Redeeming a Rake (11 page)

Geoffrey woke with a smile on his face and
that strange warm fuzzy sensation wrapped around the ache, making
him feel fifteen years younger. He flushed like a school boy as he
remembered being held in her arms. He could only pray he could
convince her to be his wife. He was still smiling two hours latter
as he sat down to eat his breakfast wearing dark blue breeches and
matching coat looking almost normal. Nearly six weeks of eating
enough for two men had given cause for new clothes. When he passed
a mirror he was pleased to see that his face filling out. His skin
was beginning to lose its deathly pallor and the bruises on his
cheek were starting to fade. Finding a letter next to his plate
from his friend was marzipan on the cake of life. He carefully
opened it, oblivious to his maid standing nearby holding his
breakfast-tray.

Dear Geoffrey,

My mind is full of windmills. I wish I was
there, wherever you are so I could lend you my ear, but even if
you’re sitting at your own breakfast table your still too far away.
Geoffrey looked up in dazed amusement to see if his Sunshine was
standing in the corner and caught sight of the maid with a strained
look on her face. He motioned for her to serve him and then sent
the frightened woman away with a scowl. He ignored his plate and
resumed his letter. I’m pleased to hear that you haven’t killed
anyone. Perhaps the ungrateful worm had toothache. If I’d had
toothache when we met, you’d have thought me a shrew. Now that is a
depressing thought!

Where are you? Are you safe in your own bed
or being chewed by bedbugs in some remote country inn? Have you
thought about carrying a bed-roll and sleeping on a table? I’ve
heard it’s more comfortable than having one’s face eaten by those
horrid bugs though that remains to be seen. Why God had to make
those nasty little creatures I’ll never know.

I’ve started knitting you some woollen socks
for winter. Are you one of those men who prefers his boots loose,
they looked loose the last time I saw you, or do you prefer a tight
fit? As you’re taller than average I’m guessing your feet are
slightly larger than average, but if you’d trace around one bare
foot on paper I’ll try to make something that fits. I warn you,
with my knitting skills in mind, they may make a better scarf. I
can see you now, riding all over England in the wind and rain with
a pair of socks on your hands and another tied around your neck.
I’m sure the other rakes will be too drunk to notice. Let me know
where you are and if you’re feeling better. I pray that you
are!

Sincerely,

Tolerance

As the maid returned to ask if her master
needed anything her blood froze at the sight of the Duke of
Lyndhurst’s lips parted in a diabolical grin that displayed his
yellow teeth. She mentally crossed herself and watched him out of
the corner of her eyes as an unearthly chuckle escaped his red lips
in-between mouthfuls, but he was oblivious to her presence. He was
smiling at the table just past his plate with what appeared to be a
wistful expression. Crossing herself she hurried to give the rest
of the servants’ further proof that their master was possessed.

Geoffrey’s resolve to relinquish the
pleasure of his friend’s presence until he felt worthy continued to
grow as the months crept by and the ache began to diminish. Her
thick woollen socks were worn every day as a Northeast wind
stripped the autumn landscape. Six months into his campaign he
relished the fact that his wasted muscles had strengthened from
daily use. He could run up three flights of stairs without losing
his breath and riding thirty miles no longer made him feel like he
was going to die. He almost felt fifteen again when he’d run ten
miles for the joy of being in motion. His first glance into a
mirror in three months stunned him. The corpse-like veneer had been
scraped away and replaced with real skin slightly tanned from being
out in all weathers. The dark circles around his eyes were becoming
less prominent, allowing his face to be dominated by his eyes that
gleamed like two aquamarine gemstones. The pleasure in his improved
appearance was ruined by finding several grey hairs amongst the
long strands of black hanging half way down his chest. He looked
like a mummified rake-hell left over from the previous century.
Sending for a pair of scissors he hacked off his long hair and then
stood back to view the result. He looked like he’d been attacked by
a drunken barber, but it was an improvement. With short hair his
face didn’t look so old or narrow, but would the angel like it?

