Never Resist a Rake (9 page)

“Honestly, how could the driver have allowed this to happen?” Gran said.

“You don't imagine he planned it for the privilege of walking back to the village in the rain, do you?” Richard said, more testily than he ought. “Not everything in this life can be foreseen and managed. It was an accident.”

“Still,” Gran said with a frustrated shake of her head that set her iron-gray coiffure aquiver, “this is most bothersome.”

“Accidents usually are,” Sophie said unhelpfully.

“Well, what are Hartley and Miss Kearsey to do?” the dowager demanded.

Richard had to raise his voice to be heard over the determined patter of rain. “I daresay they'll seek shelter.”

He hoped the coach didn't start leaking. His grandmother was upset enough while she was high and dry. Becoming damp wouldn't improve her mood one jot.

The dowager cleared her throat loudly. “Well, at least I had the forethought to make certain that Hartley and the young lady”—she glared accusingly at Sophie—“are chaperoned. Now that we have become separated from them, dare I say it might have been disastrous?”

“You worry too much, Phillippa,” Sophie said.

“And you never worry enough.”

“Try to look on this as an adventure, albeit an inconvenient one,” Sophie suggested with a smile. She was always game for adventure, the more inconvenient the better. It was one of the many things Richard loved about her. “If John were to be caught unchaperoned with a young lady, you couldn't choose a better one than Rebecca Kearsey. She has a sensible head on her shoulders. Besides, people in a rainstorm are looking for someplace dry, not a way to scandalize the
ton
.”

Lady Somerset was not convinced—especially when she spied the outrider she'd sent to chaperone John and Miss Kearsey loping back toward the damaged coach. The gig was nowhere to be seen. “Oh dear. It's just as I feared. Honestly, Richard, aren't you going to do something?”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” he said decisively as he lifted the luncheon hamper from under their feet. “I'm going to hope Cook packed a bottle or two of that Madeira.”

The German poet von Schiller admonishes us that “there is no such thing as chance; and what seem to us merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.” Sounds persuasive, does it not?

On the other hand, what do the Germans know?

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“I'm that sorry, my lord. It's market day, you see.” The innkeeper wrung his hands on an apron that probably used to be white but was now a dingy shade of gray. “Ordinarily, we'd have rooms and to spare, but the inn is near to bursting at the seams now. I've only one room left, and it's a small one at that. O' course, if I'd known you was coming, Lord Hartley, why, naturally, I'd have saved you the best in the house, but as things stand…”

The fellow waved a hand in a helpless gesture before his midsection, probably waiting for John to fill it with a purse fat enough for him to justify evicting some of his other guests. But after a quick check of his pockets, John realized he'd have to arrange lodging on credit, at least until Richard and the others arrived. Since John was soaking wet, it was less obvious that he'd slept in his well-tailored clothing last night. He had no trouble convincing the innkeeper that he was a gentleman, albeit a damp one. And fortunately, he was wearing his signet ring, a heavy sapphire carved intaglio style with the Somerset crest. He could press the ring into wax as a seal for a debt with the weight and prestige of the marquessate behind it.

“This way, my lord, miss.” The innkeeper cast a leering look at Rebecca. “I'll show you to the room.”

“The lady will be the only one staying in the chamber. In fact, we expect more members of our party to join us shortly.” It was important to John that he protect Rebecca's reputation. It wasn't her fault she was caught in this situation. He was the one who'd driven so far ahead of the Somerset coach. “I assume you allow extra guests to bed down in the common room when the inn is full.”

“Of course, my lord.” He scratched his head, clearly confused. The idea that John intended to bed down like a vagabond in his common room made the innkeeper twist his apron in his work-rough hands. “Who are you expecting to join you?”

“My half brother and his wife, Lord and Lady Richard Barrett.” John paused for effect. “And the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset.”

“Oh! Lady Somerset is coming here!” the innkeeper said with a decided wobble in his voice. The dowager's reputation obviously preceded her. “When her ladyship arrives, I'll clear out some more rooms. Indeed I will. Just a bunch of farmers come to the village, mostly. Of no importance at all. Forgive me, my lord, I thought you and this young lady were just…”

Obviously, the man still thought Rebecca was a lightskirt and John merely meant to have a bit of sport with her at a country inn on a rainy day.

“Perhaps you'll wish to see the chamber at least, my lord,” their host said. “To be sure it is adequate for your purposes.”

John decided it was futile to argue with him. “Very well. Lead on.”

