To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) (10 page)

She’d been so stupid and naïve to let Stephen manipulate her. He could accuse her of hiding in her bedchamber and wasting her life all that he wanted. Once she was back in that safe, isolated world, she intended to stay there for a very long time.

Chapter 12

Miss W.’s adventure was predictably short-lived.

Much like a mole, she shall now burrow underground

and disappear for the remainder of the Season.

—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple

“Miss Wimple is indisposed.” Giles’s tone was icy, and he wouldn’t look Stephen in the eye.

“I need to speak with her,” Stephen said. “I promise it won’t take long.”

The butler snorted. “The last time I admitted you to this house, you stayed four days.”

“Give me four minutes.”

Giles pulled himself to his full height, maybe five and a half feet. “You don’t understand, my lord. It is not up to me. Miss Wimple does not wish to receive you.”

Stephen scratched his head. She’d been justifiably peeved with him yesterday, but now she wouldn’t even see him? “Just me?”

The butler confirmed this with a crisp nod.

“She’s upset about something, but I have no idea what,” he muttered to himself more than the butler. “That’s not true—it could be any number of things.” Perhaps things hadn’t gone well at the ball last night. “The problem,” said Stephen, “is that I can’t mend things with Amelia until I figure out why she’s hurting.”

Giles gave him a measuring look, hesitated, then spoke. “She
is
hurting, my lord. It fairly breaks my heart to see it.”

“If I were to write her a note, do you think she’d read it, or just toss it into the fire?”

“It’s hard to say. In my experience, however, women enjoy a good bit of groveling.”

Stephen peered around the butler into the foyer. “I assume she’s upstairs, locked in her room?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Would you consider letting me in the drawing room—just long enough for me to write her a note?”

“I suppose you’ll need a paper, pen, and ink.” Giles made a sour face, but his wily old eyes twinkled.

Stephen smiled and clasped the man’s shoulder. “A large pot of ink. I have a lot of groveling to do.”

* * *

Amelia suspected it was Stephen at the door. The only other callers she might have had would have been Olivia and Rose, but they wouldn’t have argued with Giles when he said she wasn’t receiving.
They
had good manners.

But she had to admit, it was somewhat gratifying to know that Stephen hadn’t given up on her that easily.

She was tempted to slip out of her room and creep down the corridor for a peek at the foyer, but then the house grew quiet. Stephen had left after all.

Part of her wanted to run down the street after him, but he’d lied to her about giving up gambling. And that lie cast doubt over everything else he’d said before he left.
I was thinking maybe I’d settle down. Start a family. With you.

But perhaps what he was
really
thinking was that it might be nice to be married to an heiress who could support his rather extravagant gambling habit. After all, he’d said nothing about love.

She picked up the quilt that they’d lain on the night they spent together, clutched it to her chest, and inhaled deeply. She could still smell the faint scent of Stephen and their lovemaking.

She would miss him—his irreverent sense of humor, the way he challenged her to expand her world, and the way he made her toes curl with a single smoldering look. But she wouldn’t resign herself to a marriage where all the love was on one side. She was better off being single.

A knock at the door startled her, and she quickly set the quilt on the stool. “Come in.”

Cicely scurried into the room, her cheeks flushed. “Mr. Giles asked me to give this to you.”

Amelia took the folded paper from her. There was no address on the front, just her first name. It had to be from Stephen. “Is Lord Brookes still downstairs?”

The maid shook her head. “No ma’am. Mr. Giles let him write the note but said he wouldn’t deliver it till Lord Brookes left. I knew you didn’t want to see him but I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about a note. If you’d like me to have a footman return it—”

“No. Thank you, Cicely.”

“Very well.” Her maid gave a sympathetic, thin-lipped smile. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Your mother sent word. She’ll be returning tomorrow afternoon.”

“So soon,” Amelia murmured.

“Perhaps that means she’s much improved,” Cicely said cheerfully. “I’ll be back around tea time.”

Amelia sank into her chair and pulled the quilt over her lap. Her heart raced as she unfolded Stephen’s note.

My dearest Amelia,

As you are, by now, well aware, there are many disadvantages to being wooed by a rake. The following are but a few.

1) He may employ devious means in order to bend you to his will. For example, a rake might stoop to falsely signing your name on a letter to your friends in order to persuade you to attend a ball. Clearly, this sort of behavior is unacceptable (even if the rake did have the very best intentions and only wanted you to enjoy an evening in the company of your friends).

2) He may display a shocking and deplorable lack of respect for your privacy. For instance, if he were to happen upon a diary or other personal document, he would not hesitate to read it. This blatant disregard for your privacy is inexcusable (even if it was motivated by a desire to better understand you so that he might know the way to win your heart).

3) A rake may employ every means possible to seduce you. Such means include, but are not limited to, waltzing (in the complete absence of music), midnight assignations, and the removal of clothing. His only defense for such scandalous behavior is that he is quite powerless to resist you. And even though it may have been wrong for him to take such liberties with you, he cannot bring himself to regret a moment of that night.

Amelia, you have every right to be angry with me, and I’m sorry that I’ve upset you. There are many things I want to say to you—that I need to say to you—but they are things that must be said face-to-face. I probably don’t deserve a chance to explain myself, but I’m asking for one anyway. Meet me in Hyde Park at dusk tonight—on the bench beneath the tallest tree by the pond. Please.

