttered to the floor only a few feet away.

She couldn't identify what she was feeling. She was all hot inside. And miserable. And blaming herself as much as John for her predicament.

The lovely ball gown Freddie had brought for her was still spread across her bed. She had allowed herself the fantasy that, in that gown, she'd so capture John's heart that he'd defy his family and take her for his marchioness despite her lowly status.

“I'm such a fool.” Her whisper floated up to the cherub-covered ceiling and swirled around the cornices.

There was little point to the gown now, not if John was as obsessed as he seemed to be with Lady Chloe. Tomorrow, she'd beg her parents to take her back to London. They were out of their depth here. All of them. Her father was likely to make a buffoon of himself with the other gentlemen. Her mother never did as well physically outside of her own home. And Rebecca had left a piece of her innocence, given a sliver of her heart to a man who didn't treasure it on Somerfield Park's flat roof. She narrowly resisted the urge to fly down the grand staircase, out the big double doors, and down the long lane.

She'd never look back.

She promised herself she would not weep. John didn't deserve her tears. She would not—

For some reason, her cheeks were wet.

A soft rap sounded on her door. The maid must have finished with Lady Kearsey much more quickly than Rebecca expected.

“Come,” she said, swiping at her face. She didn't want the maid reporting back to her mother that her cheeks were unaccountably damp.

But it wasn't the maid. Instead, Freddie poked her head around the door. “Oh, good. You're still dressed.”

Her friend bustled into the room. “Well, don't just sit there. Put your shoes and stockings back on. We haven't much time.”

“Time for what?”

“The Leonids, you little goose. They should still be here tonight and the next if we're lucky. I've commandeered a footman who will lead us to the roof and back down again after a few hours.”

Rebecca had forgotten all about the falling stars. They were less than nothing to her. Unreal. In fact, everything around her, from the flickering light of her candle to her discarded stockings and slippers, seemed as false as stage props on Drury Lane, as if they were pale symbols of things and not the things themselves.

But Freddie was true. She was comfortingly real—and a friend who could be counted upon to be nosy if Rebecca behaved the least out of character.

She decided to take refuge in a lady's eternal excuse when she didn't wish to do something. “I'm afraid I have a terrible headache.”

It was almost true. There was a soft pounding behind her left eye.

“Really? Why?” Freddie asked, plopping down on the foot of the bed. “I mean, I could see why I might have developed one, what with the way that horrid Lady Chloe monopolized Lord Hartley all evening, but why you?”

“I suspect several feminine hearts were disappointed this night, but you're right. I have no reason to be upset over Lord Hartley's choice of dinner companion.” It was true, and no amount of flutters in her chest would change it. She had no claim on John. She wished he had none on her. “I don't know why, but my head is pounding.”

“Oh, you poor dear. I have some laudanum in my room. Shall I fetch it?”

“No.” Rebecca never enjoyed the sensation of floating outside her own body that opiates delivered. Besides, she'd heard some people came to need that brand of oblivion, and she didn't wish to be one of them. “I only need sleep.”

“Of course.” Her friend rose to remove the pink gown from the bed, and hung it in the wardrobe. Freddie hummed to herself as she worked, as if she hadn't been dealt a setback in her own quest to capture the elusive Lord Hartley.

“You had every right to expect you'd be able to get to know his lordship this evening,” Rebecca said. “Why aren't you upset about…about the way things went?”

“Because this evening is of no import.” Freddie waved her hand as if she could wave away any obstacle she encountered just as easily. “This is a marathon, not a sprint. Lady Chloe is merely a diversion, a way for his lordship to assert his independence from his family's wishes.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course. Did you see the look on the dowager's face?” She loosed an un-Freddie-like giggle. Clearly Rebecca's friend was trying on a new persona in her attempt at a future marchioness's crown—a flightier, more insipid version of herself. Rebecca wasn't sure she liked it. If her friend had to be someone other than herself to capture a husband, would it be worth the transformation if Freddie lost what made her unique? “Old Lady Somerset was nearly apoplectic.”

“That's true.” Perhaps John was motivated by something other than Lady Chloe's superb figure and very red mouth.

“Where is that abigail of yours?” Freddie demanded. “Never mind. Stand up, dear, and let me help you.”

Freddie made short work of removing her gown and dressing her in her night rail. Rebecca found herself being tucked in before she knew it.

“You don't need to do this, you know.” Once again, Rebecca suffered a pinch of guilt over the way she felt about John. Not that it would make a smidge of difference to the outcome of the Hartley Hunt. Clearly she was of no import to John, and her feelings one way or another for him wouldn't change a thing. But Rebecca still felt guilty because she'd never kept anything a secret from her best friend before. “You're so good to me, Freddie.”

“Pish. It's not just you. I'm good to everyone.”

In her own brusque way, she was. “Good night,” Rebecca said as she sank deeper into the feather tick. “Oh, do me a favor, will you?”

“Another one?” Despite her words, Freddie paused by the door. “What, dear?”

“Don't monitor the Leonids tonight. We'll do it together tomorrow. They'll still be there.” It would also give Rebecca a chance to make sure that damning little love bower on the roof was made to disappear. Freddie was sure to unravel the reason for those blankets and mattresses.

“All right. I hope you feel better.” Freddie slipped out of the room.

Rebecca stared up at the painted cherubs on her ceiling and wondered why God had sent her such a good friend as Lady Winifred Chalcroft.

