The Ton's Most Notorious Rake

‘Oh, no,’ she said with deceptive sweetness. ‘I know you for a rake, sir.’

If she had hoped to offend him, she was disappointed.

‘Do you think you are being quite fair to me, madam?’

‘Oh, I think so. Your reputation, and that of your friends, precedes you. And it is not mere gossip, I assure you. The information comes on good authority and from more than one source.’

Molly felt exhilarated by the exchange. She could not recall speaking so freely to any man before.

‘The devil it does!’

She laughed and was immediately aware of the change in him. Through the fine woollen sleeve beneath her fingers she could feel the muscles tighten. And she suspected she had angered him. When he spoke his voice was soft, smooth as silk, cold as steel.

‘But all this is hearsay, madam—what do you really know of me?’ They had reached the hall and with practised ease he whisked her away from the crowd and into the shadowy space beneath the stairs. ‘Well, Mrs Morgan?’

He had turned her to face him, his hands resting on her shoulders, very lightly, but she found it impossible to move. Even in the shadows, his dark eyes glowed with devilish mischief. She had the strangest feeling that invisible bonds were wrapping around them, tightening, forcing her closer. She could feel him, smell him, a musky, spicy, lemony scent that she wanted to breathe in, to close her eyes and give in to the desire burning in her core. She fought it, curling her hands until the nails dug into her palms, using the pain to stop her from reaching out and pulling him towards her. To stop herself surrendering, as she had done once before to a man. A rake who had taken everything and left her to suffer the consequences. Desire was replaced by panic and she fought it down, struggling to keep the terror from her voice.

‘You go too far, sir. I beg you will let me go.’

His hands tightened. ‘Are you afraid I might kiss you?’

I am afraid I might not be able to resist!

‘You would not dare.’

* * *

Russ felt her tremble, saw the uncertainty in her eyes and knew she was weakening.

He murmured softly, ‘But you said yourself, madam, I am a rake and rakes are very daring.’

Her eyes widened, he saw the pink tip of her tongue flicker nervously across her lips and for a moment he was tempted to carry out his threat. To pull her close, capture that luscious mouth and kiss her into submission. Then he saw the apprehension in her gaze and something more, a fear that was not warranted by the threat of a mere kiss. She was terrified.

What the devil were you thinking of, Charles Russington? Are you such a cockscomb that you think no woman should be able to resist your charms?

He took his hands from her shoulders and stepped away. This was no way to treat a lady.

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon for teasing you.’

The look of terror had lasted only a moment and it was now replaced by anger. She glared at him.

‘I would expect nothing else from a libertine.’ Her voice was shaking with fury as she put up her hands to straighten the little puff sleeves of her gown that had been flattened by his grip. ‘Your disgraceful behaviour proves that the reports I have heard about you do not lie. The sooner you and your...your friends remove from Compton Parva, the better!’

With a toss of her head she turned and hurried away. Russ watched her go, but he made no move to follow her back into the laughing, chattering throng that was slowly making its way into the dining room. He knew he had been wrong to tease her, but she had made him angry and he had forgotten himself. His lip curled in scorn. The great Beau Russington, famed for his sangfroid, his charming manners, had allowed his temper to get the better of him.

He raked his fingers through his hair. Damn the woman, she should not have this effect on him. Why, she was not even his type—too small and dark for one thing, and a sanctimonious reformer to boot. No, his original instinct had been right. Leave well alone!

* * *

Two days of rain followed the dinner at Newlands and Molly was relieved that the bad weather deterred visitors. She thought—hoped—no one had seen that brief interchange with Beau Russington, but had no wish to discuss the evening with anyone, not yet, when she was still so unsettled.

On Thursday she took the carriage to make her belated visit to Prospect House, thankful for the inclement weather. The house and its farm were situated on the opposite side of the valley to Newlands and she knew Sir Gerald and his guests rode out frequently beyond the bounds of the park, but it was much less likely that they would do so in bad weather.

Prospect House was a stone-built dwelling standing tall and square on the landscape. It had belonged to a gentleman farmer who had built himself this house in a style more fitted to his dignity and it now boasted large sash windows and a pedimented front door. The new dwelling had been built at a suitable distance from the old farmhouse and separated from it by the stables and a kitchen garden.

