Never Resist a Rake (27 page)

John swung wide, but Blackwood ducked beneath the blow.

“Never figured me for a pugilist, did you?” the viscount said as he danced around the bigger man.

“Never figured you'd risk your pretty face,” John said with a grunt. Then he threw a punch toward Blackwood's jaw, which he deflected with his forearm.

“You should have taken training, Hartley.”

“I did. In every schoolyard, every time I was called a bastard. I learned early to defend myself.”

“But not how to defeat your opponent. That knockout in the Green Cockerel was a lucky punch. You may have got the girl that night, but I'll have her this time.”

John feinted to the right, which drew Blackwood's guard that direction. Then he moved in swiftly with an uppercut to Blackwood's jaw from the left.

Rebecca could hear the crunch of bone from where she stood. Blackwood fell to his knees, spitting blood and an eyetooth onto the stone stage.

“First blood! Hartley wins!” Pitcairn exclaimed, obviously forgetting that it was his principal who was down.

“It may be first blood,” Blackwood growled, “but, by God, it won't be the last.” He came up with his boot knife in his hand, slashing at John's midsection with a wild swing. The blade sliced through his shirt and left a string of red beads on his exposed midsection.

The crowd that had been jeering and shouting now fell silent as John pulled out his boot knife and the fight took a deadly turn.

Rebecca covered her eyes. She knew it was cowardly, but she couldn't bear to look. However, hearing the grunts and swearing of the fighters, the gasps and cries of the onlookers was almost worse. Then the worst possible thing happened.

She heard a dull thud, the sound of a body hitting the stone floor. And then there was absolute silence.

When Rebecca finally peered through her fingers, she saw Lord Blackwood splayed on his back, with John's knee pressed to his chest and a blade to his throat.

“Now listen to me very carefully, Blackwood, because what you do next will determine whether you live or die,” John said between huge gulps of air. Both fighters' chests were heaving with exertion. “If you understand, blink once.”

Blackwood complied.

“Good. Now, here's what you're going to do. You're never to have contact with me or mine for the rest of your natural life. In fact, to acquaint you with your newly hermit-like mode of existence, you will remove to your country estate and not stir from it for the next year. If you agree to these terms, you may blink twice.”

Blackwood did.

“If after that time you ever threaten, harass, or even look cross-eyed at Miss Kearsey, you and I will revisit this moment with a very different ending. Now, if you are in accord with these conditions, I want to hear one word from you and one word only,” John said, his voice low with silky menace. “That word is yes.”

“Y-yes.”

“Louder. I want Lord Arbuthnot to hear you up in the back row.”

“Yes!”

John rose and glared down at him. “Now get out of my sight and off my land before I change my mind about being merciful.”

Blackwood scrambled to his feet and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him.

Rebecca flew across the stage to John and embraced him. When they pulled apart, her pink gown came away flecked with red. “Oh, John, you're hurt.”

“It's a small matter. I'll mend.” He put his arms around her and pressed her to his chest again.

“But Blackwood won't. You've crushed him right enough,” Pitcairn said woodenly. “I'm his cousin, you know. In fact…since he hasn't wed and sired a son…I'm his nearest kin. His heir.” A shaky smile quirked his mouth. “If you'd done for him, Hartley…I'd be Lord Blackwood now.”

“If I'd known that, Pitcairn, I might not have stayed my hand.”

“But I'm glad you did, John, for your sake,” Rebecca said. “You don't want Blackwood's blood on your hands. Besides, you proved what you've been telling me. People do tend to say yes to a marquess, but then you're not one quite yet, are you?”

“No, and besides, I've been trying to warn you I'm an unworthy rake.”

“Lucky for you, it seems I can never resist a rake.”

“I'm counting on it.” John dropped to one knee before the crowd of witnesses. “Miss Kearsey, I love you beyond reason. Will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?” he said loud enough for even Lord Arbuthnot to hear before lowering his voice for her alone. “And remember, if you really can't resist a rake, the only answer I'm expecting is yes.”

Rebecca dropped to her knees with him. “Your bride, your wife, your love, for as long as we both shall live. Yes, John. Always and only, yes!”