He followed the innkeeper and Rebecca up to the first story, where doors led off from the narrow corridor on either side. Her dripping cloak left a wet trail behind her. Their host thrust a key into the last keyhole on the right.

“It's small, as I said, but since it's on the end, there are two windows instead of one,” the innkeeper said. “Makes for a nice breeze when the weather's fine. O' course, that don't do us much good on a day like today, do it?”

The rain fell in blinding sheets, blurring the view from the windows into runny shades of gray and green.

“But there's a small fireplace,” the innkeeper said. “Just let me stir up that blaze for you, my lord. Have you dried out in no time.”

The man knelt before the banked fire and soon had it dancing cheerily with very little smokiness. “Will this do for you, my lord?”

“I suppose it'll have to, since it's raining as if a second Flood is upon us,” John said. “But more importantly, will this do for you, Miss Kearsey?”

She made a slow turn in the center of the space, taking in the small bed which, despite the innkeeper's disreputable apron, seemed to be dressed in fresh linens. There was a washstand with a pitcher and ewer on it, as well as a dressing screen leaning against one wall. A single chair hunkered near the fireplace.

“Yes, my lord.” Rebecca pushed back the hood of her cloak. “This will do nicely. If your other rooms are as clean as this one, I believe Lady Somerset will be pleased as well.”

John was much less sure of that. The dowager was a stickler for detail and liked her comforts, but the innkeeper was ready to take Rebecca's word as gospel.

“Thank you, miss. Thank you kindly, I'm sure.” The innkeeper was near to groveling as he handed John the key and backed out the door.

“I should go too,” John said. “Shall I have them send up a tray for you?”

“How can you think of food at a time like this?” she asked.

He'd known hunger as a child before he was fostered in Wiltshire. John could think of food pretty much any time. “What should I be thinking of?”

“For one thing, you're soaked to the skin,” Rebecca pointed out as she shooed him to the center of the room. She peeled off her dripping cloak, hung it on a peg, and pulled the door closed, shutting out the noise from the common room below. “You need to get out of those wet things and dry properly or you'll catch your death of cold.”

“So might you.”

She rested her hand on the brass doorknob. “I'll go down and sit by the fire in the common room while you…”—she colored up becomingly—“peel out of your clothing and dry off here.”

John closed the distance between them in two strides and kept her from opening the door with a broad palm pressed against the old oak, trapping her between the door and his body. Her sweet violet scent rushed into him. “I can't let you do that.”

His gaze swept over her. Despite her cloak, the rain had drenched her muslin gown as well, rendering it nearly transparent. The cloth molded to the outline of her stays. A bit of red and pink embroidery, wandering French knots, and chain stitches at the neckline of her chemise showed through the sodden fabric. The toes of muddy slippers peeped from beneath her hem.

“You're all wet too,” he said. “A gentleman can't precede a lady in need.”

“The daughter of a
baron
”—she stressed the word to emphasize the cavernous social distance between them—“can't precede the heir of a marquess.”

“There is another solution, if you think about it for a moment,” he said, willing her to come to his vaguely naughty conclusion on her own. “Besides, if you don't see to those slippers right away, I expect they'll be ruined. Probably the other bits of your wardrobe I can't see are just as fragile.”

“Don't be troubling yourself about what you can't see,” she said, her eyes flaring. “You know perfectly well that we can't both dry off here at the same time.”

It pleased him that she'd thought of that possibility too, even if she rejected it. “Why not?”

She made a low growling noise in the back of her throat and brought one of her soggy slippers down hard on his foot. The action would have been more effective if he hadn't been wearing such heavy boots.

“Ow!” she yelped.

He scooped her up and carried her to the one chair in the room. Then he knelt before her and eased off her slipper. Her stockinged foot was wet and cold and she flinched when he ran a hand under her instep.

“You should wear boots when you mean to travel,” he said.

“And when I mean to stomp on a man's foot, evidently.”

“Perhaps you should give that up,” John said as he turned her foot this way and that. He didn't think she'd broken anything, but she'd probably bruised her arch pretty badly. “Petulance doesn't become you.”

“And lechery doesn't become you, either.”

“If there's lechery in this room, it's in your mind, not mine. I didn't suggest anything improper.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Didn't you?”

“Here's our solution.” He lifted the folded dressing screen from its place by the wall and stood it before the fireplace at right angles to the cheery blaze. “There. The problem is solved with no threat to your sensibilities. We can each stay on our own side of the screen and dry off at the same time.”

