The Rake (2 page)

Unfortunately, she couldn't. Nor would she
contemplate for more than a moment retreating like a scalded cat
under the barrage of their insults. She had her pride, if she had
little else.

Therefore, she remained where she was, doing
her best to appear completely at ease, when she wasn't, and totally
unconcerned with what anyone thought of her. She had decided some
time later that she had lingered in her aunt's salon long enough to
save face and had risen to leave when a slight commotion at the
door caught her attention. Vaguely curious of the identity of the
late arrivals, Demi turned to look and felt an odd mixture of
dismay and delight when she saw that the couple that had arrived
was Pastor Flemming and his daughter Esmeralda.

The pleasure was reserved entirely for Esme,
who had long been her best friend. Her dread derived from the fact
that Esme's father, a widower of thirty and eight, had apparently
been laboring under the mistaken belief for the past several months
that Demi welcomed him as a suitor.

Jonathan Flemming was not unhandsome, but
then neither were his harshly angular features particularly
appealing to Demi, though it seemed she was a majority of one. Most
of the women of the parish apparently considered him exceptionally
attractive if the number of widows who'd courted him over the years
since his wife had died in childbirth was any indication.

It was not that alone, however, that lacked
appeal. Nor was Demi particularly put off by the number of years
that separated them, for he was by no means stricken with age.
Rather, it was his size she found discomfiting.

Though it was certainly a source of constant
awe, the fact that he stood head and shoulders above most men made
her feel over powered and distinctly uneasy when he was in her
proximity. Moreover, contrary to the myth of gentle giants,
Jonathan Flemming seemed as harsh and unyielding as his features
implied. He had little patience for fools or sinners and no
discernible sense of humor. She was torn on the instant with an
equal desire both to take flight at once and disappear as quickly
and unobtrusively as possible, and the conviction that she owed it
to Esme, who was as uncomfortable at these functions as she was
herself, to stay and bear her friend company. She never actually
arrived at a decision.

Alma Moreland, her aunt, had no sooner
welcomed the late arrivals that she turned and fixed Demi with a
look that was both a summons and a warning. Jonathan Flemming
followed the direction of her aunt's gaze and pinned Demi with a
proprietary smile. Esme's expression was both nervous and
apologetic as her father promptly excused himself to Alma Moreland
and made his way toward Demi.

Dismayed, Demi glanced around, seeking an
avenue of escape, knowing even as she did so that she was fairly
caught now and could not do so without being unforgivably rude.
Still, her gaze touched longingly upon the door nearest her and it
occurred to her that escape was near enough that, should Jonathan
Flemming be distracted only for a few moments, she could and would
seize her chance.

No such distraction occurred, unfortunately.
She'd scarcely glanced around when Flemming was addressing her.
"Ah! Miss Standish! I see you're in your usual looks tonight, my
dear!"

Reluctantly, Demi turned to face him. As she
did so her gaze clashed with that of Garrett Trowbridge, who was
propped against the wall quite near the door Demi had been eyeing
with such longing.

Either he had rejoined Phoebe's group or,
more likely, Phoebe had thought of an excuse to encompass him in
her circle once more. Phoebe's group was now clustered between the
refreshment table and the door that led to the kitchens, virtually
surrounding Garrett, despite the fact that he bore all the
appearance of being totally detached from their conversation and
was, instead, gazing out across the room.

With some difficulty, Demi focused her
attention upon Flemming. Pasting a civil smile of welcome upon her
lips, she responded with the expected reply, firmly tamping the
temptation to utter one of the remarks her aunt considered
outrageous and was forever scolding her for.

"Thank you," she murmured, and then,
glancing down at her gown uncomfortably, succumbed to temptation
after all. "At least, I suppose you meant that as a
compliment?"

