Never Resist a Rake (3 page)

“You may as well learn right now that I don't always do the done thing,” she said with a sniff. “For instance, if you thought I wouldn't cajole and bully my father into accompanying me here to tell your family where they could find you, then you have no idea what sort of debutante I am.”

“To be honest, I have no experience with debutantes.”

“That's obvious. In fact, you've little experience with Polite Society, by all accounts,” she said. “But this life you're living…whatever it is you're doing here in London, it's hurting your family. After the kindness you showed me, I must believe that's not like you either.”

“Then you have no idea what sort of man I am.” If she knew the half of what he'd been up to, she'd flee from his presence and never look back. Since the
ton
was determined to shun him, he'd done his best to give them reason.

John decided to fit in with the
beau
monde
's seedy underbelly. He'd gone to school with Pitcairn, Smalley, and Blackwood, but he'd never had the funds to join his old classmates in the activities of the Daemon Club before. Now they were pleased to take him, and the line of credit due the heir to the Somerset marquessate, under their leathery wings and initiate him royally. They'd introduced him to the sporting life—to bear baiting and cock fights. He learned to drink, and drink hard. John hadn't consumed as much alcohol in his entire life as he had in the last few months.

And the women! He'd come to London a virgin. Now he considered his education in matters sensual thorough, if a trifle jaded.

“This life is like me now,” John said. “Haven't you heard? I'm Lord Hartley, a heartbeat from being a peer of the realm. Short of being caught red-handed doing murder, I can do whatever I damn well please.”

Miss Kearsey's lips tightened into a thin line, and she glared at him. He'd only spoken the truth. A titled lord could do no wrong.

But he'd sworn in her presence. A bit of shame washed over him, remnants from his stern upbringing in Wiltshire. She deserved to have him keep a civil tongue in his head.

Then it occurred to him that Miss Kearsey wasn't wearing the soiled and torn blue gown any longer. A fine shawl draped over her shoulders. Her off-white muslin column dress was embellished with delicate embroidery at the bodice that curled around her breasts enticingly. Even her hair had been dressed and was tied up with a satin bandeau.

“You're looking much better than you did earlier this evening.”

“Careful, Lord Hartley,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “That sort of compliment will turn a girl's head.”

“I didn't mean—”

“I know what you meant. I'm teasing you. Unfortunately, you're looking much
worse
than you did earlier this evening, my lord.” She rose gracefully and went to the pitcher and ewer on the washstand. She wet a cloth and returned to press it over his swollen eye. Even though her touch was gentle, pain shot through his eye socket to his brain.

“Ow!” He took the damp cloth from her and held it over the eye himself. “If you insist on torturing me, do you think you could do it without ‘my lord-ing' me left and right? My name is John. John Fitzhugh.”

“John Fitzhugh,” she repeated. Miss Kearsey's face lit with that beguiling smile again. “If we're being familiar, you must call me Rebecca.” Then her smile faded. “But that's not strictly correct. You're John Fitzhugh
Barrett
. You see, while we were waiting to learn whether your brother Richard could find you in Whitechapel, I got a chance to get to know your sister-in-law and grandmother. They told me all about you.”

John didn't know what to say. Unfortunately, Rebecca did.

“You're shaming your family,” she accused.

“That assumes the Barretts are capable of shame.” What with a secret marriage, a scheming dowager marchioness who kept John's true parentage a mystery, and a marquess who even now reportedly had more holes in his memory than a moth-eaten cloak, the Somerset legacy was not something to boast about. “Besides, you're wrong. I have no family.”

“Nonsense. You're a Barrett, rightwise born. You're the marquess's heir, for pity's sake. You have four half siblings and a lovely stepmother who are ready to welcome you home to Somerfield Park with open arms.”

John snorted.

“You haven't given them a chance,” Rebecca said.

“After the chance they gave me, what can they expect?”

John had been six years old when his mother died, penniless and alone. After a few days in the foundling home, someone came to collect him and bring him to a farm in Wiltshire, where he was fostered by Sir Humphrey Coopersmith and his wife. John was reared by the genteel yet threadbare couple. They were distantly kind to him, but he was always conscious of being someone else's son—someone who didn't want to admit John was his son.

The very next week after John was placed with the Coopersmiths, Lord Somerset had wed Lady Helen and built his real family with her.

“I don't owe the Barretts anything,” John said.

“Yes, you do. They might have abandoned you forever, but they didn't. The dowager could have taken the secret of your birth to her grave, but she didn't.” Rebecca leaned toward him, and he caught a whiff of her violet scent again. “Don't you see? You have a chance to make everything right and you're frittering it away in pursuit of…well, in whatever it is you've been in pursuit of.”

