The Love of a Rake Read online

  The Love of a Rake

  Linda Rae Sande

  Contents

  Also by Linda Rae Sande

  1. A Race to the Finish Line

  2. A Birthday Present Arrives in the Form of a Puzzle

  3. A Rake Pays Witness to a Visit

  4. Decisions, Decisions

  5. A Country Chit

  6. Another Day, Another Rake

  7. Now That the Damage is Done

  8. A Reformed Rake Ponders How to Pursue a Wife

  9. Anticipation of a Birth

  10. The Morning After

  11. An Earl Admits a Mistake

  12. A Marquess Reconsiders a Lady

  13. An Identity Revealed

  14. A Woman Contemplates a Man

  15. A Brother Pays a Visit

  16. A Marquess Wonders About a Woman

  17. Ruination is a Reality

  18. A Visitor to a Solicitor

  19. A Marquess Becomes Charitable

  20. A Maid Makes a Maiden’s Day

  21. A Marquess Meets a Solicitor

  22. A Meeting with a Godfather

  23. A Mother Discovers That Someone is Missing

  24. A Visit with a Countess

  25. Confession is Good for the Soul

  26. A Meeting with a Father

  27. A Knight Returns

  28. A Marquess Pays a Late Call

  29. An Earl and Countess in the Library

  30. An Earl Returns for Dinner

  31. A Late Night Visitation

  32. A Marquess in Ludgate Hill

  33. Followed by an Earl and a Knight

  34. A Marquess Pays a Call on an Earl

  35. A Cousin is Summoned

  36. A Reunion of Cousins

  37. Truths Be Told

  38. A Courtship Begins with a Fainting Spell

  39. An Unwelcome Proposal

  40. A Married Life Begins

  41. Followed by Another

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Also by Linda Rae Sande

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  The Love of a Rake

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2015 Linda Rae Sande

  V1.2

  Cover photograph © Novelstock, Inc.

  Cover art by KGee Designs. All rights reserved - used with permission.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  http://www.lindaraesande.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9964433-0-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918333

  Linda Rae Sande, Cody, WY

  Created with Vellum

  To those who served in the armed forces,

  then and now— thank you for your service.

  Also by Linda Rae Sande

  The Daughters of the Aristocracy

  The Kiss of a Viscount

  The Grace of a Duke

  The Seduction of an Earl

  The Sons of the Aristocracy

  Tuesday Nights

  The Widowed Countess

  My Fair Groom

  The Sisters of the Aristocracy

  The Story of a Baron

  The Passion of a Marquess

  The Desire of a Lady

  The Brothers of the Aristocracy

  The Love of a Rake

  The Caress of a Commander

  The Epiphany of an Explorer

  The Widows of the Aristocracy

  The Gossip of a Earl

  The Cousins of the Aristocracy

  The Promise of a Gentleman

  The Pride of a Gentleman

  Chapter 1

  A Race to the Finish Line

  May 20, 1817, Epsom Downs, Surrey

  “He’s holding his own,” Alistair Comber commented, his eyes darting between the pocket watch he held and the opera glasses he was using to better see the jet black horse as it powered its way along the U-shaped race course.

  Although the track at Epsom Downs started with a bit of a climb, the finish featured a slight downhill grade. An early morning rainfall had settled the dust, but clods of soil flew up from the horse’s hooves as they took flight with each gallop. “It’s a good thing the Derby isn’t a two-mile race any longer, though,” he added with a frown as he noted how the Thoroughbred’s overall pace seemed to slow down after the first turn.

  “Agreed,” Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, replied as he watched his newest racehorse, Zeus, round the last turn and head for the finish line. “He doesn’t have the stamina for two miles. But this one-and-a-half-mile track may just be his forté—if he can do it in under three minutes. If he can’t ... well, I suppose I would rather he race than pay the forfeit fee.”

  Alistair gave him a nod. “Two-hundred guineas is a rather rich fine for pulling out,” he agreed. “Have you had any luck finding a suitable cold-blood mare for him? He would probably make an excellent stud.”

  Shaking his head, Randall wondered if Alistair was suggesting he simply put Zeus out to stud rather than continue his training as a racehorse. The man was an expert when it came to horses, whether they raced or were used for farming or puling equipage or for simply riding. “I have not,” he replied as he watched Zeus finish the run.

  “Looks like two-minutes, fifty-five seconds, my lord,” Alistair said with a nod. “I think you may have yourself a racehorse.”

  Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled a cheroot from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to Alistair.

  The second son of an earl shook his head. “Thank you, but no.” At the raised eyebrow the marquess gave him, he added, “I brought my wife along on this trip to Surrey, and I shouldn’t want to smell like a men’s club when I’m escorting her to dinner this evening.” He nodded toward the young woman who sat in a curricle positioned so she could watch the practice runs. She gave a tentative wave when she noticed his gaze. “Julia wanted the chance to get away from London for a bit.”