She was wearing a cast off of her cousin,
and though she'd long since ceased to be extremely self-conscious
about wearing Phoebe's hand-me-downs, it did nothing for her
confidence to appear at her aunt's grand social functions in gowns
that had previously been seen everywhere upon Phoebe. The gown she
wore tonight was as well, if not better, than any other in her
wardrobe. However, while it had complimented Phoebe's fair
perfection, it did not flatter Demi's chestnut locks and hazel eyes
nearly so well. Moreover, although far from tatters, it was also
very evident that the gown had seen a good deal of wear. Where once
it had been the color of bluebells, it was now an indeterminate
shade that was neither blue nor gray. If that were not evidence
enough that the gown had seen better days, the fit certainly
suggested as much.

At five feet six inches, Demi was several
inches taller than her cousin. She was also, regrettably for the
sake of modesty, a good bit more endowed in her bosom. As a result,
the gown bore unmistakable signs of being 'outgrown' both in length
and fit. It was not only too short, but her bosom looked as if it
might burst the seams of the bodice at any moment, a state that
Demi had tried her best to disguise by tossing a light wrap around
her shoulders. The end result of that effort was that she looked
entirely dowdy. Unfortunately, she knew it.

Flemming frowned disapprovingly, but then
patted her arm. "Certainly it was a compliment, my dear. Surely you
didn't think otherwise?"

Demi smiled at him a little doubtfully and
turned her attention to Esme, smiling this time with genuine
warmth. "Hello, Esme," she said and hugged her friend impulsively.
"Don't you look pretty tonight! When did you get back? I missed you
something fierce! Did you enjoy your stay with your cousins?"

Esme smiled gratefully and smoothed the
skirts of her gown self-consciously.

Poor Esme was as squat as her father was
tall, and nearly as big around as she was high. Cursed with her
father's features, if not his stature, that same face in feminine
form was not softened to beauty or even to prettiness. Rather, Esme
was almost painfully plain. She might have benefited had she also
inherited her father's dark, glossy locks. Instead, contrary nature
had given her hair that was a mousy, uncertain shade somewhere
between blond and brown.

She had been blessed, however, with a quick
wit and a personality that was almost pure beauty.

Chuckling at Demi's barrage, she said, "I've
only just come back today or I would've been over to see you, you
must know."

Jon Flemming chuckled, as well, though the
sound was somewhat strained. "Nothing would do her but to come
tonight, though I know well she's bound to be fagged from the
trip."

Esme sent her father a look, but didn't
dispute him. She didn't need to in any event. Even if not for that
telltale glance of surprise, Demi knew Esme well enough to have
seen the remark for the whopper it was. Esme, to her father's
irritation, was 'bookish' and cared for socializing even less than
Demi, if possible.

Jon Flemming had his own reasons for coming
tonight and Demi very much feared she knew what that reason was.
Almost as if on cue with that thought the musicians her aunt had
hired took up their instruments and struck up the first notes of a
dance. Demi's heart sank as Flemming smiled and reached for her
hand. "May I have this dance?" he asked.

She didn't know why he bothered to voice the
statement as a request, for it was certainly not that. His attitude
and tone were plainly proprietary.

Before Demi could think up an excuse to
reject him, someone touched her elbow. She glanced around quickly
to discover Garrett Trowbridge had come to stand beside her and
felt the earth drop from beneath her feet as she gazed up into his
dazzlingly brilliant grin. "Our dance, I believe. Better luck next
time, Flemming. She's already promised this dance to me."

The shock alone should have been sufficient
to prevent Demi from behaving in any way approaching normal. In
truth, she was not afterwards certain how her behavior might have
appeared to anyone who happened to observe it, but the need to
escape overrode all other considerations. She had murmured her
apologies and placed her hand on Lord Wyndham’s sleeve and departed
with him for the dance floor before she thought better of it.

Unfortunately, she began to wonder almost
immediately why he’d seen fit to rescue her. A half a dozen
possibilities came almost instantly to mind, none of them
particularly flattering to her, but, when all was said and done,
did it really matter what his motives were? “Thank you,” she said
quietly.

His dark brows rose. “You are premature. We
have not danced yet and you may feel less inclined to thank me once
we have.”

Demi glanced at him in surprise and bit back
a smile. “For rescuing me,” she clarified, although she doubted
he’d misunderstood her to begin with.

