Taming the Rake (14 page)

Blakemore left him alone with his drink. And his memories.

Lady Georgina had shown surprising canniness. She was right, drinking didn’t make him forget.

No, he remembered only too well.

He remembered how he’d returned to town unexpectedly from a visit to his estate in Cambridgeshire, pathetically eager to see his wife of less than six months, only to find his “loving” wife with her legs wrapped around one of the most notorious bucks in London, Viscount Petersham. Ironically, a Hellfire Rake. A man he’d considered a friend. He’d stood there stunned, watching, as his wife grunted her pleasure under the white backside of another man.

Even now, four years later, he was still humiliated by what had happened next. He’d been sick. Right there in a porcelain basin he’d spilled his guts, along with his youthful idealism.

They hadn’t even bothered to stop when they heard him, his wife’s orgasmic scream was the final blow to his shattered dreams. Petersham had merely rolled off her with a grunt and pulled up his brown trousers hastily bunched around his ankles.

Petersham had shaken his head at the horror-struck younger man, his face a mixture of bemusement and pity. “I thought you knew,” he’d said. “It’s not as if I’m the first.”

Horrified, Coventry’s stomach had turned again. Bile rose to the back of his throat, but he forced the sickness back. He refused to humiliate himself any further over a wife who was no better than a two-penny whore.

She hadn’t even bothered to feign shame. Instead, her pretty features were twisted with her normal petulance that he recognized now for its ugliness. “You’re early,” she’d accused. “You should have notified me of your return.”

As if it were his fault.

She’d raked her gaze over him, her mouth pursed with displeasure. “You’re overreacting,” she said coolly. “I hope you won’t be tiresome about this and make a scene.”

He didn’t remember what had happened next, only that he’d snapped. He’d chased Petersham out of his house, waving the riding whip that he still carried in his hand, so eagerly had he flown up the stairs to reach his wife. And there in the middle of St. James’s Square, like an idiot he’d attempted to flog Petersham. To this day, some still cracked their whips and laughed when he walked by.

He should have known. How could he have been so blind?

He realized how his wife had manipulated him into marriage to conceal her illicit liaisons. After his discovery with Petersham, she no longer felt the need to hide them. She flaunted her unfaithfulness and he’d reviled her.

From that point on he’d bottled up a part of himself, storing away forever the emotions that made him vulnerable. All of the affection he’d once had for his wife turned to hatred. The bitter hatred of disappointed dreams. He’d hated her so much he refused to mourn her when she died a year later bearing another man’s bastard.

The marriage he’d hoped would bring the happiness that had eluded him as a child had been a disaster. Serena was a weak woman who could not bear the weight of his dreams. Her betrayal had destroyed every remnant of his foolish idealism. He no longer looked for “love,” it simply wasn’t there. Not for him.

Base pleasures were all he needed.

His father’s cruelty and his mother’s constant criticisms had formed him, but it was his wife’s betrayal that had forever changed him. He would never yield his manhood to a woman again; never again would he give a woman the power to hurt him.

Damn, he hated remembering.

He stood up and went to claim his hat and cloak, the night having irredeemably soured. He supposed he had Lady Georgina to thank for that as well, damn the interfering minx.

Perhaps what he needed was a change of scenery.

For the first time in the past month, Coventry felt more like himself and less like a cornered rabbit. In the country, free of the omnipresent Lady Georgina, he could breathe. He’d even stopped looking over his shoulder, wondering where she’d pop up next. Back in London, the only places he’d felt safe were at his clubs and in the dark tunnels of Wycombe, where the Hellfire Rakes gathered for their secret meetings. Here in Newmarket, he didn’t need to worry about evading a persistent miss. But in a strange way, he felt as if something was missing.

It was probably just the easy camaraderie of his friends and the attentions of an accomplished jade—both of which would be addressed later this evening. Perhaps then he could resume his life, enjoying things the way he had before the strange pursuit of Lady Georgina. If that thought rang a bit untrue, he didn’t stop to think about it.

“If you’ve seen enough, we should be getting back to Greenbrook,” Coventry said. He and Beaufort had come to inspect the stables prior to the race on Saturday. “The others are due to arrive this evening.”