Anger boiled in him, worse than when he was beating the stuffing out of Edgar Meek in Whitechapel. She was trying to make this his fault, and it wasn't.

“Don't beat around the bush. An unusual debutante like you knows full well what I've been pursuing—drinking, gambling, and wenching. That's what lords do, don't you know?”

Her cheeks flushed with color, but she stood her ground. “Then it's too bad you became a lord. I rather suspect you were a much nicer person before you learned who you were.”

She rose and made to go, but he caught her by the wrist. Her pulse point jumped under his grip, fluttering like a hummingbird's wing.

His chest ached. She was right. No matter what he did now, he'd never get back the innocence of that boy from Wiltshire.

“You're right. I did used to be…” John couldn't claim to have been nicer. As long as he could remember, he'd had a bitter taste under his tongue and a driving need to prove himself. But he hadn't always been such a bounder. “Well, I was different from the way I am now. Don't go, Rebecca.” He swallowed hard. “Please. Even if you hate me, stay. No one tells me the truth anymore.”

She fixed him with a pointed look, her chin determined, her eyes overly bright. Then she nodded and sat back down, giving her hand a slight tug. He released her with reluctance.

“I could never hate you,” she said. “Not after the way you came to my rescue this night. I'll stay. But I want you to promise you'll do something for me, John.”

Something inside him relaxed. It was as if every bit of his body had been holding its breath till she said his name. She caressed it a bit, let it linger on that beguiling little tongue of hers.

“Anything you want, I'll do it.” He was feeling magnanimous and more than a little fuzzy-headed after the beating he'd taken, but he realized it was true. He would do anything for her.

“It sounds to me as if you're not sure of your place in the world.”

He nodded slowly. She'd cut to the heart of his problem in no time at all. He didn't belong anywhere.

“Then I want you to do something that will help you figure out where you belong. Go home to Somerfield Park,” she said. “London isn't for you.”

He wished he'd kept his mouth shut. Maybe he could talk her into changing her request.

“There's nothing for me in Somerset either. My half brother Richard is running the estate. He keeps things humming, I'm told. I'd be as useful as…” He stopped himself before he said “tits on a boar,” deciding even an unusual debutante like Rebecca wouldn't appreciate this poetical, if somewhat coarse, observation. “Well, not useful at all.”

“You were decidedly useful to me this evening, but that's beside the point,” she said. “And there
is
something for you at Somerfield Park. There's your father. It's almost time for his annual hunt. From what your grandmother told me, his lordship is still not himself after taking a tumble off the roof. He needs you.”

Each year, the marquess hosted a grand hunt at Somerfield Park, inviting influential lords from all over the realm to shoot mallards and teal. His lordship's guests went deer stalking and generally attempted to kill anything furred or feathered that roamed the thick woods near the coastline. John remembered hearing about it during his days at Oxford. Blackwood's father had even been invited once.

John was a crack shot himself. Sir Humphrey had taught him, but they didn't hunt to put a trophy on the wall. Lady Coopersmith always needed meat for the stewpot.

However, according to Blackwood's father, more went on during the Somerset hunt than the quest for antlers for the hall. Deals were made about initiatives in the House of Lords. With a little diligence, John could study all the titled gentlemen who'd be there, their fields of influence, their interests and political leanings.

And thanks to his friends in the Daemon Club, who loved to tell tales, he'd learn more than a few of their weaknesses as well. That might be very helpful.

Perhaps John could be of some use after all.

Even though he hated himself for it, the need to have the marquess recognize him, not just as the legitimate heir but as his son, burned in his gut.

“All right,” he said slowly. “I'll go to Somerfield Park, but only on two conditions.”

Her lips lifted in a hopeful smile. “What are they?”

“You have to come too.”

“I can't. My family hasn't been invited.”

“I just invited you—and your father and mother and anyone else you care to bring.” He took her hand again and was surprised when she didn't pull it away. “In a big house like Somerfield Park, there'll be room for everyone. Blast it all. I doubt even the maids know how many bedrooms there are.”

“Language.” She cocked a reproving brow at him. “Again.”

“I'm sorry. For both times.” He wasn't, but it seemed expedient to act as if he were. When her lips twitched in a smile, he decided he just might have a future in politics. Lying had become much easier of late.

“In that case, I forgive you.” Rebecca flicked out her tongue and drew it across her lower lip. John wanted to take that little bottom lip between his and suckle it.

“I suspect it will be hard for Lord Hart—” John caught himself before he called Richard Barrett by the title that he now possessed. “For my half brother to be under the same roof with me.”

