Never Resist a Rake (21 page)

“Of course.” In her brusque way, Mrs. Culpepper made a strange angel of mercy, but Porter did feel marginally better when she plumped the pillow and positioned it so he could lay his forehead on feathers instead of banging it on iron.

“Now, I know ye likely wish to sleep, but if ye can hold up your head for only a bit, I'll help ye with a bite or two.” She plopped into the chair and took up the soup bowl and spoon.

“Do ye think that's wise? I mean, ought ye to be in my room as long as that will take? Alone, I mean.”

“I'm not alone, silly.” She gave his shoulder a playful swat. “I'm with ye.”

“But your reputation…”

“Honestly, Mr. Porter, if ye feel up to threatening my reputation after taking a gunshot wound to the bum, I'll swear that Dr. Partridge is some sort of miracle worker.” She tilted her head at him. “Ye don't feel up to that, do ye?”

He sighed and plopped his head down on his pillow. “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”

Mrs. Culpepper loosed a chortling laugh. “Well, we shall have to see about building up the flesh then. Come now. Lift your head and have some of my chicken soup. It'll have ye fit to chase me 'round the bedpost in no time.”

“Mrs. C!” Porter's conventional soul was deeply scandalized.

“Well, did ye not say the spirit was willing?” Her eyes sparkled like a green girl's.

“Yes, I did. I do. It is. I mean, I'd…well, what I want is…”

She held a spoonful of the soup a few inches from his mouth. “Yes?”

“Will ye walk out with me sometime?” He took the offered spoonful so he wouldn't be expected to say more.

“That I will,” Mrs. C said. “But let's get ye feeling up to it first. Have a bit more of my soup. That'll put ye to rights.”

The soup was savory and rich, with much more chicken in it than usually appeared in the common-table fare. After a few spoonfuls, she laid the spoon and bowl aside.

“Actually, Mr. Porter, I was hoping ye'd ask for summat more than for me to walk out with ye some night.”

“Oh? I can't imagine what more I could wish for. After all, I couldn't expect…that is, I mean… Well, I know I'm not a handsome man.”

A smile lifted her cheeks. “Handsome is as handsome does, my old mam used to say. Reckon ye're handsome enough by those lights.”

“Well, then, I guess…that is to say, I've heard tell…” Frustrated with his own hemming and hawing, Porter came to the point. “They do say that when one has suffered an injury, a kiss makes it all better.”

Mrs. Culpepper broke into peals of laughter. “Surely, Mr. P, ye can't expect me to kiss ye
there
!”

“No, no indeed.” He blushed so furiously and so hotly he was sure even his bum had a rose glow. “I meant…” He put a finger to his lips, unable to say the words.

“Well, if that's the way of it, of course I'll kiss ye and make ye better.”

Mrs. Culpepper knelt beside his bed and took his face between her work-roughened palms. Then she brought her lips to his.

All of a sudden, he didn't feel gawky and awkward and like a man about to slide into the twilight years of his adult life. Porter felt strong. Capable. Handsome.

In a wholly unconventional sort of way, of course.

Then Mrs. C pulled back and sat on the chair again as she launched into a one-sided conversation about the dainties and trifles she'd been called upon to make for the upcoming ball a few days hence, all the while spooning her nourishing soup into his mouth. She didn't mention the kiss. Talking about what had just passed between them would only detract from the magic of it.

At least, it had been magical for him.

Porter sighed. The woman was a goddess in an apron, and she'd kissed him.

He was beginning to feel lucky after all. Very lucky indeed.

The cautionary tale of Faust aside, sometimes a deal with the devil is the only deal one can make.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

It had been a week since John told Rebecca of his plan to court Lady Chloe openly so as to confound his family's designs for him. He'd done so with devastating conviction. Lady Chloe still accompanied him when he went on his daily hunt, even after the unfortunate accident with his valet. She sat beside him at supper each evening, and if there were any games to be played after the meal, she was always hovering nearby.

To interested observers, and they were legion in the great house, it seemed the merry widow held Lord Hartley under her spell and he was well on the way to becoming her husband number five. Freddie and the rest of the hopeful debutantes were understandably distressed.

If John hadn't continued to slip short love notes into Rebecca's pocket or under her chamber door at least once a day, she'd have been tempted to believe the night he'd declared his love for her was only a dream.

However, his scheme seemed to be working. The dowager marchioness was beside herself over this turn of events.

“My dear, I thought you understood that you were to assist my grandson in the proper way to woo a lady,” she said to Rebecca over her after-supper sherry. On this particular evening, the gentlemen and ladies had not split up along lines of gender, and the whole party congregated in Somerfield Park's massive drawing room. The dowager eyed her grandson across the room with a pointed look.

