Date with a Regency Rake: The Wicked Lord Rasenby / The Rake's Rebellious Lady

Amelia was different. The latest styles and colours, who was likely to marry whom, were to her of the greatest importance. And it was just as well, thought Clarissa wryly, deftly arranging her sister’s hair, that she found it all so entrancing. Marriage was the only thing Amelia was good for, really. Clarissa loved her sister, but she was not blind to her limitations. How could she be, after all? Amelia was exactly like their mama.

Marriage was in fact becoming a necessity for Amelia. Not, as their mama hoped, because she would make a fabulous match. With such a miniscule marriage portion, that was unlikely in the extreme. No, marriage was a necessity for Amelia because she had neither the skills nor the inclination to earn her own living. On top of which, Clarissa suspected that Amelia was falling into compromising company. If she was to reach the altar unsullied, a wedding must be arranged sooner rather than later.

‘Who are you so desperate to impress tonight then, Amelia?’

Amelia giggled. ‘I don’t think I should tell you. You’re so strait-laced, Clarrie, you’d be sure to run to Mama.’

‘That’s not fair!’ Clarissa carefully threaded a ribbon through Amelia’s golden locks. ‘I’m not a sneak, and you know it. I wouldn’t run to Mama.’ No, indeed she wouldn’t, she thought sadly. For Mama would be sure to say that Clarrie was a fusspot, and that Amelia knew her own business. In fact Mama, the widowed Lady Maria Warrington, would probably not even have the energy to say that much.

Lady Maria had been disappointed in life from an early age, and constant disappointment had taken its toll. Married to a younger son, then left a penniless widow not long after Amelia’s birth, Lady Maria drifted through life with as little effort as possible. Only cards, and the thought of the brilliant match her beautiful younger daughter would one day make, brought any animation to her face. At the slightest sign that any sort of effort would be required from her she wilted, and even on occasions took to fainting fits. Lady Maria had relied on her practical, pragmatic elder daughter for as long as either of them could remember.

Traces of Lady Maria’s beauty could still be detected beneath her raddled skin, but the years had not been kind. Amelia took after her, but Clarissa’s own deep auburn hair and vivid green eyes came from her father’s side of the family. Clarissa barely remembered Papa, and the little she knew came from Aunt Constance, his favourite sister. Questioning Mama simply brought on tears.

Aunt Constance, alone of Papa’s family, had never disowned them, and had always taken an interest in Clarissa. It had been Aunt Constance who funded Clarissa’s schooling, and encouraged her reading—histories, politics, and even romances. Aunt Constance could not like Mama, and had little success with Amelia, who refused to study anything beyond the pianoforte, but she doted on Clarissa, and was fond of telling her stories of Papa as a child.

A final twist to her sister’s coiffure ensured that one golden lock fell artfully over her shoulder. Amelia’s thin muslin dress was of palest pink, her little satin evening slippers dyed to match, as was the ribbon in her hair, dressed in the newly fashionable Grecian knot. Perhaps Amelia’s figure was a little too full to look its best in the high-waisted style, which still seemed so strange to people of their mother’s generation, but Clarissa could see that no gentleman would cavil at being faced with such a lush display of curves.

‘There! You look lovely, Amelia.’

‘Yes, I do, don’t I?’

Amelia preened in the mirror, and Clarissa sighed. Really, her sister was displaying all too much of her ample curves, even if the low décolleté was all the rage. ‘You don’t think that perhaps a fichu …’

The scornful look was answer enough. ‘Oh, very well. I hope you won’t get goose bumps!’ Clarissa tried to introduce a lighter note. There would be no getting anything out of Amelia if she was in the least lecturing. ‘At least tell me who your beau is. For you’ve made such an effort, there must be one.’

‘Well, I don’t know if I will, Clarrie; you’re bound to disapprove.’

The coy look that accompanied this challenge told Clarissa that Amelia was actually bursting to tell. Perversely, she decided not to pursue the matter. ‘Of course, Amelia, I respect your confidence.’ She turned to leave.

‘No, no, I’ll tell. Well, a little. Clarrie, you just won’t believe it. I think, I’m certain—well, almost certain—that Kit Rasenby is interested. What do you think of that then?’

‘Kit Rasenby? Amelia, you don’t seriously mean the Earl of Rasenby? Surely you are mistaken?’

‘Well, I’m not, actually.’ Amelia pouted. ‘He is interested. At the Carruthers’ ball last week he danced with me three times. That’s twice more than any other lady. And he sat next to me at tea. And then I met him at the theatre when we went to that boring old play you were so desperate to see. You know, the one with that old woman in it.’