  The marquess dared a glance toward Julia Harrington Comber. The daughter of Stanley Harrington, Earl of Mayfield, Julia might have been expected to make a match with a duke or marquess’ son, but she had opted to accept the marriage proposal of her father’s then-groom and now the head of his stables and horse breeding program—and a frequent consultant to Tattersall’s. It was Alistair’s connection to the horse trader’s business that had Randall seeking his advice when it came to his racehorse.

  Randall felt a stab of jealousy that a man of Alistair’s age— six-and-twenty, if he had heard correctly—had figured out it was time he take a wife and start a family. “And how do you like being leg-shackled?” Randall asked when he returned his attention to Alistair.

  The groom gave him a nervous grin. “I like it far more than I thought I would,” he answered with a nod. “But then, I’m one of the lucky ones. I ended up with a spirited filly,” Alistair said, one eyebrow arching up.

  Randall dared another glance in the direction of Mrs. Comber just as she blew her husband a kiss. Despite his reputation—Randall was known in London as the Rake of Reading—he found himself rather shocked by the young woman’s gesture. Shocked, and just a bit, well, jealous of the earl’s son. “I see what you mean,” he said with an arched eyebrow of
his own.

  Noting how the jockey who had ridden Zeus was heading his way with the horse in tow, he held out his right hand. “Thank you for your help. I’ll see to your fee when I’m back in London.”

  Alistair shook the man’s hand and gave him a bow. “Good luck, my lord.” Stepping back, he made his way to his curricle as Randall turned his attention to the jockey.

  “Any trouble?” he asked. The man shook his head and pulled Zeus so the horse stood even with him.

  “He’s fast, my lord, and I’d be willing to wager a year’s earnings on him winning the Derby.”

  Randall took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, there won’t be any of that, son,” he said, knowing anything could happen between now and the race two days hence. Zeus could end up poisoned, or drugged with cocaine, or come up lame from an injury in the stables. The marquess was determined nothing egregious would happen, though. His stable-hands were more than they seemed. Should anyone try to get near the black Thoroughbred, at least one of them would see to it Zeus was protected. “Run him easy tomorrow, and take care you’re not pissed day after tomorrow.”

  The jockey bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

  Randall gave Zeus a quick pat and took his leave of the racetrack, his mind on cold-blood English mares.

  It was well past time he found himself a spirited filly—and not just the mare he needed for the next generation of Reading racehorses.

  He needed a wife.

  And at five-and-thirty, he needed an heir before he crossed the finish line.

  Chapter 2

  A Birthday Present Arrives in the Form of a Puzzle

  Very, very early in the morning of September 15, 1817

  Lord Charles Henry Goodwin, Earl of Wakefield, glanced in the cheval mirror. Not a particularly vain man, he still wished to leave his next visitor with a somewhat positive first impression. If he did, perhaps she would return to his bed another night and ply her trade again. As it was, he had few ladies of the evening who made the trip up the two flights of stairs and to his bedchamber more than once—despite the fact that his bedchamber was located in the fashionable Curzon Street terrace he called home when he was in London.

  He wondered if there was something about his body they did not care for (doubtful, but possible, he considered), or if perhaps he was a bit too quick with his tumbles and left the ladybirds less than satisfied.

  It could not be their compensation, for he was quite generous with his sovereigns. No, he thought as he gazed at the candlelight image of himself in the looking glass. It was probably the Rule. For no matter what time his appointment arrived, they were to be out of his bed at two o’clock in the morning and out of his house no later than two-oh-five.

  A man had to have his sleep, after all.

  So, if he returned from White’s or a ball at one-thirty on one of those two nights a week, a trollop would no doubt be waiting in a chair just past the vestibule, sometimes incensed that she had been left waiting for hours and then had to undress quickly, be available for whatever debauchery he thought of as fun for the evening, and then be out the front door before she’d had enough time to properly redress herself. Such were the vagaries of being a prostitute sent to the home of Lord Wakefield by her madame.

  The brocaded dressing gown he wore, closed in front with a loosely knotted belt, covered most of his firm, muscled body. The opening at the top revealed a dusting of dark hair on the bronzed skin of his chest. The deep brown color of the fabric nearly matched the closely cropped hair on his head, a lock of which always seemed to hang above one eyebrow.

  His face, too broad to be considered oval, sported high cheekbones, a nose that had at one time been broken and not quite put back into place, and a broad mouth. Wakefield prided himself on the condition of his teeth, all of which were still intact and kept as white as possible with the frequent use of tooth powder and a brush. That way, when he smiled, he could dazzle his peers in Parliament or impress the ladies at the theatre or a ball. He was in the process of testing their whiteness with a grimace aimed at the mirror when his valet stepped close.

  “My lord,” Chester spoke quietly. “Your appointment is here. Miss Eleanor Merriweather.”

  Wakefield tore his attention from the mirror and gave his valet a glance. “Thank you, Chester. You may retire for the night,” he said with a nod, wondering at the name his valet had offered. Usually Chester only gave him first names. Or nicknames. He rather doubted any of the ladies of the evening used their Christian names.

