The Rake's Redemption

‘I am more than capable of taking care of myself, Miss Amy.’ He took Amy’s gloved fingers and raised them to his lips.

A flush of pleasure made the already pretty girl beautiful. ‘You always know exactly what to do.’

Emma thought she would lose control and step between the two like a knife cutting through cloying syrup. She managed not to do so by a strong effort of will.

The door closed behind Amy before Emma turned to Mr Hawthorne, who looked at her with one black brow lifted as though daring her to do her worst. It was more provocation than she could resist.

‘How dare you flirt with her in such a way, kissing her hand! It is much too sophisticated for a girl like her. Save it for a more experienced woman. Isn’t it bad enough that Amy allows you to pursue her in a most unseemly manner when all and sundry know you have no intention of offering marriage?’

His blue eyes were nearly black and impossible to read. ‘Would my pursuit be acceptable if I intended marriage?’

She blinked. His answer was totally unexpected. ‘Do you?’

He grinned. ‘No, but you seem to put such emphasis on that being the reason my interest isn’t acceptable.’

‘You are twisting my words and you know it.’ She took a breath to try and ease the beating of her heart. ‘You are the most odious man.’

‘I try.’

His sardonic words sped her pulse in spite of herself. ‘You try very hard and always succeed. How dare you introduce us to Harriette Wilson.’

‘Not that woman? You surprise me.’

Now it was her turn to flush. ‘She is a person even though men consider her something to be bandied about. I do not fault her for doing what she must to survive.’

‘Neither do I.’ He met her gaze, his serious look brooking no argument. ‘I respect her as a woman who moves in a man’s world, and does so successfully. I will not be a hypocrite and ignore her when I meet her out—no matter who is with me.’

Unwilling respect blossomed in Emma. No other man of her acquaintance would have been so bold and flouted convention to introduce the infamous courtesan. None would even acknowledge her if they were with a woman of their own class.

‘Then you did not introduce us to irritate me or disgrace Amy?’

‘Contrary to what you think, I stopped for the reason I told you.’

Emma searched his face for the truth. She could not tell what he thought, but his mouth was not curled into the sardonic smile he seemed to have perfected. An unwelcome awareness of him penetrated her anger, which was already crumbling because of his reason for introducing the courtesan.

She realised he stood too close. She could see the fine lines around his eyes and the dark stubble that would soon need to be shaved. A hint of pine mingled with that of starch. His breath smelt of mint. Under it all was the richness of a man’s scent, musky and exciting. The day had turned unaccountably warm.

She stepped backwards and her half boot left the step. She tottered. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. His fingers held her through the layers of material, seeming to sear into her flesh. A shiver coursed her spine, first like ice then like fire. The last thing she wanted was to react to him like this.

Anger at her own weakness made her voice harsh. ‘You can release me.’

His gaze hardened. ‘And let you fall off the step?’

She notched her chin up and set her back foot down onto the next level. ‘I won’t fall now.’

His hand fell away. ‘You are welcome.’

She felt a blush of embarrassment mount her cheeks. There had been no call to be rude no matter what his touch did to her. Her mama would be appalled if she had seen this. ‘Thank you.’

He stared at her, his gaze going from her eyes to her cheeks to her lips. Against her will, she felt the heat consuming her intensify. Heaven help her if he ever did anything more. She was a fool. An utter fool.

‘Good day, Miss Stockton.’

He turned on the heel of his mirror-polished Hessian and strode to the carriage, where he opened the door himself and leapt inside with the grace of a natural athlete. He did not glance back at her when the vehicle started forward. It was she who continued to stare.

The man was insufferable. He had to be for she could not allow him to be anything else. Becoming enamored of him would do her no more good than it did Amy. Less.

Charles stared straight ahead as he was conveyed to his brother’s town house to where he would return George’s carriage. His fingers still tingled from touching Emma, and the scent of sweet peas lingered in his mind. His stomach tightened. Obviously he had been too long without a woman if he was reacting to a spinster like Emma Stockton.

The drive had been as entertaining as he had expected when he chose to ignore Emma Stockton’s note ordering him to refrain from doing whatever her sister had requested. There was very little that gave him as much pleasure as provoking her. But the unsettling problem was that he responded to her physically as well as mentally.

He was jaded. Nothing more. Upon longer exposure to the woman’s tiresome meddling, she would lose her allure.

The carriage pulled up in front of George’s house and Charles shook his head to clear his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was to forget himself and mention the Misses Stockton. He and his sister, Juliet, had been down that path many a time and not to his good. Juliet was a strong woman who spoke her mind, and she didn’t like his dallying with Amy Stockton.

He exited the vehicle and went inside, nodding at the family butler. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon, Master Charles.’

‘Is anyone at home?’

‘Lord and Lady Hawthorne are in the salon with Master Robert. Lady and Sir Glenfinning are with them.’

Charles considered visiting his siblings, but decided against it. He would send a note of thanks to his brother instead of doing it in person. He was in no mood to watch Juliet with her new husband, a liaison he had been against. Adam Glenfinning reminded him too much of himself to make a good husband.

‘Please have my horse sent ’round.’

The butler nodded. ‘Will you be in the saloon?’

‘No, I will wait out front.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Charles watched the old retainer motion to a nearby footman, who was sent to the mews. Not many people could afford to house their horseflesh in the city. George could.

Charles quickly stepped outside. Clouds bunched up overhead and a breeze moved the tree branches. He sniffed, smelling moisture in the air. It would likely start raining before he got home.

A groom leading Charles’s horse came around the corner. Charles tossed him a coin and mounted the large bay gelding. If they hurried, they would beat the worst of the weather.

The rain started just as he turned the corner of the street where his house was situated. He settled the bay before running to the back door and into the kitchen.

The aroma of roast beef and potatoes hit him like a warm blanket. Alphonse, the French chef he employed, stood by the spit, supervising the basting of a large piece of meat. He was a tall man with a rotund middle that spoke of good eating. Grey hair stuck out from under the white hat he wore, giving him a wild look he did not deserve, and his bushy grey mustache was the envy of every young boy who worked for him.

The chef turned. ‘Monsieur.’

Charles grinned. ‘That smells like heaven, Alphonse.’

The Frenchman nodded his head regally, knowing the compliment was only his due.