When Only a Rake Will Do (2 page)

Not surprisingly, it had taken her months to overcome the gut-wrenching pain that had accompanied the sudden deaths of her beloved family members.  But eventually, for Charlotte’s sake more than anything else, she had picked up the pieces of her shattered existence and moved on with her life.  But this, what her brother had done, was nearly akin to reliving that horrible pain all over again. “Damn you, Thomas,” she cursed under her breath, unable to help herself.

With George destined to inherit their father’s title and their family’s modest fortune since the moment of his birth, Thomas had never been burdened with the same sense of duty and responsibility that their older brother had carried upon his broad shoulders.  In turn, Thomas had spent the majority of his youth enjoying the benefits of their family’s wealth and social position with an air of privileged indolence and a blithe disregard for the future.  At twenty, he had been ill-prepared for the obligation that had fallen upon him so unexpectedly, she understood that.  But even so, she doubted that she would ever be able to excuse the imprudence of his actions or to forgive the terrible consequences those actions had wrought.

She was to marry the Earl of Blackburn.  The horrifying circumstance seemed more like a terrible nightmare than an actuality.  But alas, it wasn’t a nightmare.  It was all too real.  Pressing her forehead against the smooth, glass windowpane, crystal droplets continued to slide down her cheeks in tiny rivulets, falling one by one onto the narrow seat cushion below.

When a soft knock sounded upon her door a short time later, Daphne stood up, hastily brushing the last remaining tears from her cheeks.  “Come in,” she called out.  She watched then as the door opened and Charlotte stepped inside, a bright, cheerful smile upon her cherubic face.

Noting Daphne’s reddened eyes as she progressed into the room, Charlotte’s smile abruptly faded.  “Have you been crying?” she asked, her cheery expression immediately altering to one of concern.

“Don’t worry, dearest, it’s nothing,” Daphne dissembled, smiling and shaking her head.  She didn’t want Charlotte to know what Thomas had done, nor did she want her to know about the changes that were to come, not yet.

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed as she searched Daphne’s face.  “You’ve a red mark upon your cheek,” she noted, her gaze focusing upon the area where Thomas had struck her.

“It’s a silly thing, really,” she replied with a forced laugh.  “I tripped a moment ago and struck my cheek against the side of the armoire,” she continued, motioning to the tall wardrobe that sat against the far wall.  “However, I’m embarrassed to admit that the tears were due more to frustration at my clumsiness than for the pain it caused.”

Charlotte glanced toward the armoire and then back to Daphne.  “Goodness, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Of course,” she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand.  Stepping forward, she pulled her sister into her arms and gave her a quick, reassuring hug.  “Don’t fret.  It’s just a little bump.  I’m fine, truly.” 

Fortunately, Charlotte appeared to accept her at her word and her delicate features gradually relaxed.

“Oh, you found it,” she exclaimed a moment later, as her gaze shifted toward the bed.  Walking over, Charlotte lifted the hardbound copy of
Snow-White and Rose-Red
from the velvet counterpane. 

“I did.  ‘Twas in the library all along.”  The book was one of Charlotte’s favorites, but she’d misplaced it days earlier.  “One of the maids must have found it and returned it to the shelves.”  It had taken a bit of doing, for both her mother and father had been avid readers and the number of books in their library was considerable, but after hours spent scouring the shelves, she’d finally located the narrow volume tucked between two of her father’s dog-eared horticulture books.

“Shall we read it now?” Charlotte asked, turning to Daphne with an eager smile.

They’d read the book at least a dozen times before, but Charlotte never tired of the story.  “If you’d like,” she replied, returning Charlotte’s winsome smile.  Born with a weakness of the lungs and unable to exert herself physically, Charlotte had developed a love of books at an early age, and like Daphne, fairytales had always been amongst her favorites. 

Climbing onto the bed, Charlotte kicked off her pink satin slippers and then scooted toward the center of the mattress, propping herself up with the pillows that rested against the wooden headboard.  Then, patting the empty space next to her, she waited for Daphne to join her.