“Nonsense. You're under the same roof right now. As soon as your brother found you, he brought you back to the Barrett family town house. He could have put you up in Mivart's, you know.” The posh hotel was located in the heart of Mayfair and was a favorite of the
ton
during the Season. “Doesn't the fact that Lord Richard has been looking for you everywhere for the last two weeks mean anything to you?”

But John had been in London for much longer than two weeks. The day after he discovered his true identity, he'd shaken off the Wiltshire dirt and legged it to Town, dragging the long-suffering Mr. Porter with him. His newfound family hadn't sought him out before now. Whatever the reason they wanted him at Somerfield Park, he'd bet his best shoes—and now he finally had more than one pair!—it had little to do with Lord Somerset's annual hunt.

“The fact that Richard came looking for me doesn't mean as much to me as the fact that you want me to go to Somerfield Park,” he said. “I won't go unless you agree to come.”

“All right, I accept,” she finally said, tugging her hand from his grasp. “My mother doesn't travel well, but one way or another, I'll convince my parents.”

John laced his fingers behind his head and gave a self-satisfied sigh. “You know, that's one good thing about becoming the marquess's heir. People say yes to me a lot more than they used to.”

She swatted his shoulder as if he were still a cheeky hanger-on. “Don't get used to it from me.”

He caught up her hand again. “I'd better. Remember, there are two conditions.”

“I've already agreed to go to the country for you. What more could you want?”

“Kiss me.”

Her eyes went wide. “That's not the sort of thing a gentleman asks of a lady.”

“I'm not asking. I'm offering. It's your choice. If you want me in Somerfield Park, you know what you have to do. Kiss me. Right now.”

Anyone who thought Miss Rebecca Kearsey was a pattern sort of debutante had never seen her angry. John recognized the signs. Her sweet mouth went all pinched and her chin quivered.

But however she might feel about it, she leaned forward, grabbed him by both ears, and kissed him right on the mouth.

While one cannot disregard the importance of bloodlines, great men are made, not born. Most often, however, it takes a woman to find and shape that bit of greatness.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

John Fitzhugh Barrett was not going to make a fool of Baron Kearsey's daughter. No, sir. From all accounts, the new Lord Hartley had been running with a fast crowd and had no doubt kissed dozens of women.

Fancy
women. Loose women. Women whose kisses would turn a man's knees to water.

Rebecca would show him. A virtuous girl was just as good as a bad girl. Better. She'd kiss him, all right. She'd kiss the man into next week.

She prided herself on reasoned thought and knew she was being illogical, but before she could untangle all the invalid syllogisms running through her head, she pressed her mouth against his with such force, their eye teeth knocked together. No matter. He wasn't going to think her a missish little thing who kissed like an awkward first cousin. She was going to put some passion into it.

As much as she knew about passion, at any rate.

He covered her hands with his and she realized he was trying to encourage her to soften her grip on his ears. So she uncurled her fingers and slid her hands down to palm his cheeks.

He groaned into her mouth.

I'm getting good at this
.

Then when he groaned again, she decided it was probably not a good thing. There was a definite edge of pain in the sound. Her fingertips were pressing too hard on the skin around his swollen eye.

Botheration!
There were so many things to think about all at once. She eased up. Her lips softened and she slanted her mouth over his.

This time the groan was different—pleased and needy all at once. A little feral.

The thrill of danger danced on her spine. Imagining kissing a man was safe. Holy, almost. She could envision a perfectly acceptable setting for the kiss—a garden in full bloom, an elegant parlor after a well-spoken proposal, before an altar and a church full of witnesses. Heaven knew she'd dreamed of a kiss often enough.

Kissing a man for real as he reclined in his bed was wicked beyond imagining.

Her imagined kisses were always chaste, too. This one was decidedly not. Something inside her went all warm and liquid.

John cupped the back of her head with gentleness as he teased her lips to part by tracing the seam of them with the tip of his tongue. She gave up, and he invaded her. His breath swirled into her, filling her, drawing her back into him.

His
tongue, oh Lud, his tongue…

Rebecca had never suspected a kiss could be so…so…
involving
. It wasn't just their mouths meeting. Every fiber in her body strained toward him.

She had to stop right now or she'd never be able to. She pulled back and, to her surprise, he let her go. She almost expected him to drag her down onto the feather tick with him.

A wicked part of her was disappointed when he didn't.

Then her instinct for self-preservation won out. She and her friend Freddie had practically been weaned on cautionary tales about young ladies who lost their virtue. Granted, this was just a kiss, but in all the warnings, a kiss was how “it” started.

