Waking Up With a Rake (5 page)

“That presupposes that we are friends.”

“Do you think we’re not?” he said, leaning back and hooking an ankle over his knee, clearly at ease. He spread his arms across the back of the settee, filling the space and the room so completely Olivia had difficulty drawing breath. And not just from choking on the tea. “I’d hate for that to be true. I can’t tell you the last time I enjoyed a conversation with a young lady quite so much. Do you find me irksome?”

Despite his inappropriate comments, she couldn’t find him so. She almost wished she did. In addition to the fluttering in her chest, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. If she’d been a wild creature, she didn’t know whether she’d be drawn to him like a moth to flame or run like a hind that catches wind of hunting dogs.

“No, my lord,” she said. “I doubt any lady of your acquaintance finds you irksome.”

“I’m gratified to hear it. In that case, would you do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

“Oh, you can. The question is whether or not you will.”

She shifted on her seat, wishing she could rise, but then he’d have to stand as well. He dominated the room while merely sitting. How much more commanding would he be if she had to crane her neck to peer up at his handsome face? “You’ve made this favor sound rather wicked, my lord.”

“Not at all. It’s just that when you call me ‘my lord’ it seems so stuffy, especially since I don’t truly deserve it,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d consider calling me Rhys instead.”

Olivia couldn’t remain seated after that. She rose and wandered toward the window to put a bit more distance between them. “That’s a rather unusual request.”

The sharp clack of his boots on marble announced that he had followed her. She plopped down in the center of the window seat, trying to claim all the space.

“And here I thought you were a rather unusual girl.” His knowing look dared her to flout convention.

Agreeing to such familiarity was the sort of thing that would turn her mother’s complexion an unhealthy shade of puce.

Of course, that only made the notion harder to resist.

“We would have to make a pact. It could only be when we are alone, you understand,” she said, considering the idea so seriously she wasn’t immediately aware of when he sat down beside her. “And I suppose to be fair I would have to give you leave to call me Olivia as well. But there could be no slips in public.”

“Perhaps we should wager on it in order to insure that we keep the pact,” Lord Rhys said. He wasn’t touching her at all. There was a good inch separating them, but his heat radiated toward her, sending a tingle up her thigh. “The one who uses a Christian name in public owes the other…what?”

“Not money,” she said, forgetting for the moment that she held wagers of any kind to be morally wrong. Besides, she wasn’t likely to call him Rhys unless she was absolutely certain no one was about. If she couldn’t lose, surely it wasn’t really gambling. “My family has buckets of it, and you support yourself by the turn of a card, so wagering money doesn’t seem particularly fair.”

“Very well, let us leave it that the offending party would owe one as yet undetermined favor, which we would be honor-bound to fulfill, whatever it is.” He cocked his head slightly. “Do we have an accord?”

“We do.” She nodded, wondering what an undetermined favor from a confessed libertine and incurable rake might entail. If the roiling in her belly was any indication, it promised to be wildly diverting and probably more than a little sinful.

A secret part of her burned with curiosity.

“Well, this has been most enjoyable,
Olivia
,” he said, caressing her name with his silky baritone. Then he consulted his pocket watch. “I fear I’ve monopolized far too much of your time this afternoon, and a friend shouldn’t impose. I must be going now, but I wonder if I might return on the morrow to continue our discussion.” He closed the pocket watch face with a snap and stowed it away. “Perhaps at that time you might show me your orchids.”

Unlike the duke’s previous representative, this man had made Olivia sorry to see him go, even if he had made her choke on her tea and was sitting too close for her comfort. “Of course, my lo—I mean, Rhys. But my plants aren’t much to see at present, it being wintertime. My work now amounts to merely laying the groundwork for blossoms in the spring.”

“I understand. I’m undertaking a project of a similar nature. One that requires careful planning and strategy so the going may seem slow at first. But one must walk before one runs.” He stood. “Then perhaps instead you might show me over the grounds. The estate here at Barrowdell has many lovely features, I’m told. Do you ride?”

Olivia nodded and rose to her feet. She felt far more at home on the back of a horse than in a parlor exchanging niceties. Especially slightly wicked niceties with a man who didn’t realize the window seat should have only accommodated one.

“Good,” he said. “We can get some fresh air, some exercise, and it will give me a chance to call you by your Christian name without fear of slipping in public.”

“You don’t want to lose the wager.”