“But you can see over it.” Rebecca was right. The screen came up to her crown, but he topped it quite handily.

“What if I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not peer over it?”

“You haven't been a gentleman very long.” Rebecca slanted a skeptical gaze at him. Then she rubbed her foot and stood, testing it for soundness. She sneezed, a soft, implosive squeak that seemed to take her by surprise since she barely had time to bring a handkerchief to her nose. “I'd rather you give me your word as my friend.”

Was that how she thought of him? Just a friend? Disappointment fizzed in his belly. Still, she needed to get out of those wet things, and quickly too, if that little sneeze was any indicator.

“You have my word,” he promised.

* * *

“Very well,” Rebecca said, her heart pounding. This was highly improper. Even if Lord Hartley didn't peek at her, she was about to disrobe in the same room with him. It was beyond scandalous. Freddie would have a conniption if she heard about it. Rebecca sneezed again and shivered.

On the other hand, the ague was not something to be trifled with.

Rebecca skittered over to the bed to remove the blanket and faded counterpane. She handed the blanket to John and laid the counterpane on the back of the chair, which he'd thoughtfully moved to her side of the screen.

“Good idea. We'll need something to wrap up in while our things are drying,” he said as he draped his blanket over the screen. “One of the things I've learned about the clothing of a gentleman is that they are designed for inconvenience. I hesitate to ask, but these boots are the very devil to remove. I can never manage it without Porter's help.” John plopped down on the foot of the bed and lifted one boot. “Do you think you might lend a hand?”

“If I must.” Rebecca had done this often enough for her father after he let his valet go because he could no longer afford to keep him. Somehow, the humble request took some of the naughtiness out of the situation. Rebecca took hold of his boot and gave it a yank while John pushed on the heel with his other toe. After a good deal of effort, the Hessian finally slid off. She wrestled the second one free with only a little less tugging and pulling. “There.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, if you please, my lord…” She waved him to his side of the screen, but he didn't budge.

“John,” he corrected. “Call me John. We can't be expected to maintain formal
address
while we're getting into a state of
undress
.”

“All the more reason our discourse should remain
quite
formal,” she said primly.

Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief when he shrugged and moved to his side of the dressing screen. She needed some distance from him. He was too big. Too deliciously rumpled-looking.

Too standing near her in the same room as a bed.

“I understand removing feminine clothing can be a trial at times too,” he said. “Do you require assistance?”

“No,” she snapped. He sounded pretty familiar with the undressing of women. “Remember, no peeking over the top.”

John chuckled. “No peeking over from your side, either.”

“And how, pray tell, would I manage that?”

“You might stand on the chair.”

Rebecca snorted. “You have a very high opinion of yourself to imagine I'd do such a thing.”

However, she was seriously tempted. She and Freddie had studied any number of Greek statues of men who were bare as an egg except for a frustrating fig leaf or drapery covering the more puzzling aspects of their anatomy. But Rebecca had never seen a flesh and blood man in the altogether. She wondered how Lord Hartley would compare to the classical ideals of his gender.

But it would be beyond mortifying if he were to catch her standing on the chair to peep at him. So instead, Rebecca plopped into it. She reached under her hem and untied her garters, so she could roll down the wet stockings. From her seated position, she couldn't help noticing that there were a few slim gaps in the dressing screen where the frame folded. Against her better judgment, she leaned forward and put her eye to the narrow slit.

Rebecca couldn't see much, just glimpses here and there. His horrific pink waistcoat was lying in a crumpled heap on the yellow plank pine floor. She looked up and a wide expanse of white filled her vision.

His
shirt.

Once he drew the shirt over his head, there seemed to be an oatmeal-colored fabric dominating the narrow slit.

His
smalls
, Rebecca realized.
Oh
my
stars, I'm staring at a man in his underclothes. I'm going straight to hell.

But she didn't look away.

He peeled out of the upper portion of the undergarment, letting the long sleeves drape over the dark wool of his trousers. Then she saw a broad swath of flesh tone.

The
skin
on
his
back.

It was beautifully smooth and taut over his large-boned frame. She felt like throwing rocks at those Greek statues now. The muscles in John's shoulders and arms were a study in masculine proportion and grace.

Then he must have turned to face the screen because a brown nipple with a dark whorl of hair around it flashed past her limited field of vision.

His
chest.

Her own rib cage tightened. She knew she should tear her gaze away, but she couldn't bring herself to. If she were bound for perdition, she might as well deserve it. Then she heard a rustle of cloth and the dark fabric of his trousers slid down to the floor.