But the duke wasn’t paying him any attention. His eyes were fastened on the curvaceous backside of a tasty little morsel standing with her back to them some distance away. Thanks to a particularly cooperative gust of wind, the thin fabric of her gown was plastered to her back, outlining every curve of her long slim legs and tightly round bottom. With her parasol angled to protect her from the sun, Coventry couldn’t see what she looked like, but it didn’t matter. That figure alone could make up for an unappealing face.

A jolt of lust shot through him, hot and fast. He envisioned those long legs wrapped around him as he gripped the sweet curves of her bottom and slid deep inside her. The swiftness of his reaction both surprised and pleased him. It was the first time he’d felt such a strong surge of lust since he’d been introduced to Lady Georgina. Unconsciously, his lack of desire for another woman had begun to weigh on him. He sighed, relieved to discover that all was right with his sexual prowess. It boded well for tonight’s entertainment. Perhaps at last he would be free of the specter of Lady Georgina.

“No, I haven’t seen enough,” the duke replied, his eyes gleaming lasciviously. It was obvious he’d been having much of the same thoughts. “But perhaps she can be persuaded to join us later tonight, and I will get an eyeful. And if I’m lucky, maybe more than an eyeful.”

Coventry shrugged. What was one more to the five ladybirds he’d arranged to travel from London for the entertainment of his guests? Actually, it was refreshing to see Beaufort show some interest in a woman—conveniently forgetting his own similarly uncharacteristic behavior. Something had been bothering the duke of late. He seemed preoccupied. A new woman would be just the thing. And perhaps when Beaufort finished with her, if her appeal had not worn off, Coventry might sample some of her sensual delights.

They started making their way toward the woman, weaving in and out of the crowd. Coventry removed his handkerchief and wiped his forehead under his hat. It was a warm day and the throngs of people filling Newmarket heath for the opening of the race week festivities had only increased in number as the day dragged on.

Disappointment hit as they drew closer. The woman they’d admired from afar would not be joining their party tonight. Her gown was far too modest and fine. Obviously, the tasty morsel was a lady of quality, thus she was not a prospect for tonight’s illicit adventures.

He reached out to stop the duke. “It’s no use—”

Something stopped him cold. She was standing in a small group of two other ladies and a gentleman enjoying some lemonade from one of the nearby refreshment stands. He recognized Carrington immediately and frowned. There was something familiar
…

No
! He wanted to cry out with frustration.

He must have made a sound, because Beaufort turned in his direction.

“What’s the matter?” Beaufort asked. “Afraid there won’t be anything left over for you? I don’t mind sharing.”

Rage tore through him. A fiery red haze swam before his eyes. The reaction was instantaneous. He wanted to smash his fist into Beaufort’s lecherous face. How dare he look at Georgina like that, she belonged to him—Coventry jerked back as if slapped.

“What’s the matter?” Beaufort asked, suddenly concerned.

Still stunned by the instinctive possessiveness that had come over him, it took Coventry a moment to shake off the primitive rage. “Look closer. Don’t you recognize her? Do you see the man she’s with?” Coventry felt his anger rise again, but this time it wasn’t directed at Beaufort. “And unless I’m mistaken, that is my sister and my Aunt Persimmons.”

The blood slipped from Beaufort’s face, horrified. He swallowed with some difficulty. “And the lady I was ogling was Lady Georgina?”

Coventry nodded.

The duke winced apologetically, before the look of abject horror returned to his face. “Not
The
Aunt Persimmons? Not the former headmistress who is writing a book on etiquette and deportment for young ladies.”

Coventry nodded. “That’s the one.” His father’s sister shared the fanaticism of her brother, but instead of religion, she focused her zeal on propriety. Unlike his convention-minded mother, however, his Aunt was not unkind.

“You don’t think they’re planning to stay?” the duke said, aghast.

But Coventry had already had much the same thought. He started toward the group with renewed determination. “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”

But he already knew.

I think I’m going to kill her
.

“This lemonade is just the thing, isn’t it Lady Augusta?”