“
You’re so certain that was
my motivation?” he asked pensively.

“
It wasn’t?” Demi asked in
surprise. “Well, I won’t ask, for I’m ever so grateful you did,
whatever your reasons.”

“
A burning desire to engage
in a country dance?”

She chuckled. “I could believe most anything
but that.”

“
As it happens, I haven’t
been called upon to rescue a demoiselle in distress in quite some
time. I found it difficult to resist the desperate glance you cast
in my direction.”

“
Oh, but I didn’t--” Demi
broke off. Blushing, she bit her lip, realizing that the comment
she’d been about to make could easily be considered rude. On the
other hand, it was almost as embarrassing to think that he’d been
laboring under the assumption that she’d cast a beseeching plea in
his direction. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to look to him to
come to her rescue, for she’d barely even exchanged pleasantries
with him previously.

His dark brows rose. “You didn’t?” he
prompted.

Demi looked at him uncomfortably. “I only
glanced at the door. I was wondering if I was close enough….”

A faint smile curled his lips. “I am
properly set down.”

“
I beg your pardon. That
was rude, but I didn’t mean to be.”

He didn’t look put out. In fact, he looked
at her for the first time with an air of keen interest. “But
refreshingly honest, nevertheless.”

Demi cast a quick glance around the room.
“Aunt Alma would not be at all pleased to think she has not cured
me of my ‘refreshing honesty’ when she has been at such pains to
teach me how to behave in polite society.”

Fortunately, they reached the dance floor at
that moment and were obliged to take up their positions for the
country dance, precluding further speech, for Demi had no sooner
made the remark than it occurred to her that that opened the door
to questions she’d as soon not answer. Unfortunately, her aunt
caught her eye at just that moment and, even from across a crowded
room, her look of promised retribution was such that Demi found it
difficult to concentrate on the dance. In the end, not only did she
perform with embarrassing clumsiness, but she did not enjoy a dance
that should have become a momentous memory for her--her first, and
quite possibly only, dance with the man she had secretly adored
from afar from the first moment she’d set eyes upon him.

Chapter Two

Retribution was swift in coming. Demitria
had spent far more of her life with her aunt than she had with the
parents she could scarcely remember, and knew well enough to expect
that it would. Nevertheless, the sheer magnitude of her aunt’s
revenge succeeded in stunning her.

She’d been obliged to remain at the soiree
once her dance with Lord Wyndham had been concluded despite her
near desperation by that time to escape, for her aunt kept her
under her watchful eye for the remainder of the evening. Nor could
she think of an acceptable excuse to refuse Jon Flemming’s
invitation to dance afterward. In the end, she had been obliged to
dance twice with him and it was only for the sake of propriety that
he accepted her refusal of a third.

By the time she’d been allowed to retire,
she’d had a headache from parrying Flemming’s determined flirtation
the remainder of the evening. She awoke the following day with her
head still pounding and was greeted by her maid with the
intelligence that her aunt wanted a word with her directly after
she’d broken her fast.

It was enough to demolish what little
appetite she’d had. The rare streak of rebellion-- courtesy,
according to her aunt, of her father--that her aunt had not
succeeded in completely eliminating had reared its head, however,
and instead of presenting herself immediately, she went for a
stroll in the garden in the hope that it might lift her spirits, or
at least reduce her pounding headache.

It didn’t, and after a time, she wandered
into the meadow of tall grasses beyond the garden. Darting a quick
look around to make certain she was not observed, she sat, staring
up at the sky dreamily, trying to summon the dim memories of her
childhood to bring her some measure of peace. She remembered
happiness, but only tiny snatches of particular events. Her father,
a soldier, had been stationed in India and she and her mother had
gone to live with him there. She knew she’d been there when her
parents were killed in the uprising, but oddly enough, she couldn’t
recall any of it. The doctor had said that the images were simply
too horrendous for her to accept and so her mind had shielded her
from the memory. She suspected that he was correct in his
assumption and therefore had never tried to find those lost
memories. She supposed that was why she remembered so little of the
good memories either, but those she deeply regretted losing.