Dear Reader,

Thanks for choosing
Never
Resist
a
Rake
. I'm thrilled you've decided to spend some time with me and the folk who live in Somerfield Park. My goal is to give you reason to smile, and maybe shed a tear or two. I hope you enjoy your visit and return to us often.

Never
Resist
a
Rake
is about finding your place in the world, and if you're very lucky, finding that one person to share it with. Both Rebecca and John have miles to go in their journey of the heart, but the end of the sojourn is worth the trip.

I try to make the history in my books as accurate as possible, but I must admit to one little fudge. In my story, John and Rebecca spend a magical night on the manor house's flat roof watching the Leonids meteor shower. However, it's unlikely an amateur astronomer like Rebecca would have been aware of them in 1817. Though the first record of the Leonids was made in 902, people didn't really get excited about the annual meteor storm until 1833, when a whopping 100,000 meteors per hour were recorded. Talk about the sky falling…

I'd love to hear from you anytime. For more about my books, please visit
www.miamarlowe.com
.

Happy Reading,
Mia

If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes at least a small hamlet to bring up a book.

I'm honored to work with my editor, Deb Werksman. She always encourages me to make the story better, to deepen the characters, and to get it right! Then there are the incredible people at Sourcebooks who take my raw manuscript and transform it into the polished work you now hold in your hands. Thank you to Susie Benton for keeping me on task and on time. I'm grateful to talented cover artist Dawn Adams, production editor Rachel Gilmer, copy editor Gretchen Stelter, and publicist Amelia Narigon and her crew.

No author could have a better agent than Natasha Kern. She's insightful, determined, and frees me to play with my imaginary people while she deals with the real ones.

Deep thanks go to my dear husband and family, the loves of my life. Who else would put up with someone who wanders around in another century half the time?

Lastly, I want to thank YOU again, dear reader. There are many things competing for your time and attention. Thank you for investing a few hours of your life in my book. It means the world to me. Truly.

Mia Marlowe is a rising star whose
Touch
of
a
Rogue
was named in
Publishers
Weekly
's Top Ten Best Romances for Spring 2012. Mia learned about storytelling while singing professional opera. She knows what it's like to sing a high C in a corset, so she empathizes with the trials of her historical heroines. Mia resides in the Ozarks surrounded by the Mark Twain Forest. For more, visit
www.miamarlowe.com
.

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Shana Galen

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“Sit up straight,” the Dowager Countess of Dane hissed at her daughter before turning back to their hostess and smiling stiffly as the marchioness prattled on about bonnet styles this season.

Lady Susanna straightened in her uncomfortable chair. She was wilting in the heat that all the ladies had already remarked upon as being unseasonably warm for June. Susanna fluttered her fan and tried to take an interest in the conversation, but she didn't care about hats. She didn't care about garden parties. She didn't care about finding a husband. If her mother ever heard Susanna admit husband hunting was not her favorite pursuit, she would lock Susanna in her room for days.

Susanna did not mind being locked in her room as much as her mother seemed to think. In her room, she could lose herself in her drawing. She could bring out her pencil or watercolors and sketch until her hand cramped. Sketching was infinitely preferable to spending hours embroidering in the drawing room, listening to her mother's lectures on decorum and etiquette.

Susanna did not need to be told how to behave. She had been raised to be a perfectly proper young lady. She was the daughter of an earl. She knew what was expected of her.

One: She must marry well.

Two: She must
at all times
exhibit good
ton
.

Three: She must be accomplished, beautiful, fashionable, and witty.

That third expectation was daunting indeed.

Susanna had spent two decades playing the perfect earl's daughter. She'd had little choice. If she rebelled, even minutely, her mother quickly put her back in her place. At the moment, Susanna wished her place was anywhere but here. She sympathized with her failed sketches, feeling as though it were
she
tossed in the hearth and browning in the fire. She burned slowly, torturously, gasping for her last breath.

Could no one see she was dying inside? Around her, ladies smiled and laughed and sipped tea. Susanna would not survive much longer.