Rebecca did not follow suit. She didn't need to look at John to know that Lady Chloe was there with him, hanging on his every word.

“He seems to be doing quite well with wooing and needs no instruction from me.”

The entire house party was spread out in a glittering array, the
beau
monde
in miniature with all its foibles, pettiness, and grandeur. Tables had been set up for numerous card games. Even Lord Somerset was evidently feeling up to taking part in the lively game of charades in one corner. He and his lovely wife were in the center of a boisterous circle of players. Since he'd accidentally shot John's valet, his lordship had become much more gregarious. It was odd in the extreme, but Rebecca had reached the point where nothing about the Barrett family surprised her.

John was in the opposite corner, playing loo with a group of five others, and try as she might, Rebecca couldn't keep her gaze from straying there. One of the other players was the ubiquitous Lady Chloe. She leaned toward him to whisper into his ear. Whatever she'd said must have been amusing because he laughed loudly enough to be heard across the room. Rebecca's insides did a slow burn.

“Perhaps I did not make myself clear,” the dowager said. “Gentlemen need guidance, and gentlemen who are courting need it most of all. It is not Hartley's method of wooing which troubles me, but the object of said wooing.”

“On that score I cannot help,” Rebecca said. “Your grandson seems to have made his choice.”

The dowager leaned toward her. “Then we shall have to unmake it for him.”

“How?”

The dowager frowned. “If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you for help, would I?”

“Have you spoken to him about Lady Chloe?”

“I daresay anything I said on the subject would be tantamount to tossing more kindling on an already roaring fire. If I try to dissuade him from this misalliance, he's more apt to flee toward it.” She drummed her bejeweled fingers on the arm of her overstuffed chair. “He's as stubborn as his father on that score.”

“Have you spoken to the lady, then?”

The dowager made an undignified noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, though she would have denied with her final breath that one of her exalted rank was capable of such a vulgar response. “Lady Chloe is not like John's mother.”

“You mean she cannot be bought.”

“It's not only that, though heaven knows the fact that Lady Chloe is independently wealthy does make it difficult to tempt her with more. The money was a secondary consideration for John's mother.” The dowager's eyes took on a slightly hazy glaze as she reached for the distant memory of the last time she'd interfered in a match involving one of her progeny. “It's true that she was dazzled by the prospect of her own funds and the freedom to use them as she wished, but she was also motivated by her feelings for my son. She realized she'd damage him by staying with him. They were from two different worlds. She could never have hoped to span the chasm between them. She would have diminished him forever.”

That wasn't only the dowager's opinion, Rebecca realized. There was nothing the
bon
ton
hated so much as a disruption in the natural order of things. An opera dancer as a marchioness would have offended their collective souls so deeply that they would have been merciless over the uneven match.

Would they feel the same about the daughter of a debt-riddled baron? No, Rebecca assured herself. If the Barrett family accepted the match, gossips would say Lord Hartley had married beneath him and that Rebecca had done exceedingly well for herself. That should be the end of it.

“Lady Chloe, however, is not motivated by her feelings for my grandson,” Lady Somerset went on as if there hadn't been a lull in the conversation. “She is without doubt the most self-centered person I've ever encountered, and I've met the prince regent on numerous occasions, so that's saying something. Lady Chloe's own wishes are her sole guide. She rules by fiat and expects the rest of the world to fall willy-nilly in line with her plans.”

Well, if that wasn't a case of the pot coming face to face with the kettle, Rebecca didn't know what was. However, she didn't think Lady Somerset would appreciate having her similarities to Lady Chloe pointed out to her.

“So you see, we must make Hartley see reason, and you're just the one to help him do it,” Lady Somerset said. “He must make a different choice.”

“Whom did you have in mind?”

The dowager surveyed the room. If she said even Rebecca would be preferable to Lady Chloe, John's plan would have succeeded and the farce could end. Instead, Lady Somerset's gaze fell upon Rebecca's friend.

“Lady Winifred would be ideal. Such a bright young lady and, more importantly, so well-connected. Or the Earl of Montfort's daughter. Her name escapes me at the moment, but she's biddable as a lamb. She'd be an excellent choice.” A biddable wife for Lord Hartley meant Lady Somerset could continue to rule Somerfield Park by means subtle and overt even after her son's tenure as marquess was over. “In truth, any unattached young lady in this room would be an acceptable improvement over that…that woman.”

It wasn't a ringing endorsement of Rebecca, but at least she might consider herself lumped in with the “acceptables.” It was a start.

The dowager shot a smoldering glare across the room that by rights should have reduced Lady Chloe, as well as anyone within ten feet of her, to smoking cinders.

“Go talk to him, Rebecca.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, at once, before you lose your train of thought.”