‘You mean Mrs Siddons?’ Clarissa had been keen to attend the theatre that evening. Lady Macbeth was the part for which Mrs Siddons was most famed. But Lady Maria had had one of her turns, and Clarrie had to stay home to burn feathers under her nose and dab lavender water on her temples. Clarissa was used to self-sacrifice, even though she had long ceased to believe that these ‘turns’ of her mama’s were anything more than habit. But missing the great Mrs Siddons had been a trial.

Amelia had no further interest in Mrs Siddons. ‘Yes, well, Rasenby came to our box particularly to see me. And he spoke to no one else. Chloe said he had eyes only for me all night.’

‘You mean he was eyeing you from the pit?’ Clarissa’s tone was dry. Gentlemen did not eye respectable ladies from the pit. The type of ladies eyed from the pit were not likely to be those offered matrimony.

‘And then, today,’ Amelia continued blithely, ‘when he stopped to talk with us in the park, he asked most particularly if I would be at the Jessops’ ball tonight. So, of course, I know he has intentions.’

‘Amelia, you know what those intentions are likely to be? You do know of the Earl of Rasenby’s reputation?’

A toss of golden curls and yet another pout were the response.

‘Amelia, I’m serious.’ Clarissa might have spurned most of the invitations she received, but no one could be unaware of the reputation of the Earl of Rasenby. He was a hardened gamester and an incurable womaniser. He was enormously rich and famously handsome, although Clarissa was sceptical about this—in her view, the rich were invariably good looking. Lord Rasenby’s mistresses were notoriously beautiful and expensive, and, despite endless lures and traps, he remained determinedly unattached. Quite the perfect Gothic villain, now she thought of it.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Clarrie, do you think I’m stupid? Of course I know of his reputation. Better than you, I expect, since you’re such a prude no one would dare tell you the plain truth. But I know he likes me. A lot! I just know!’

Nothing more could be gained from Amelia, and Clarissa went to bed extremely worried. Her sister was both young and naïve, and could all too easily fall victim to the likes of Rasenby. The company Amelia was keeping, never mind her lack of dowry, was likely to ensure that any offer would be strictly dishonourable.

And if Amelia was offered a carte blanche by someone as rich as Rasenby, she would take it. Clarissa turned restlessly in her bed. It was so hard to be genteelly poor, she could understand the temptation. To a girl like Amelia, the choice between a brief career swathed in furs and silks and showered in diamonds, or a safe marriage with a no more than adequate income was an all too easy one. But life as Kit Rasenby’s mistress would be very short-lived. Amelia’s charms were those of novelty and freshness, not likely to entertain so jaded a palate as Rasenby’s for long. And who would have Amelia then? There was only one way to go, and that was down. Amelia must marry soon, preferably to someone who would take her firmly in hand. But such a person was likely to be too staid and too poor for Amelia. Even supposing she did meet this paragon, would she even look at him, when dazzled by Rasenby’s wealth?

If Amelia was ruined, Clarissa would be ruined by association. Even finding a post as governess, something to which she was daily trying to resign herself, would be difficult. At twenty-four, Clarissa had set her sights on self-sufficiency as the only way to give her some element of the freedom she craved. Aunt Constance’s offer of a home was tempting, but Clarissa knew in her heart that it would mean tying herself to another obligation, even assuming Mama was settled with Amelia.

Clarissa had always been the sensible one. Beside her sister’s vivaciousness and dazzling looks, which had been apparent from a very early age, she felt plain. Her green eyes and dark auburn curls were no match for Amelia’s milkmaid perfection. She had settled compliantly into the role of carer. When Amelia tore her dress, Clarrie stitched it. When Amelia fought with her friends, Clarrie played the peacemaker. And as she grew older, when Amelia wanted to attend parties and make her début, Clarrie scrimped and saved to provide her with the dresses and hats and all the other bits and pieces that she needed.

For years now, Lady Maria’s hopes had been pinned on Amelia making a match that would save them from poverty. Having no wish to become a burden on Amelia’s future household, and having no desire to find herself a suitable match, Clarissa had started, discreetly, looking around for a genteel position. Surrendering her own chance of matrimony was no sacrifice, for she had never met a man who had caused her heart to flutter. In fact, she had never met a man she had found interesting enough to want to get to know better in any way.

Clarissa’s pragmatic front concealed a deep romanticism that the practical side of her despised, but which she was unable to ignore. She longed for passion, love, ardour—despite trying to convince herself that they didn’t really exist! She dreamed of someone who would love her for herself, value her for what she was, not for her looks or her lineage—which was good, even if Papa’s family did refuse to own them—or even her dowry. Someone to pledge himself to her for always. Happy ever after was hardly in vogue though. Clarrie’s dreams were out of kilter with the ways of the real world. Marriage vows were taken very lightly these days—once an heir had been delivered—with affection provided by a lover rather than a husband. Clarissa couldn’t help but find such attitudes abhorrent, even if it did mean being mocked for her prudishness.