And such a bad lover as John Fitzhugh Barrett.

Lover. I have a lover—had a lover.

She must put it in the past tense, even in her own thoughts. She'd never forget that night under the stars, but she also couldn't allow herself to be silly enough to repeat it.

Of course, John showed no sign of wanting to. He had been too busy laughing and flirting with Lady Chloe all evening.

Her chest constricted as if a heavy weight had been placed upon it. If he ever did want her again, she'd at least have the pleasure of rejecting him. She promised herself that with fervor. A girl had to have some measure of self-respect.

It was several minutes before she realized she was clenching her fists so tightly, her fingernails left deep marks on the heels of her palms. How foolish to be so self-destructive when John had proven destructive enough. A tear leaked out and slid into her hairline, leaving a salty streak.

There was another rap on the door. It was her long-suffering maid. Rebecca thanked her, but assured her she needed nothing and sent her on her way. Then Rebecca climbed back into bed to stare up at the cherubic ceiling again.

Sleep fled from her as surely as the little naked godlings seemed to flit between the cornices over her head.

She tossed and turned. Her mind might reject the notion of John Fitzhugh Barrett. Her body had other ideas completely.

She kept replaying her time on the roof, all tangled up with John. Remembered sensations made her feel achy and swollen in her intimate parts. She put a hand to her own breasts in an effort to still the determined throb. It made matters worse.

She flopped onto her belly and covered her head with a pillow. It didn't help.

Finally, as she skimmed that twilight place between sleep and awareness, Rebecca was jerked back to full wakefulness by a soft scratching on her door.

Freddie must have decided to come back and check on her since she pleaded that headache.

“I so don't deserve her.” Rebecca dragged herself out of bed and went to open the door.

But it wasn't Freddie. John was standing in the hallway.

Rebecca was thankful for her aching palms and the little crescent moon indentations left by her own nails. They'd help her remember her resolve.

* * *

Four lovely ladies grinned up at Lord Kearsey. After hours of pitiful fare, this was the best hand of cards he'd held all night. It made the stale fug of cigar smoke and alcohol that swirled around the gaming room bearable again.

What were the odds that anyone still at the poque table could beat his queens?

By thunder, he deserved a bit of good luck for a change. After Lord Hartley all but snubbed his dear Rebecca, he'd been of half a mind to gather his little family and return to London. His lordship had invited her especially to Somerfield Park. Had practically demanded her presence. And then the cad had ignored Rebecca completely, spending the first evening of the house party with that infamous Lady Chloe at his side.

Kearsey would have stormed out after that insult if Lord Blackwood hadn't promised him a poque game once the ladies retired for the evening. It would have been a shame to travel all the way to Somerset for nothing. There were some fat purses represented in this party. At the very least, Kearsey counted on being able to recoup his traveling expenses at the gaming table.

Instead, his pile of chips dwindled steadily as the right cards fled from him with each hand.

But not this time. His four queens were a gift from heaven. Kearsey raised the bid with the last of his chips.

“Too rich for my blood,” Lord Arbuthnot said as he stood, scooping up more chips than he left in the poque pools. “I pray you'll excuse me until another time, gentlemen.”

Both Kearsey and Blackwood stood to bid the earl good night, and then settled again to fight out this final hand. There had been six players at the start of the evening, but one by one, they'd bowed out after having their pockets lightened considerably. Most of their chips were stacked before Viscount Blackwood. The rest were in the poque pools, waiting for this hand to be decided.

“I could buy this round, you know.” Blackwood drummed his fingers on the tabletop as the longcase clock in the hall chimed three.

“Where's the sport in that?” Kearsey said. He'd sunk all his available blunt into his chips. What would his dear wife say if he told her he'd lost the money that was supposed to support them for the next half year? It didn't bear thinking on. If he could draw Blackwood into committing more of his wealth on this hand, Kearsey might yet come out on top. “What do you say to raising the stakes?”

Blackwood knocked back his jigger of whisky and took a pull on his cheroot. “What did you have in mind?” Smoke curled out along with his words, as if he were part dragon.

“I shall give you my vowels.” Kearsey took a piece of paper and the stub of a pencil from his pocket and wrote down an IOU for an amount that would have made his dear wife faint dead away. But she worried more than she ought. It wasn't really gambling if one had the cards. He couldn't let this one get away. With barely a tremor in his hand, he shoved the paper across the slick tabletop toward Blackwood. “What do you say?”

Blackwood lifted the paper and gave it heavy-lidded scrutiny for about ten heartbeats. “I don't know, Kearsey. It runs against my nature to see a man bleed himself.”

“Let me worry about that,” Kearsey said testily. He was already hemorrhaging badly. Winning this pot would stop the flow. “Do you believe in your hand or not?”

“May as well. Since it's just we two, let's make it interesting.” Blackwood shrugged and pushed all his chips into the center of the table. “I haven't done anything especially foolish lately. I suppose I'm due. Show your cards, sir.”

Kearsey's heart lifted. This pot would set him up for the next two years if he listened to his wife and abided by her frugal suggestions. It would certainly provide him more than enough with which to play for the duration of this house party. With more luck like this hand full of ladies, Kearsey would secure his family's fortunes for the foreseeable future. He'd be able to pay off their creditors and provide a well-deserved dowry for his Rebecca. He'd find the doctor who could cure his dear wife's persistent cough.