Whatever “it” was. Somehow, without knowing all the particulars, she was expected to be careful not to engage in the wicked activity that ended in ruin.

“Rebecca, I—” John began.

“Miss Kearsey,” she corrected, her voice coming out as fluttery as her insides felt. She straightened to sit as tall as she could in the uncomfortable Tudor chair, wishing she felt as upright as her posture. Her insides were still soft and pliant. “Please, my lord. I know we agreed on informal address earlier, but I think I should be Miss Kearsey to you. No more, no less.”

“Oh, you're more, Rebecca.” His eyes were dark brown to begin with, but now the pupils expanded to make them nearly black. “Much more.”

She rose to go quickly, lest he stop her again. She'd accomplished her goal of convincing him to leave London, and now she had to make good her escape. “I'll send Mr. Porter to attend you since you're awake.”

Without waiting for a reply, she fled the room. As soon as the door latched behind her, she leaned against it, knees sagging.

She and Freddie had made it their business to study the art of flirting, as they studied everything that interested them. Freddie, for example, was an expert on the language of the fan. Unfortunately, she was unable to use her facility often, since she rarely met another who was so well versed in the silent mode of communication. Still, Freddie faithfully reported to Rebecca every time she was able to use her fan to send a message. The two girls had always shared everything. Freddie would expect a full report on this meeting with Lord Hartley and would be filled with horrified fascination to learn that Rebecca had kissed a man.

But that kiss was something Rebecca would never share with anyone. Not even Freddie.

* * *

It was nearly three in the morning when Rebecca sent for Mr. Porter to sit with his lordship. Then she was shown to a guest room and was assured that her father had been similarly accommodated owing to the lateness of the hour. A message had been dispatched to Grosvenor Square, so her mother wouldn't expect them back until tomorrow.

The room Rebecca had been given was lovely, decorated in the French style with a fresco of cherubs cavorting in splendid nakedness across the azure ceiling. It was a restful chamber, but Rebecca tossed and turned until the longcase clock in the foyer chimed half past four.

When she came down to breakfast at ten the next morning, Lady Richard and the dowager marchioness had already begun their meal.

“Well?” Lady Somerset asked as if she expected Rebecca to read her mind.

Fortunately in this instance, she could. “He has agreed.”

“My, but that's wonderful, Rebecca.” Lady Richard turned from the side table laden with buttered eggs, sausage, and kippers. She'd already insisted on informal address between them, inviting Rebecca to call her Sophie, but it was difficult for Rebecca to use someone's Christian name after so short an acquaintance. “So Lord Hartley will be returning to Somerfield Park with us. I told you she'd manage it.”

This last remark was directed toward the dowager marchioness, who was seated at the head of the long table. Lady Somerset cast Lady Richard a thin smile between bites of her dry toast.

“How lovely a thing it must be to be right all the time, my dear,” the old lady said. “Of course, one suspects you might find it taxing after a while. What's life without a few surprises?”

Rebecca studied the chafing dishes, silently debating the merits of lamb's kidneys in a spice sauce or cold veal pie. She settled on the pie and took her seat, avoiding eye contact with either of the women.

Last night, before Rebecca had been sent in to try to convince Lord Hartley to return to Somerset's countryseat, a spirited discussion had broken out between Lady Richard and the elder Lady Somerset. Neither of the strong-willed women minded saying whatever popped into their heads, devil take the hindmost, while they debated how best to get Lord Hartley to come to heel with their plans. While they didn't seem to mind the volleys between them, Rebecca felt like a deer cowering between two determined stalkers.

Even invading an unconscious man's bedchamber had seemed preferable to remaining within range of that verbal barrage.

Lady Richard, however, didn't seem a bit distressed by the marchioness's little barbs. She was looking fresh and comfortable in a deceptively simple morning gown of pale pink muslin. Her dark hair was gathered up by a matching beaded bandeau.

“I'm so ready to go back to Barrett House. London becomes just another noisy city after a while,” Lady Richard said, her startlingly blue eyes bright. “Besides, autumn is such a vital season for plants. I need time to put the garden to bed before winter.”

“I hope you don't feel I'm putting myself forward, but Lord Hartley only agreed to return to the country if my family and I came for his lordship's hunt,” Rebecca said. She'd never tell anyone about John's second condition, even though she could still taste him on her lips.

The dowager looked as if she'd just swallowed a bit of bad kipper, clearly not enamored of the idea that a mere baron and his family should visit Somerfield Park. But Lady Richard leaped into the fray.