Reconciling these two sides of her nature, the practical and romantic, was difficult. Even when embroiled in reading one of the Gothic romances she adored, Clarissa found herself thinking that her own good sense would be of a lot more use in assisting the hero than the tears and fainting fits of the heroines. But resourcefulness was not a quality valued in a female, real or imaginary, nor was it much sought after in a wife. Since it seemed unlikely, in any event, that she would ever be given the opportunity to play the heroine, Clarissa had resigned herself to becoming a governess, a role which would certainly require all her resourcefulness. On that determined note, she finally fell asleep.

At breakfast the next morning, Amelia was all yawns and coy giggles. ‘Oh, Mama, we had such fun, and my new dress was much admired.’ This, with a sly look at Clarissa.

Clarissa was in no mood for Amelia’s games, having woken this morning resolved to remove her sister from the clutches of the Earl of Rasenby. By force, if necessary. ‘I can well imagine that you were admired in that dress, Amelia, for it left little to the imagination.’ Her jibe was, however, low enough to avoid being heard by Lady Maria, now deep in this morning’s post.

Amelia, predictably, pouted, and ignored her.

‘And did your beau turn up, then?’

‘Can you doubt it? He can’t keep away, I told you. He didn’t leave my side all night, and everyone noticed.’

‘Amelia, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Everyone will be talking about you being so singled out. In fact, it seems to me that by making you so conspicuous, it is less likely that the Earl of Rasenby’s intentions are honourable. What can Mrs Barrington have been thinking, to allow it? She cannot be a suitable escort. I must speak to Mama.’

‘Clarissa, if you do any such thing, I swear, I will make you pay.’ Cornflower-blue eyes bright with intent locked on to emerald-green. ‘I don’t care what you think of Mrs Barrington, she’s all I’ve got, since you and your precious, snooty Aunt Constance are so determined not to escort me. And our dear mama won’t move beyond her drawing room, unless there’s a card table to tempt her.’

Seeing her sister’s stricken look, Amelia relented. No sense in getting Clarissa all worked up and on her high horse. ‘You know I wouldn’t do anything silly. Mrs Barrington is perfectly respectable, I promise you. And besides, for the next couple of days, I won’t be seeing Rasenby. You’re right, it won’t do to grant him too much attention, I have to keep him keen.’ And in any case, Clarrie didn’t need to know that a certain Edward was really a far more attractive companion than Kit Rasenby. Kit Rasenby was rich and powerful, but he didn’t cause her heart to flutter the way Edward did. In fact, Amelia was finding herself quite distracted by Edward, whose youthful good looks appealed so much more to her than Rasenby’s striking countenance, which could be rather intimidating. Rasenby’s wealth was losing a little of its attraction—but she was determined to give it every chance to succeed. Edward would always be there, of that she was already sure.

‘Amelia, you must know that the Earl of Rasenby won’t offer marriage. His reputation, his feelings about the state of matrimony, they are all against you. And even if he did intend to marry, it wouldn’t be to the penniless daughter of a cast-out younger son. It would be to someone with influence and money. Amelia, are you listening at all?’

‘Lord, Clarrie, you know nothing.’ Abandoning her attempt to soft-soap her sister, Amelia’s voice hardened. ‘You’re right—perhaps Rasenby’s intentions aren’t marriage.’ Well, in fact Amelia knew they weren’t, for he had already intimated his offer of a carte blanche. She had put him off, unwilling to take so irrevocable a step just yet. ‘But he’s wild about me, I know. And with a bit of luck, marriage it will be, whether he wants to or nay.’

‘What do you mean? What have you done?’

‘Why nothing, sister dear, as yet. I don’t have to. I merely have to click my fingers and he comes running. And if I click and he runs into a—well, shall we say, compromising situation?—then that’s his misfortune. And best for me, too.’

‘Amelia! The Earl of Rasenby is highly unlikely to fall for that. Why there must have been countless such traps set for him over the years, and never a whiff of him anywhere near wed. Please, I beg of you, stay away from him.’

‘Well, I won’t. At least, yes, I will, for a couple of days. Just to keep him on tenterhooks.’ Amelia slanted another glance at Clarrie’s face. Her sister really was such a prude.

‘Do you love him? Is that it?’ Clarissa was struggling to come to terms with this new, hard Amelia. She had always been determined to have her own way, but she had never before been so openly scheming. If Clarissa had known that her sister was trying desperately to suppress her feelings for Edward Brompton, she would have been less concerned.

‘Life isn’t one of your romances, you know. Love is such an outmoded emotion when it comes to marriage. I can stomach him well enough to bed him, if that’s what you mean. And, of course, his money makes him more attractive than he would be under other circumstances. After all, he’s quite old.’

‘Old? You talk about him as if he’s in his dotage. Why, he can’t be more than five and thirty. And if you loved him, his age would mean nothing. Now tell me straight, do you love him?’