Settling onto the bed next to Charlotte, Daphne knew that she had made the right decision.  She loved her sister more than anything in the world and if she had to sacrifice herself in order to protect her, then that is exactly what she would do. “Shall I read to you or will you read to me this time?” she asked, tipping her head and resting her cheek atop Charlotte’s soft brown curls.

“I’ll read to you,” Charlotte replied, opening the book in her lap.  “Once upon a time…

“Good lord, who is she?” Brendon Leighton uttered aloud, his gaze focused upon the stunning blonde who’d just twirled past in the arms of the Marquess of Bouqefort. 

His good friend, Lord Harold Sedgewick, Viscount Dearing, standing at his side in the Earl and Countess of Chesterfield’s immense ballroom, turned his head to follow Brendon’s gaze.  “Ah,” he began, smiling as he spotted the woman in question.  “I should have known that it wouldn’t take you long to spot the prettiest girl in the room,” he continued with a knowing grin.  “
She
, my friend, is Lady Daphne Hewitt.”

“Hewitt?”  Tearing his gaze from the young beauty, Brendon turned his attention back to Harold.  “George’s sister?”

Harold nodded.  “She’s eighteen now and out for her first Season.”

“Surely young Thomas hasn’t managed to tear himself from the gaming tables long enough to launch his sister into Society,” Brendon commented in a sardonic tone.  Though George Hewitt had been one of his closest friends since their schooldays at Eton, Brendon had never particularly cared for George’s younger brother, Thomas.  Sadly, since George’s death, his opinion of the young man had fallen even further.

“He has indeed.  Astonishing, isn’t it?” Harold responded with a derisive snort. 

“Undoubtedly he is eager to marry her off post-haste, so that he can return his attention to squandering the family fortune.”

“One would imagine.  Though I dare say it shouldn’t take long, for although she made her debut just three weeks past, Lady Daphne has already acquired a slew of eligible suitors,” Harold remarked.

Having just returned from his latest trip abroad, Brendon had been in the city for less than forty-eight hours and thus he wasn’t current on all of the latest goings-on within the
ton
.  Not that he cared overmuch, for Society matters generally didn’t interest him, nor did Society functions for that matter.  In fact, the only reason that he was in attendance at the Chesterfield affair that evening was because the earl and countess happened to be close friends of his.  “And how is it that you know so much about Lady Daphne and her suitors?” Brendon queried with a raised brow.  “Have you set your cap for her as well, Harry?”

“Bite your tongue, man,” Harold replied with a light-hearted chuckle.  “You know that I am in no rush to become leg-shackled, no matter how lovely the lady.  However, unlike you, I have been in London these past weeks and the enchanting young miss has been the talk of the town,” he continued. 

“I see.  So you have no interest in the girl, other than that she is the talk of the town of course?” Brendon prodded teasingly, his expression skeptical. 

Harold grinned unabashedly.  “Well, I admit that I may have considered relinquishing my bachelorhood upon our initial introduction,” he acknowledged.  “But fortunately I came to my senses before dropping to one knee in the midst of the Markingham’s ballroom,” he continued good-humoredly.

Brendon grinned back.  “You’ll have to slip your neck into the parson’s noose someday, Harry.  You’ve a title to pass on after all,” he reminded him.  “Isn’t that why you attend all of these bothersome gatherings?” he continued with a puckish waggle of his brows.

“Gad, you sound just like my mother,” Harold lamented with a look of mock horror.  “And you know perfectly well that I present myself at these blasted events on occasion only to diminish her incessant harping.” 

“A shame you were born first, Harry,” Brendon remarked with a chuckle.  “If only you’d made your appearance a few years later, young Gregory would have been the one to suffer your mother’s impatience to add a daughter-in-law to the family and commence the begetting of the next Dearing heir.”

“My wretched luck,” Harry agreed with a good-natured scowl.  “But why all this sudden talk of marriage?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, his expression turning quizzical as he regarded Brendon.  “Hells bells, Leighton, don’t tell me that
you
are finally considering a trip to the altar.”