“Why, there's nothing easier. You've been so very helpful; of course you must come,” Lady Richard said. “In fact, Lord Hartley and I seem to be thinking along the same lines. I've already spoken to your father about a visit to Somerset, and he agreed to allow you to travel with us when we leave for the country tomorrow. He and your mother will come later.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Sophie, please. Call me Sophie. At least when we are in private, if it makes you uncomfortable otherwise.”

“Thank you…Sophie. Your Barrett House garden sounds lovely, but I hope you don't have your heart set on living there again.” Rebecca remembered John saying something about having his half brother with him under the same roof. “It seems his lordship expects you and Lord Richard to take up residence at Somerfield Park as well.”

The dowager erupted in a fit of coughing and settled her teacup back in its saucer with a loud clink. “I say, he certainly makes free with ordering others around.”

Lady Richard rolled her eyes. “As if you never arranged the affairs of others to suit yourself.”

Rebecca trembled a bit, wondering how Sophie dared speak to the dowager so. The old lady had the reputation of being a veritable dragon. After all, she was a marchioness, the highest-ranking individual Rebecca had ever shared a breakfast with in her life.

“To my mind, this bit of imperiousness is proof positive that John is your rightful grandson,” Sophie said before popping a bite of bun that dripped with marmalade into her mouth.

“As if there were any doubt!” Lady Somerset said with vehemence. “No matter what he may have inherited from his mother's side, he's a Barrett to his bones.”

Rebecca dared a glance at the dowager. She'd heard the whole story several times now. John's mother had been a pretty opera dancer who married young Hugh Barrett, who was now Lord Somerset, without his parents' knowledge or permission. Once they learned of the misalliance, they offered her a large sum of money to do with as she pleased if only she'd work with the Somerset solicitor to convince the court that fraud had been involved in the union and swear never to contact Hugh again.

“She was young enough and flighty enough to want the money instead of trying to squeeze herself into the role of lady of a large country estate where no one wanted her,” Lady Somerset said. “How were we to know that in the short space of a week she'd conceived a child?”

“I have to admire her though,” Sophie said. “A bargain was a bargain and she lived up to her end of it. She never contacted Somerset again. Right up until she died.”

“Yes, well, by the time we knew there was a little boy, my son was engaged to marry Lady Helen.” The daughter of a respectable earl, Lady Helen was someone of whom old Lady Somerset did approve. The sudden news of a previous marriage, and especially one which had resulted in a male child, would surely have upset the wedding. A foster family in sleepy Wiltshire and a more-than-adequate education seemed a fair solution for one considered to be born on the wrong side of the blanket.

“Of course, we made the mistake of trusting a gaggle of lawyers and didn't realize that the issue had never been satisfactorily resolved, which meant John Fitzhugh is Somerset's legitimate heir. As soon as we learned of this oversight, we made him aware of his status.” The dowager sipped her tea. “If that discommoded you and your plans to become part of the aristocracy, my dear Sophie, I'm terribly sorry.”

“Nonsense,” Sophie said. “My father was the one who wanted me to be the next mistress of Somerfield Park. I fell in love with Richard despite his title, not because of it. I'm ever so much happier not to be a marchioness in training.”

“Not half as glad as I that I don't have to train you.” The dowager gave a delicate shudder. “That, my dear, would have been a task of herculean proportions.”

Rebecca suspected Lady Richard and Lady Somerset were, if not friends, at least allies most of the time. However, the way they sniped at each other reminded her of a pair of biddies in the barnyard. She rose before one of them could draw first blood.

“If I'm to go with you to the country, I'd best return home to pack, my lady…I mean, Sophie.”

“A word before you go, Miss Kearsey,” said the dowager, who would never dream of addressing anyone outside of her family informally—or allowing them to do so to her. “It has occurred to me that you may be of further assistance to his lordship as he settles into his new station.”

“How so?”

“Help him feel comfortable in social situations when you can. I remember how young ladies are. Gossip is your mother tongue. Smooth the way for him by spreading good things about the new Lord Hartley to your friends.”

“Of course I will,” Rebecca said and dropped a shallow curtsy. It would be easy to say good things about John.

“You will find me appreciative.” The dowager lifted a meaningful eyebrow.

Rebecca hadn't felt comfortable trying to convince John to return to Somerfield Park. Before she had gone into John's chamber last night, she'd made a bargain with the dowager. If Rebecca succeeded in talking Lord Hartley into going along with the family's plans for him, Lady Somerset would advance Rebecca's father enough money to cover half of his current indebtedness. That arched brow was the old lady's way of telling Rebecca she might well earn enough to retire the rest of her father's IOUs.