“Delicious,” Augusta agreed distractedly, her eyes sweeping back and forth across the heath, paying the devoted attentions of Mr. Carrington no heed. She seemed to be looking for someone. Gina had a sneaking suspicion that she was not the only one who had misled someone about who would be in Newmarket this week. She brushed away the guilt about her tiny untruth. Her father would never have agreed to this journey if he’d known that Coventry would be in residence. But there was no reason for concern, her virtue would be adequately protected.

Gina stole a quick glance at their very prim and proper chaperone. She couldn’t have dreamed up a more suitable companion. A veritable font of manners and decorum, Mrs. Persimmons could give Gina’s old headmistress from her girls’ academy a few lessons. Her very proper presence was sure to put a damper on any impropriety Coventry could dream up.

That and his sister’s presence. Gina frowned. Unless she was very much mistaken, contrary to what Augusta told her, Lord Ashley would be one of Coventry’s houseguests. Gina studied Coventry’s little sister with newfound respect. There was more cheek to Augusta than met the eye. But as Gina was convinced that Mr. Carrington would be a much better match, she would just have to redouble her efforts.

How fortunate that Mr. Carrington had offered to escort them on their journey. Over the past two days, Gina had been doing her utmost to promote the interests of Mr. Carrington, but so far, Augusta had not warmed to his suit. To put it mildly.

“Thank you, Mr. Carrington,” Gina said pointedly, continuing her efforts to encourage a more lively conversation between the two. But so far it had been like stirring mud with a soft piece of straw—a rather difficult prospect.

Augusta seemed to find her manners. “Yes, thank you. It’s quite refreshing.”

Mr. Carrington beamed, as if she’d just paid him the highest compliment. As much as she approved the refined manners of Mr. Carrington, Gina was growing weary of these incessant banalities. It seemed as if the conversation had turned entirely around the weather and food for the last two days.

As if on cue, Mr. Carrington added, “Nothing like lemonade to quench your thirst on a warm spring day.”

Gina stifled a groan.

“I, for one, should like to rest a while before supper,” Mrs. Persimmons interjected. “If we are to reach Greenbrook in time for tea, I think we should be on our way.”

Gina was tired as well. They’d wandered the heath all morning, visiting the booths where craftsmen hawked their wares, filling their bellies with meat pies and sugary pastries, and viewing the horses for tomorrow’s race. But today was only the beginning. The festivities would continue throughout the week, well past Saturday’s race, including intimate soirées and picnics, and culminating in the annual race-week ball a week hence. Besides, she was anxious to see Coventry’s face when they descended on his house party.

It really was horrible of her to take this much pleasure in upsetting Coventry’s debauched life, but it seemed as if the more disdain he shot her way, the more she enjoyed getting a rise out of him. And something told her he was not nearly as indifferent as he wanted to be. He wanted her, though why he had not yet made an attempt to seduce her, she didn’t know. Could there possibly be a smidgen of honor buried deep within the rakish façade?

“Rest before supper sounds divine,” Gina agreed. She waved her fan before her face. “And the bees seem to be getting worse.”

“Are you sure they’re expecting us?” Mrs. Persimmons asked, alternately waving and twisting her embroidered handkerchief in her spotless, white-gloved hands. Their chaperone, Augusta’s aunt on her father’s side—a widow who’d married the second son of a viscount and had chosen to use his honorable title—was a fretful sort, but she would not allow anything untoward or risqué to occur at Greenbrook Hall while they were in residence. She was no mealymouthed toady. She took her duties very seriously. “You did write ahead with instructions?” she asked for at least the fourth time since their journey began two days ago.

Augusta nodded. “Mother wrote the servants of our ‘surprise’ arrival. They are expecting us shortly after the end of the festivities today.” Surprisingly, the countess had readily agreed to their venture. Probably simply to spite Coventry and to foil any scandalous plots that he may have cooked up for the week. Which, of course, was exactly Gina’s intention. In that, Gina and the countess were in accord.

Gina’s smile turned smug, thinking of Coventry’s reaction when he discovered that his escape to Newmarket for the annual two-thousand-guinea horse race had been thwarted. Or of how his raucous house party for a gaggle of promiscuous, hell-raising rakes would be significantly curtailed by the addition of three ladies.