As the months crept by, Tolerance found her
routine restructured. With the almost daily arrival of a letter
from her friend, she’d spend the morning penning a reply. In the
early afternoon she’d play with her son. In the late afternoon
she’d run errands or attend to estate business and then it would be
time for dinner and after spending more time with her son it would
be time for bed. In her waking hours she marvelled at the
strangeness of how her dream Geoffrey continued to change. His pale
sickly colouring had evolved into a healthy tan and his white dream
clothes were starting to fit properly as his slender frame was
covered with muscles and flesh. In one dream she’d entered the
garden to find him asleep in the grass looking like someone had
crept up and cut off his hair. Taking advantage of the moment she
sat next to him and watched his chest rise and fall under the linen
shirt. He looked fast asleep. Lightly running her fingers over his
head, the stubble was like thick black embroidery silk. She was so
absorbed in his lips she failed to notice his chest was rising and
falling at a faster rate. One moment she was admiring a sleeping
man and the next she was staring down into pale blue fire. He
looked sorely tempted to pull her into his arms, but he merely
rolled onto his stomach and lay face down in the grass muttering
something under his breath until he suddenly jumped to his feet and
suggested they see what the fish were doing. She wasn’t surprised
that he didn’t touch her the rest of the dream; she’d given up hope
that he’d try to kiss her. He did occasionally touch her cheek or
lightly pull her hair, but unless she reached out to touch him he
remained distant. She was tempted to ask him why he hadn’t tried to
kiss her, but but she didn’t want to hear that he thought kissing
her would ruin their friendship.

A year to the day after Geoffrey’s fateful
interview, from eight in the morning till eight o’clock at night
every hour on the hour a gift was delivered by her friend’s boot
boy; a bouquet of flowers, a novel with an inscription, a
handkerchief embroidered with his monogram. Having received a note
that there would be one more gift, Tolerance was wringing her hands
in anticipation as she waited in the hall for the clock to strike,
hoping he’d deliver the gift in person. The Butler opened the door
and let her step forward. Her heart fell as she looked down at the
boy holding a large wrapped rectangle under his arm. She handed the
boy a coin and took the heavy package pausing to scan the darkening
street in either direction, but there was no one except the grubby
coated driver of the horse cart that had brought the boy.

***

Geoffrey smiled as Tolerance scanned the
street to see if he was there, but his amusement faded as her
shoulders slumped in disappointment. The horse reared its head as
his body tensed, drawing one last glance in his direction. His most
expensive gift safely in her hands and the door closed, there was
nothing left to do but drive the wagon and his boot boy back to the
mews. The ache in his chest was slowly easing; there were only a
handful of people left to find from his original list of sins, but
his inglorious memory continued to cast up names from the past.

On reaching home he stepped into a light
green hall and threw off his borrowed outerwear revealing a stylish
close fitting black suit, his chin outlined by a white cravat.
Alone in his cheerful yellow parlour he walked in circles around
the solitary gold wingback chair as his mind whirled in the
opposite direction. What did she think of his gifts? Had he been
too extravagant? Had he been too shabby? Wracked with doubt, he
kicked a log deeper into flames. Falling back into his chair he
crossed his legs and closed his eyes and tried to imagine his
Sunshine getting ready to go out for the evening. What would she be
wearing? Where would she go? Who would she dance with? The last two
months she’d been meeting him late in the garden, but even worse
she’d taken to describing her latest balls and dancing partners in
her letters.

He cursed all decent handsome men under his
breath and silently prayed that he’d be able to convince her that
he’d make a good husband. The thought of his angel marrying another
man was unthinkable, but when he thought of it, he’d be in a foul
mood for hours hating himself and feeling dyspeptic. He knew he’d
never deserve her, but he adored her, wanted her, needed her.
Geoffrey sighed as he stared into the fire. He was tempted to
stroll back to her doorstep, but he remained in his chair. His
black mouldy heart would never be worthy of her, but as soon as he
completed the list he’d offer it. If his friend loved him, she’d
accept. He was mentally making love to his future bride when a
knock on the front door disturbed his pleasurable thoughts. A soft
knock on the parlour door made his heart race. Raising his head he
tried not to look eager as his butler’s shuffling footsteps
approached the chair.

“A letter Your Grace.”

“Thank you Howard.” Geoffrey snatched up the
small square from the silver tray and waited impatiently until the
door was closed before kissing the red seal and breaking it
open.