And no one cared.

Ladies of the
ton
were far too concerned with themselves—what were they speaking of now? Haberdashery?—to notice she was smothering under the weight of the heat, the endless cups of tea, the tinny politeness of the ladies' laughs, and the interminable talk of bonnets. If she were to sketch her life, she would draw a single horizontal line extending into forever.

Susanna stifled the rising scream—afraid she might wail aloud for once, rather than shriek silently and endlessly. Before she could second-guess what she planned, she gained her feet. She wobbled, shaking with uncertainty and fear, but she must escape or go quietly mad.

Lady Dane cut her a look pointed as a sharpened blade. “Do sit down, Susanna.”

“E-excuse me,” Susanna murmured.

“What are you doing?”

Susanna staggered under the weight of the stares from the half-dozen women in their circle. She had not thought it possible to feel any heavier, but the addition of the women's cool gazes on her made her back bow.

“Excuse me. I need to find—”

“Oh, do cease mumbling.” Lady Dane sounded remarkably like a dog barking when she issued orders. “You know I hate it when you mumble.”

“I'm sorry. I need to—”

“Go ahead, my dear,” their hostess said. “One of the footmen will show you the way.”

Susanna's burst of freedom was short-lived. She'd no more than moved away from her chair, when her mother rose to join her. Susanna choked back a small sob. There really was no escape.

“Could you not at least wait until we had finished our conversation?” Lady Dane complained, as though Susanna's physical needs were the most inconvenient thing in the world.

“I'm sorry, Mama.”

“Why don't you stay, Dorothea?” the marchioness asked. “Surely Lady Susanna can find her way to the retiring room by herself.”

Susanna's gaze locked on her mother's. Inside, she squirmed like one of the insects her brothers used to pin for their collections. Lady Dane would most certainly defy the marchioness. She would never let her disappointing daughter out of her sight.

Susanna had one glimmer of hope. Her brother's scandalous marriage a few weeks ago had noticeably thinned the pile of invitations the Danes received. The family was not shunned, exactly, but they had spent more nights at home than the debutante daughter of an earl should.

Not that she minded.

Her mother patted Susanna on the arm, the stinging pinch delivered under cover of affection.

“Do not dawdle.”

Susanna need not be cut free twice. She practically ran for the house.

“She is perfectly safe here.” The marchioness's voice carried across the lawn. “I understand why you play the hawk. She must make a good match, and the sooner the better.”

The sooner she escaped this garden party, the better. Every group of ladies she passed bestowed snakelike smiles before raising their fans and whispering. Sometimes the whispers weren't even whispered.

“Dane introduced a bill to establish a central police force! What next?
Gendarmes?
”

A few steps more.

“I heard her brother began a soup kitchen.”

Almost there.

“St. Giles! Can you imagine?”

Susanna ducked into the cool darkness of the town house and flattened herself against the wall. She closed her eyes, swiping at the stinging tears.
Breathe, breathe.
Free from the whispers-that-were-not-whispers and the stares and, best of all, her mother, she slouched in smug rebellion.

“May I be of assistance, my lady?”

Susanna's spine went rigid, and she opened her eyes. A footman bestowed a bemused smile on her. She imagined it was not every day a lady ran away from the marchioness's garden party and collapsed in relief.

“The ladies' retiring room. Could you direct me?”

“This way, Lady Susanna.”

She followed him through well-appointed though cold, impersonal rooms until she reached a small room filled with plants, several chairs, two small hand mirrors on stands, a pitcher of fresh water and basin, and screens for privacy. Susanna stepped inside and closed the door. Finally alone. She straightened her white muslin gown with the blue sash at the high waist. Her hat sported matching ribbons. She might have removed it if it would not have been so much trouble to pin in place again. At the basin, she splashed water into the bowl and dabbed at her face. One look in the mirror showed that her cheeks were flushed and her brown eyes too bright. She had the typical coloring of a strawberry blond, and her pale skin reddened easily.

In the mirror, she spotted something move, and a woman in a large, elaborately plumed hat emerged from behind the screen. Susanna's heart sank.