Stephen

Amelia’s heart thawed a bit, blast it all. Fine. She would give him a quarter of an hour—no more.

That evening, when the sky started to glow pink and orange, she and Cicely set out for the park. Amelia wore a lilac silk pelisse over her white cambric walking dress, matching lilac slippers, and a straw woodland hat—one of her more fetching ensembles. Cicely had taken extra care with her hair, but none of this was to impress Stephen. Well, perhaps a little. But mostly, Amelia wanted to feel confident as she wished him well and said good-bye.

As they strolled down Oxford Street, Amelia turned to her maid. “I shall give Mr. Brookes a quarter of an hour of my time—no more.” The problem was that when Stephen launched his charming smile in her direction, she had a tendency to lose her resolve. “You may make one turn about the lake. After that, you must come for me and insist that I leave with you.”

“Very well.” Cicely nodded her approval.

“And if I should request a few minutes more, or tell you to take another turn about the lake, simply refuse. Drag me away if you must.”

Her maid shot her a concerned look. “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

They crested a gently sloping hill and the lake rose up before them, glistening in the waning evening light. “There he is,” said Cicely.

Indeed. He sat with his back to them, facing the water. His dark hair curled slightly over the back of his collar and Amelia remembered how he’d moaned when she’d kissed his neck. He wore the same Hessians he’d worn that first night—all night—as he brought her to the height of pleasure. Dear God.

“Remember,” she said to Cicely as she prepared to join Stephen on the bench. “One turn about the lake. Then we head for home—no matter what.”

Chapter 13

When it comes to wooing women, Lord B. has many weapons

in his arsenal—dashing good looks, self-deprecating humor,

and something else… that shall not be named.

—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple

Stephen turned as she approached, then stood. “Thank God. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Amelia sighed. “I’m a glutton for punishment, it seems.” Seeing him and knowing that she couldn’t have him was the cruelest form of torture. He wore a dark blue jacket, a lighter blue waistcoat, and buckskin breeches so expertly tailored that they could have been painted on him. His bruises were healing nicely, and the smile that slid across his face made her belly flip. “I cannot stay for long,” she said.

“I understand. Please, sit.” He slid down the bench to make room for her, but not as far as he could have.

She smoothed her skirts and pretended that his closeness didn’t make her skin tingle with desire. “I received your note. You said there were some things you needed to say in person,” she said primly. “I thought you deserved that opportunity, even if I don’t expect it will change anything.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “For whatever it is I’ve done. Will you tell me what it is?”

“It’s not worth discussing. A leopard can’t change its spots.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve changed. You’re the last person I’d want to hurt, Amelia. I wish I could take you in my arms right now and kiss away your doubts.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“I know.” He shot her an apologetic smile. “How have you been since I left yesterday? Did you enjoy yourself at the ball?”

She had, until Huntford mentioned he’d seen Stephen at a gambling hell earlier that day. “It was a pleasant evening,” she said coolly. “I’ve had time to think about things.”

“So have I,” he said. “Would you like to know what I’ve been doing?”

“Actually, I would.” She gave him a pointed look, but was not so naïve as to think that he might tell the truth about spending the evening frittering away money he didn’t have on the roll of dice that were probably cogged. She looked up and spotted Cicely, about one third of the way around the lake. She had to hold herself together for only ten minutes more.

“First, I spoke to my brother, Charles.”

“The marquess?”

Stephen nodded. “I told him that I wanted to help him manage the estate, take on some responsibility. You see, no one has ever expected much from me, and I’ve never given them much reason to. But I do have a few skills—underused though they might be. I’m fairly good with numbers, and I used to spend my summers shadowing my father at Greystone Park, right up until I was fourteen. That was the year he was thrown from his horse—and died.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That must have been awful, to lose your father at such a young age. I got to enjoy eighteen years with Papa, and he spoiled me terribly.”

He reached between them and squeezed her hand. “We have a lot in common, Amelia. More than you think.”

Intent on changing the subject, she said, “What did your brother think about your offer?”

“Charles has to spend most of his time in London these days and had decided to take on an estate manager. I convinced him to let me try the position. I know it’s going to be a lot of work, but I’m looking forward to throwing myself into something that’s productive. It will keep me busy—out of London, and out of trouble.”

Amelia sincerely doubted that. After all, trouble could be found anywhere. It wasn’t like they didn’t have cards and women in Gloucestershire. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’ll make a wonderful estate manager—you have the charisma for it, and the staff will be eager to please you. Your brother obviously trusts you.”

“Thank you,” he said, clearly touched. “I spoke to my mother also.”

Amelia winced. “Was she very upset about your injuries?”

“Yes,” he said guiltily. “Ever since my father’s riding accident, she’s been frightfully protective—especially of me. But I told her that I was done with gambling and fighting.”

Amelia wondered if this conversation had occurred before or after he spent time at the gambling hell. “She must be very relieved.”

“She was more interested in what I had to say about you.”

“About me?” Amelia checked Cicely’s progress—two thirds of the way around the pond. “Why would you tell her about me?”

“Do not worry. I didn’t tell her that I was staying with you, or that we…” He flashed a wicked smile that made her nipples tighten despite the warmth of the evening. “I told her that I’d met the woman I wanted to marry. And that I just had to convince her that it’s what she wants too.”

“Stephen, I—”

“Of course she’s very curious and eager to see you again. She confessed she doesn’t remember you from the ball at Greystone.”