“Hardly,” Brendon said with a laugh.  “I’m enjoying myself far too much to set up housekeeping just yet.”  It was true, for at only six and twenty he was in no great hurry to join the ranks of the legally wed.

“Well that’s a relief. You had me worried for a second there, old boy,” Harold replied, grinning.

Brendon merely rolled his eyes as he turned his attention back to the dancers, a spinning blur of colorful silks and satins intermingled with pristine white shirts, black cutaway jackets and matching trousers, all of which were illuminated beneath an array of sparkling, gas-lit chandeliers and further enhanced by the flickering candlelight emitted from the dozens of sconces affixed to the ballroom walls.  

As the music came to an end and her latest partner led her from the floor, Daphne cast a quick glance about the room, wondering where Thomas had disappeared to and desperately hoping that he hadn’t found his way to one of the card rooms set aside for those who preferred gaming to dancing. 

But then, much to her relief, she spotted him on the far side of the room, conversing with Miss Prudence Flemming, a young American heiress whose mother, the stern-faced widow standing at her side, was said to be inordinately determined to marry her daughter to an English title.  Unfortunately, however, aside from her considerable fortune, the young lady had little else with which to lure potential suitors.  Possessed of a pear-shaped figure and a woefully unattractive countenance, she was rumored to be a bit dull-witted as well.  Nonetheless, Thomas, having quickly come to the realization that Daphne’s impending marriage would provide him only a temporary reprieve from his financial woes, had decided that the unfortunate girl might be just the solution to his problem.  Perversely, she couldn’t help but appreciate the utter irony of the situation.

Reaching the edge of the dance floor, Daphne smiled prettily as she turned her attention from Thomas and Miss Flemming and back to the handsome Marquess of Bouqefort.  “Thank you, my lord,” she said graciously.

“No, it is I who must thank you, Lady Daphne,” Bouqefort replied chivalrously, as he relinquished her gloved hand.  “As it was last week at the Havershem’s affair, partnering you on the dance floor has been the highlight of my evening,” he continued with a warm smile.

“How very kind of you to say so,” she replied, just as she caught sight of the Earl of Blackburn from the corner of her eye. He was standing at the edge of the parquet floor a short distance away, watching her as she conversed with the marquess. 

“I hope that you will allow me to call upon you later this week?”

“Of course, my lord.  I would enjoy that very much.”

“Until then,” he said, nodding politely before taking his leave.

As Daphne turned, her gaze met momentarily with the Earl of Blackburn’s.  Nodding imperceptibly, he didn’t appear in the least displeased by her interaction with the marquess, quite the opposite in fact.  He looked inordinately pleased.  But that is exactly what he wanted her to do, of course, to charm all of Society’s eligible bachelors, to win their affections and to make each and every one of them think that they had a chance at securing her hand, the loathsome scoundrel. 

Upon their initial discussion a few weeks past, the earl had expounded upon what Thomas had already conveyed to her regarding the earl’s intent, making his expectations, or rather his
requirements
, exceedingly clear.  With not even an ounce of shame or ignominy, he’d told her precisely what he required her to do.  She was to smile, to charm, to dazzle and to entice and ultimately to set about securing her position as the Season’s most coveted prize.  And by the end of it, he wanted every last one of London’s most sought after gentlemen clamoring for her hand. Then, when their engagement was officially announced at the Season’s end, he wanted each and every one of those men, as well as every other member of the English aristocracy, to know (or rather to
believe
, though he hadn’t voiced that specific word aloud of course) that she had chosen
him
over them.

It was despicable.  For no other reason than to inflate his own ego he had concocted the whole wretched scheme, and as much as she might have wished to refuse his demands, Daphne had had no choice but to go along with his contemptible ruse.  She hated misleading them, encouraging their attentions, for it made her sick inside.  But if she’d refused her entire family would have suffered the consequences.  He’d made
that
exceedingly clear as well.

Therefore, carefully concealing her aversion behind a well-practiced facade, Daphne tipped her head indiscernibly in return.  Then, with Thomas presently occupied and seeking a quiet moment to herself, she turned and quickly made her way through the milling crowd.