She was quite capable of keeping a train of thought where John was concerned, thank you very much. But extricating him from an active card game was a daunting prospect. “What would I say to him?”

“I don't know. You're his friend. Ask for his help. You'll think of something.” The dowager waved her away and then fluttered her fan toward her own face. “Now go, girl.”

Rebecca stood and started across the long space. Several couples were congregating around the table where tea was laid. Card games abounded, but since they were in mixed company, no actual wagering was going on. That was reserved for the gentlemen in the smoking room, after the ladies retired for the night. No one paid her any heed as she headed toward John.

She'd decided she would tell him that Mr. Porter had taken a turn for the worse—a touch of fever, perhaps—and would he come see what was to be done for his valet? Most gentlemen wouldn't give two figs for the health of their servants, except as it related to how their inability to serve would impact their wellborn employers, but John would care. He'd leave the loo game immediately. But before she could reach him, her father intercepted her.

“We haven't had much chance to speak lately, Daughter,” Lord Kearsey said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, Father. Mother is fine, if that's what you're concerned about,” she said, anxious to shake him off so she could continue across the room. “I saw that she was settled after supper, and she said I should come back down to spend time with the rest of the company.”

“To be sure, she doesn't wish her infirmity to dampen your pleasure. She's considerate in that way.”

Didn't he realize that if Rebecca thought her mother needed her, she couldn't enjoy herself anywhere else but at her side?

“What do you want, Father?”

“To speak to you privily. Come.” He led her to a little alcove, where a cushioned window seat would provide a spot to sit and converse without being overheard.

“I know you had hopes of Lord Hartley when you came here, dear,” he said, taking her hand between his. “He led you a merry chase, and I'd thrash the young pup if it would do any good.”

“There's no need for that.” Besides, though she loved her father, Lord Kearsey was a stick of a man. John could break him like a twig. “Lord Hartley didn't deceive me. If I had hopes, it was my own fault.”

“I won't believe that for a moment. But let us consider your options honestly. While it's doubtful you could bring down the trophy buck at this little gathering—and I'm first to admit the fault lies with me and your poor dowry, not you, my dear—you may yet be able to capture a lesser beast.”

“Father, you've been hunting far too often of late. What girl wants a beast of any sort? Speak your mind plainly.”

“Lord Hartley is beyond your reach, but there are other gentlemen here who might well do for you.”

“You mean second sons and such.” John's friends, Smalley and Pitcairn, came to mind and flitted right out again. Rebecca would end her days a spinster before she'd wed either of those fellows. Smalley was more interested in his dinner plate than anything, and Pitcairn was such a nervous little fellow, he infected everyone around him with the fidgets just from being in close proximity to him.

“No, dear,” Lord Kearsey said. “I think you might raise your sights a bit.”

Her sights were already on Lord Hartley, the “trophy buck.” And John wanted her. It amused her to hear Lord Kearsey's thoughts on a suitable match for her. Wouldn't he feel foolish once John revealed his true choice! “So, Father, upon whom do you think I should set my cap?”

“Viscount Blackwood.”

“Blackwood?” She still remembered being warned off him in the strongest possible terms.

“Unlike Hartley, he doesn't have to wait for his father to die to come into his own. Blackwood is already a peer. His income is not staggering, but neither is it insubstantial.”

“I don't like him,” she said firmly.

“You don't know him.”

“I know
of
him. And that's quite enough.”

“You'll have a chance to change your mind now,” her father said. “He's headed this way.”

“I don't care to—”

He took her by the shoulders, his eyes wild. “Rebecca. You must. Please. I have promised him you'd… Just hear him out, will you?”

She'd only seen desperation like that in Lord Kearsey's eyes once before—when his gambling debts had forced him to confiscate and sell her jewelry. “Father, what have you done?”

Before he could answer, Blackwood stopped before them and gave a correct bow from the neck. “Miss Kearsey, may I say you're looking particularly fetching this evening.”

Rebecca thanked him and dropped the requisite curtsy.

“I was wondering,” the viscount said. “Have you seen the portrait gallery here at Somerfield Park?”

She shook her head.

“Then I should be delighted to show it to you. There are some rather fine works on display.” He offered her his arm in a way that brooked no refusal. With her father standing by, encouraging her, it would be an insult of the first water to decline.

“Thank you, my lord.” A flash of inspiration burst in her mind. “I believe my friend, Lady Winifred, would be interested in the gallery as well. She's much more knowledgeable about art than I and—”

“Tut, tut,” her father interrupted. “Blackwood has invited you to view the portraits, not give him an art history lecture. Go along now.”

The only way to avoid going with the viscount was to defy her father and make a nasty scene. Neither was in her nature. Rebecca laid a hand on Blackwood's forearm and allowed him to lead her away.