Prospect House was now home to ten women of various ages and stations in life. They tended the house and garden with the help of one manservant, who also looked after the farm. It had taken Molly years of hard work and determination to turn Prospect House into a successful and self-sufficient refuge, and as the carriage turned in through the gates she felt an immense pride in the achievement.

The door was opened to her by Moses, the only male servant, whose size and somewhat bovine countenance belied a sharp intelligence. He had worked at Prospect House all his life, and when Molly bought the property, she had kept him on, recognising that his knowledge of farming would be invaluable. This had engendered Moses with a fierce loyalty to his employer and made him protective of the house and its female residents. Molly greeted him cheerfully and made her way to the office at the back of the house. The pretty blonde poring over the accounts glanced up as the door opened and flew out of her chair to hug her.

‘Molly! I did not expect you to come here in all this rain.’

‘But as patron I must call at least once a week to see how you go on, although I was certainly not going to walk here.’ Molly laughed and returned the hug. ‘But, Fleur, I am interrupting you.’

‘Not a bit of it, I had just finished totting up the money we took at market yesterday and I am pleased to say we sold everything, which was a surprise, given the heavy rain.’

‘I am glad of it and only sorry I did not come over to help you—’

‘There is no need to apologise, Molly, we tell you time and again that we can manage.’ Fleur took her arm. ‘Come along into the drawing room, and we will take tea.’

Molly accompanied Fleur out of the office, reflecting that the happy young woman at her side was a far cry from the frightened girl she had taken in all those years ago. Fleur Dellafield was a childhood friend of Molly’s. She had grown up to be a beauty, but when her widowed mother had married again, life had become a nightmare. She had been thrown out of her home after thwarting her stepfather’s attempts to ravish her. Molly had found her, destitute and starving, and brought her to the newly opened Prospect House. She had settled in well and shown such an aptitude for organisation that Molly had been delighted to make her housekeeper. She had protested at the time that Fleur was too pretty to languish for long at Prospect House, but Fleur had been adamant.

‘I met plenty of gentlemen at my come-out in Bath,’ she had told Molly. ‘I found none of them more than passable, and after what happened with my step-papa, I have no wish to meet any more. No, Molly, I want only a comfortable home and to be needed.’

So Molly had installed Fleur as housekeeper and seen Prospect House flourish. Now, as they entered the drawing room and she saw the welcoming bowl of fresh flowers on the highly polished drum table, Fleur’s words came back to her.

‘I like to come here, Fleur,’ she told her friend. ‘I like to feel I am needed.’

‘Then do, please, call as often as you like, for there is always something to be done!’

Fleur tugged at the bell pull and a few moments later a maid in a snowy cap and apron entered. Molly smiled at her.

‘Good day to you, Daisy. How are you?’

‘Very well, ma’am. Thank you kindly.’ The maid dropped a curtsy, her cheerful face creasing into smiles. ‘Between Miss Fleur and Miss Nancy, I am learning how to run a household and to cook.’

‘And your son?’

‘Ah, Billy is doing very well, thank you, ma’am, although he don’t much like his lessons.’ She gave a sigh. ‘Twice this week I left him practising his letters and he escaped through the window.’

‘He does prefer to be working out of doors,’ remarked Fleur. ‘He is a great asset in the garden and Moses says he has an ability with animals.’

‘Perhaps we should let him help out on the farm more,’ suggested Molly. ‘Although I think it imperative that he learns to read and write, at least enough to get by.’

‘Then I shall tell him that if he works for an hour at his lessons every morning he may spend the rest of the day helping Moses,’ said Fleur. ‘Will that be acceptable to you, Daisy?’

‘Very kind of you, Miss Fleur, and more than we have a right to expect.’

‘Nonsense, you have worked very hard since you have been here and we would like to help you and Billy to find a home of your own. Now, perhaps you would be kind enough to fetch tea for Mrs Morgan and myself, if you please.’ Fleur waited until the door had closed behind the maid before sighing. ‘I wonder if we did the right thing, taking in Daisy Matthews and her son. We have none of us any experience of ten-year-old boys.’