Entering one of the ladies retiring rooms a short while later, she was relieved to see that aside from an older woman who was on her way out and the uniformed maid in attendance, the chamber was otherwise unoccupied.  Smiling politely at the woman as she passed, Daphne proceeded into the elegantly-appointed space, declining when the accommodating young maid asked if she could be of any assistance. She walked to the far corner of the room then, where a velvet-covered bench seat was set before a small vanity table and mirror.  Sitting down, she breathed a quiet sigh and allowed the obligatory, overly-bright smile that she’d been sporting all evening to slowly fade as she lifted her eyes to the large, oval looking glass.  She simply sat there for a time, relishing the temporary tranquility, her gaze blank and unfocused. 

When she looked at herself at last,
really
looked at herself, the face staring back at her was one she barely recognized.  While the features were the same, the smooth ivory complexion, the familiar green eyes fringed by long, dark lashes and topped with delicately arched brows, the gentle slope of her nose and the same pink-hued lips she’d had since birth, there seemed something altogether different about it as well. It was an underlying bleakness, she realized, an inner sense of despair and desolation that seemed to transform her entire face, for she hated the charade that she was being forced to enact and already it was beginning to take its toll upon her, both physically and emotionally.  Regrettably, however, there was little she could do to change things.  For the sake of her family, she would simply have to keep doing what she was doing as she did her best to endure the miserable situation.

And so, taking a deep breath, she straightened her spine and reached upward to adjust one of the jeweled hairpins that had come loose from her elegantly-styled coiffure.  Once she had the wayward pin tucked properly back into place, she rose reluctantly to her feet.  For much as she might have wished to remain hidden away in the retiring room for the remainder of the evening, she knew that a lengthy absence would not go unnoticed.  So, smoothing the wrinkles from her voluminous skirts, Daphne cast one last look in the mirror, adjusting the narrow, puffed sleeves of her gown as she took in her appearance.

The dress, designed by one of London’s most celebrated dressmakers and styled from the latest Parisian fashion plates, was an exquisite creation of cream-colored silk and lace, the hem and the edges of the sleeves adorned with delicately embroidered pink roses intertwined with a profusion of intricately-detailed green leaves. Though it was assuredly one of the most-beautiful garments she’d ever worn, Daphne found it difficult to truly appreciate its beauty, as it was simply another part of the elaborate pretense she was being forced to carry out.  For determined that she shine brighter than any of the other young ladies making their entrance into Society’s midst, the Earl of Blackburn had funded the purchase of an entire new wardrobe for her debut.

Finally, satisfied that her appearance was in order, Daphne turned and started to the door, knowing that she couldn’t delay the inevitable for much longer.  The wide, oaken panel swung open before she could reach it, however, as two young ladies hurried into the room. 

“Marie, fetch the needle and thread,” one of them exclaimed, turning her frantic gaze to the young maid who rose to attention from the small wooden stool that had been tucked into the corner of the room.

“For goodness sake, Amelia, there is no need for hysterics,” the other girl chided. “The damage to the hem is minor and I’m certain that Marie can have it repaired in a trice.”

“Of course, my lady,” the maid replied.  “It will take but a moment,” she said, hurrying toward a small table that held an assortment of odds and ends, including scissors, needles and several spools of thread.

Dropping onto the nearest chair, Amelia lifted the hem of her skirt to survey the damage, while her sister Lizzie glanced about the room.

“Oh, Daphne, here you are,” Elizabeth Warrene said as her gaze fell upon her, causing Amelia to look up from her hem and focus upon Daphne as well.  “We were wondering where you’d gone off to.”

Approaching her two closest friends, Amelia and Lizzie Warrene, Daphne glanced down at Amelia’s hem.  “Whatever happened?” she asked sympathetically, eyeing the small tear at the bottom of her gown.

“Baron Wymore happened,” Amelia replied with a little huff of frustration.  “Honestly, that man has two left feet,” she continued as Marie dropped to her knees in front of her, needle and thread in hand.  “And of course his clumsiness couldn’t have happened at a more inopportune time,” she added with a frown.