  When the valet stood his ground, apparently trying to decide whether he should say something else, Wakefield regarded him with furrowed brows. “What is it?”

  Chester cocked his head in the direction of the girl who stood near the door to his bedchamber. Wakefield followed suit, giving the chit a quick look. Although her head was bent down, and despite the pelisse she wore, he could see she was petite, pale, and brunette, his favorite set of features in a lightskirt. “She seems ...” Chester paused, not wanting to anger his employer. “Not like the others,” he whispered, his eyes as downcast as the girl’s.

  Wakefield was about to crack that it was about time Lucy Gibbons sent him a truly naughty wench, but another glance at the girl told him that she probably wasn’t very naughty. She looked as if she could be a rather proper girl except for the messy bun atop her head and the wrinkled gown she wore.

  Rolling his eyes, Wakefield nodded. “Thank you for the insight, Chester.” He motioned with his hand. “Does she know the Rule?” he remembered to ask when his valet was just about to leave the bedchamber.

  “Yes, my lord,” Chester replied before giving the young girl what could only be described as a look of sympathy.

  Lord Wakefield regarded his visitor, a slight alcoholic haze clouding his sight just a bit. At the sound of the door closing, the young woman looked up, making brief eye contact with the earl before averting her gaze. She is young, he thought, wondering why his image of her seemed somewhat blurred. He hadn’t had that much to drink.

  A puzzle, she was, but wasn’t everyone when he first met them? A ten-piece puzzle with uneven edges and some pieces not always interlocked with the others. He imagined dumping them out of their wooden box onto a card table, turning some over so their images were right side up and quickly arranging them so they were evenly spaced out.

  He moved closer. “What should I call you, Miss Merriweather?” his question coming out a bit louder than he meant it to.

  The girl nearly jumped off the floor at the sound of his voice, but then she executed a perfect curtsy, her reticule bobbing from one hand. “Eleanor, my lord.”

  Wakefield bowed, impressed by the young woman’s poise. “How old are you?” he wondered, guessing seventeen but thinking she was probably already past her majority. Young women’s ages were always so tricky.

  “Eighteen, my lord,” she replied quietly, a slight quaver to her voice.

  A puzzle piece clicked into place.

  Her eyes finally looked up and locked on his. Brown eyes, he realized, or perhaps hazel given the dark brown hair that curled around her face and was otherwise knotted on the top of her head in that loose, messy bun.

  Not so very young, he considered, but why is she blurry? I am not that foxed that I can’t see straight. As he moved closer, he realized her entire body was ... vibrating. Shivering, he realized. The fire was still ablaze and the room was a bit warmer than he liked for these late summer nights, so why ...?

  “Are you cold?” he asked then, moving slowly to stand before her. She was pretty, he decided. Very pretty. Her skin was like porcelain, with no blemishes, and her cheeks were rosy. At first he thought she might have used cosmetics to redden her lips and color her cheeks, but upon closer inspection, he realized she wore none. She’s truly blushing.

  Not a typical lightskirt.

  A puzzle piece hung for a moment, not quite fitting.

  “I am very warm, thank you, my lord,” she replied, again with the quaver in
her voice.

  A different puzzle piece clicked into place.

  She’s frightened, he realized. Good God, what have the harlots been saying about me at Lucy’s place? he found himself wondering. “Well, you needn’t be frightened of me,” he said defensively. “I promise, I will not hurt you,” he added before glancing at the clock. It was already after one. “You should be getting undressed, though. We don’t have a lot of time,” he said then. “You can hang your garments over there,” he pointed in the direction of a richly upholstered chair located near the fireplace. As he was about to untie his dressing gown, he noticed she had removed her pelisse but hadn’t made an effort to remove her dress. “Well?” he asked impatiently, noticing her pelisse was of recent construction, the fabric showing little in the way of wear and tear. Even her gown seemed new, although whatever she had been doing in it that day seemed to have wrinkled it. For a moment, he thought she might have come straight from another tumble, one in which she hadn’t had to remove her gown. For some reason, the thought excited him. Most of the women sent from Lucy’s shed their garments before they climbed onto his bed, but one or two wore their chemise and corset.

  Although he was tempted to tup her over the edge of his bed, he decided he wanted her undressed.

  Completely.

  Naked and in the middle of the bed.

  The young woman’s large brown eyes looked up at him again. They were bright, as if she were on the verge of tears. He had seen those eyes before, he remembered. On a doe he had discovered in the back gardens of the Wakefield estate in Hampshire. She had been eating the rosebuds. And those eyes had looked at him in sudden fear as he drew his bow and let loose the arrow that killed her.

  That deer had been dinner for several nights.

  And that look haunted him now as he regarded Eleanor Merriweather.

  “I cannot undo the buttons by myself,” she replied, turning slowly until her back faced him.