Dearest Geoffrey,

I pray this finds you at home. If so, I’m
thinking of you as you read this. I’m entranced by your twelfth
gift of the day. I’ve seen several of Gainsborough’s landscapes,
but none of them were this magical. I’ve never told you, but as a
young girl I used to spend hours watching the clouds drift past as
they changed shapes. Looking at this painting makes me feel like
I’m watching the clouds. I can almost believe that the small
skirted figure carrying a water bucket is me, hurrying home to the
little cottage among the trees where my husband will beat me for
taking so long getting his dinner. Of course he only married me for
my dowry; a pregnant sow, one quilt, and two goose-down pillows and
a cast iron pot. He certainly didn’t marry me for my looks or
cooking ability. When I was nine I fell in love with one my
parent’s under gardeners. He was a young lad with red hair who
cringed every time I wandered into view. I think he was wise to
write off a girl who’d never be able to lift a boiling cauldron off
the fire let alone figure out how to cook in one.

Thank you for all my gifts. I can’t tell you
what they mean to me. I’ve been dreading today for weeks. How can
one year have passed since I last saw you? It feels like ten. I
almost wish I was more selfish so I could send for you. Ignore me,
you’re probably scheduled to leave early in the morning, but would
it be impertinent to ask you how many names are left on the list?
Please say it won’t take another year to see you or I’ll knit you a
new set of woollen socks, only this time I’ll use the scratchiest
wool I can find and accidentally leave them lying near my tabby’s
favourite window seat. If they come full of fleas, don’t blame me.
Bad kitty!

I was going to attend Lady Gerald’s route
this evening, but I think I’ll stay home and look at my new
painting instead. Let the gossips drone on about the latest
scandals, I’d rather stare at the blue sky and wonder where you are
and what you’re doing. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I do
wish you had delivered the final gift in person. It would have been
so lovely to see you, even if only for a few moments at the door.
Thank you again for saving me from what could have been a miserable
day. I’ve been using your handkerchief hourly since I received it.
Your boot-boy assured me that not only are you in good health, but
that you’re in London and not some far flung corner of the Kingdom.
I shall take this opportunity to wish you pleasant dreams.

Your appreciative friend who misses you,

Tolerance

Geoffrey sighed with pleasure and sunk lower
into his chair as he stared into the fire. He looked up at the
sun-shaped ceramic clock on the mantel. It was too early for bed.
He didn’t want to sit alone for hours in the dream garden. Did she
really miss him? He couldn’t imagine she’d lie to make him feel
better. Folding his letter he settled back in his chair lost in
memories of her smile, wondering how long he’d have to wait to kiss
his duchess.

The days rolled into weeks as Geoffrey
continued his search for redemption. The year had not only altered
Geoffrey’s appearance, but the way people treated him. His once
skeletal body was transformed into slender muscular perfection. His
hideous face had been restored to an aged version of his youthful
fragile beauty. Gloved in fashionable clothes, he was a wealthy
handsome man who drew endless admiring glances. At first Geoffrey
enjoyed the attention; he’d never known so many women to throw
themselves up against him and bluntly offer to warm his bed free of
charge. The old Geoffrey would have spent his days and nights
bedding the next willing wench, but there was only one woman he
wanted in his arms. Geoffrey couldn’t know that with his thoughts
on his friend, his relaxed adoring smile was often mistaken as a
come hither look by any woman standing or sitting in the way; it
was a misunderstanding that continued to plague him everywhere he
went.

Ten agonising months after giving Tolerance
the painting, Geoffrey had only one family from his original list
left to find, but they were proving difficult to locate. He’d sworn
he’d find them before allowing himself the pleasure of seeing his
friend, but each passing hour tightened his cravat like a noose.
The need to touch his angel, if only to kiss her hand, was becoming
painful. Every day brought new obstacles that kept him from
galloping back to London and knocking on her door. Adding to his
misery she’d had started mentioning worthy men and describing their
shared activities in her letters. Geoffrey cursed the good men to
hell and spent his daylight hours sulking. His only relief was in
the dream garden where Tolerance would insist she had no plans to
marry any of her suitors, but a dream woman couldn’t ensure the
unthinkable. Each day he found it more difficult to concentrate on
completing his list. He was going to end up in Bedlam and he could
only blame himself.