How To Marry a Rake

‘Either way,’ Josette said with a smack of her fingers to her lips, ‘you are magnifique.’

Mae studied her reflection once more and chose to believe her. She knew she was not the same as most girls—had known it since she’d discovered that none of the others improved the efficiency of the kitchens by reorganising the cook’s battery of pots in order of frequency of use. At school she’d been the only one to keep her clothes hung in the wardrobe according to colour and age of the garment. But she’d always chosen to embrace her differences, to believe that they made her interesting and unique. She was different, not less—but it had been a battle to convince the world to believe it along with her.

Josette set down her brush and began to smooth and arrange curls with her fingers. ‘The servants are buzzing like bees—there is so much gossip in the air, it is like pollen from the flowers.’

Mae looked up sharply. Josette’s tone was entirely too casual.

‘Many interesting things I have heard—including the name of one of the gentlemen.’ She met Mae’s gaze in the mirror now. ‘He is here, isn’t he?’ she asked quietly. ‘The one who so troubled you in the past?’

A heated flush started low in her chest. Mae ignored it and nodded.

The maid pulled away. ‘Aha! I knew it. This is why you begin to doubt yourself—and your purpose.’ Whirling away in disgust, Josette began to murmur in low, rapid French. Mae flinched when she swung back and poked a finger at her.

‘Mademoiselle,’ her maid began heatedly. She paused and took a breath and the exasperation in her face faded to concern. ‘You said you were strong, that you would not let his indifference inflame you.’

‘There is no need to worry. I acted exactly as I must. We’ve promised to keep our distance. Our meeting was bound to be traumatic, but except for the slight damage to my ankle, I am fine.’

‘So it is true, then—it was he who caused your fall.’ Josette began to grumble again. ‘I must catch a glimpse of this man who causes so many difficulties. Surely he must be handsome.’ She eyed Mae slyly. ‘I know his brains must not be the attraction, since he did not have the sense to fall in love with you when he had the chance.’

Mae laughed. ‘Well, you must be careful when you seek him out, dear. His mind might not be up to your standards …’ she let out a teasing sigh ‘… but the rest of him …’ She paused and closed her own eyes. ‘His eyes—dark blue on the outside, but I’d forgotten how they change toward the centre, fade to the lightest shade, so clear you think you could see right down to his soul, if only he would let you.’ After a moment she marshalled herself and tossed a wicked grin over her shoulder. ‘And his shoulders! I know how you feel about a nice set of shoulders.’

‘Eh! Blue eyes, broad shoulders. Et voilà! So easily she falls.’ Josette shook her head in dismay.

Mae straightened. ‘No one is in danger of falling,’ she said flatly. She’d made that mistake once already—at her first encounter with Stephen Manning, years ago. The fateful afternoon had been branded on her heart. Her friend Charlotte had only laughed when the two of them had been caught spying on Charlotte’s brother and his friends—the older boys had been sparring with fencing foils in the wooded groves of Welbourne Manor. Mae, at first, had cringed. She’d waited, head down, for the teasing to begin. But then she’d raised her chin in defiance. She’d been mocked before, for odd starts and hoydenish behaviour. She’d resolved to endure it again, with her head held high.

Incredibly, there had been no mocking. No snide names or even the common disdain older boys felt for younger girls. Stephen had laughed and diffused the situation entirely. And then he had reached down a hand, and offered to teach her to fence.

Thunk. Fallen was exactly what she’d done.

‘Oh, but your papa,’ Josette reminded her, morose. ‘He is not going to be happy.’

‘He has not the slightest cause for worry,’ Mae insisted. She’d already wasted years on Stephen Manning—and what had it got her?

After a lifetime of battling the many voices who insisted she must change, adjust, squeeze herself into an ill-fitting mould, after years of fighting to bolster the pedestal of her own confidence, he’d knocked her off almost without effort. Stephen Manning had been the only one who had ever made her doubt herself.

All the old anguish and heartbreak threatened to resurface at the thought. Mae refused to allow it. It had taken a long time to accept that all the glorious potential she’d seen between her and Stephen had been nothing more than friendship tinged rosier by her own juvenile dreams. It had taken longer for her to accept that romantic love was not to be a part of her life. For she had never felt a connection with any other man the way she had with Stephen.

Accept it she had, though, at last. And when the time came that marriage could not be put off any longer, her Marriage Campaign had been born. She’d come back home with her goal in mind and her plans fixed firmly in place. She would find someone who could appreciate her—for her. And then the long battle would be over.

She met Josette’s approving gaze in the mirror and pushed all of her doubts aside. She wasn’t going to allow Stephen Manning—or anyone else—sway her from her purpose. The campaign for her happiness had begun.

Chapter Five

‘Lord Stephen,’ his hostess exclaimed. ‘You are back early!’ The pleasure faded from her expression. ‘You are the only one, I am afraid. The other gentlemen have all abandoned us for the Heath, the Jockey Club and the other pleasures of town.’ She didn’t look pleased. ‘We don’t expect them back until dinner, at the earliest.’

Stephen grinned at her. ‘Thank you, Lady Toswick, but I find I’m more interested in the whereabouts of the ladies at present.’

She returned his grin. ‘How very obliging of you.’

The matrons in the room smiled at each other over their embroidery and correspondence. ‘All of the young ladies have gone strolling about the grounds,’ a silver-haired lady offered.

‘Yes, they’ve taken the forest walk,’ the countess added, ‘except for dear Miss Halford. Her ankle is not up to the exercise just yet, so she’s gone to feed the birds in the meadow.’ Lady Toswick waved an encouraging hand. ‘But the rest of the girls have only just left. If you hurry, you should be able to catch them before they’ve gone far.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Stephen cast a conspiratorial wink across the room and pretended not to notice the bent heads or the tide of rising whispers following him from the room. He paused in the entry hall and tossed a waiting footman a coin. ‘The meadow?’ he asked, his voice pitched low.

‘Not far.’ The coin disappeared and the footman leaned closer. ‘Just past the terraced gardens at the back of the house. The path begins next to a large chestnut tree.’

Stephen nodded his thanks and hurried on his way, hoping his feet would get him there before his head convinced him to turn back. It was the height of irony, finding himself chasing after Mae Halford. No—it was the measure of his desperation. How many times had he told himself that he would do anything to bring about Fincote’s success? Well, now he knew it was true. He would do anything—even ask for help from the one person from whom he least deserved it.

The crunch of gravel underfoot faded as he left the formal gardens behind and found the tree marking the tiny path. A thick canopy of elms and chestnuts spread overhead, filtering light and muting sound. Stephen quickened his pace, unwilling to be alone with his doubts and his conscience for longer than necessary. It was only a few moments, though, before he reached the clearing and paused on the edge to drink in the beauty of the scene.

It must be man-made, this perfectly symmetrical open spot in the midst of the wood. The ground was covered in a vibrant carpet of wildflowers, the edges punctuated with rustic, curved seating. Mae sat quietly, off to the right, her fingers drumming on the thick-crusted loaf in her lap. She was clearly not part of the scene—dressed immaculately as she was, from kid boots to her charming, if ineffectual hat, in rich shades of brown and contrasting cream—yet it was as if her very separateness enhanced the image. Bird-song echoed in the glade, but she hadn’t yet broken her bread. She looked lost in thought—and he suffered the sudden urge to ruffle her feathers, yank a lock of that shining hair, flop down next to her and tease her until she confessed what troubled her.

He shook it off. Breathing deep, Stephen stepped forward. He called out to her before he could change his mind. ‘Mae? Good morning.’