“No, I’m counting on you to do that,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s make it early, shall we? Say, eight o’clock?”

“Good. I’m a bit of a lark. An early ride suits me.” She extended a hand to him, palm correctly down. She hadn’t done so at their meeting, but it seemed right now. After all, they were going to be friends. “It would be my honor to show you over Barrowdell.”

“No, the honor is mine.” Rhys Warrington took her hand and instead of bowing over it, he brought it to his lips. He planted a soft kiss at the juncture between her fore and middle fingers. A little thrill zinged up her arm and warmed her belly. His breath feathered over the back of her bare hand, setting every nerve dancing.

It had been a huge mistake not letting her mother dress her after all, she realized. Beatrice Symon never would have forgotten to make sure she donned a pair of gloves. Then she wouldn’t have found herself teetering on a precipice, about to tumble into a pair of brown eyes.

Lord Rhys looked down at Olivia over her knuckles.

“There’s one more thing I’d like to guess about you, if I may,” he said, his voice a rumbling purr.

“What’s that?” she whispered, grateful her voice even worked. A strange warmth pooled between her legs.

“You have no idea how lovely you really are.” He kissed her hand once more and held her with an intense gaze. “Until tomorrow then, my dear Olivia.”

Chapter 4

Rhys strode out the massive double doors of Barrowdell Manor and into the frosty air. He narrowly resisted the urge to swear as he mounted the deep-chested bay while his servant, Mr. Clyde, held the horse’s head for him.

“I’m going to Hell,” he muttered.

“Assuredly, my lord,” Clyde said agreeably as he hauled his wiry frame up onto his piebald cob and fell into a jolting trot beside Rhys. “If I may make so bold as to ask, why are you bound for perdition this time?”

“I warned her,” Rhys said with frustration. Why did she have to smell like alyssums? His mother lined every walkway in her garden with the sweet-smelling flower. The scent always took him home. The home that was now closed as tightly against him as the gates of Heaven. “I told the chit straight out what I was—gambler, drinker, rake, libertine—and she didn’t turn a hair.”

“Perhaps the lady is…well, less ladylike than the duke’s advisors believe.”

“No, she’s the genuine article,” Rhys said. “No one can feign a blush. Olivia Symon turned pink as a dandy’s waistcoat pretty damned convincingly several times. She’s exactly what she seems—a total innocent.”

I’m the one who’s a fraud.
He’d thought he despised himself when he woke in a brothel one day with no recollection of the previous fortnight. His self-loathing then was nothing compared to the weight of guilt pressing on him now.

She’d melted when he kissed her hand, like frost sizzling away in sunshine. If he’d pressed the issue, he could have kissed her rosebud of a mouth as well. Judging from the tremble he detected in her fingers, she was ripe for it. Rhys had an almost sixth sense when it came to feminine arousal. When the time came, he doubted Olivia Symon would put up much of a protest.

“If it not be impertinent to ask, milord, why did the Duke of Clarence choose you to court the lady for him?”

“His Highness is badly advised, that’s why.” How Mr. Alcock had arranged for Rhys to assume the role of Clarence’s representative was a mystery shrouded in the steaming pile of excrement called politics. Undoubtedly, Alcock knew a few juicy royal secrets no one wanted brought to light in order to pull off this coup and procure the royal letter of introduction Rhys had presented to Olivia.

Rhys glanced at his servant, who had wisely clamped his lips together on the subject of ill-advised princes. Actually Rhys thought of Clyde more as a friend than servant. After Rhys saved him on the field of battle, Clyde insisted on becoming his valet-cum-butler-cum-general-factotum and man of all work. Even when Rhys’s pockets were light on occasion and he couldn’t pay what was owed for a few weeks, Clyde refused to leave him for a more lucrative position.

“I’ll stick with you like you stuck with me, your lordship, leastwise until I clear my debt to you,” was all Clyde would ever say on the matter.

As a result, Rhys confided in Clyde far more than most wellborn gentlemen did with their valets. He knew exactly what Rhys was tasked to accomplish at the Symon household.

And exactly how high were the stakes.

“I’ve no difficulty seducing a woman, Clyde, but this will be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Perhaps that’s why you warned the lady, milord,” Clyde said. “You don’t really want to succeed.”

“Don’t be an ass. Of course I do.” Rhys reined his mount to a sedate walk. Mr. Clyde breathed a heavy sigh of relief as they slowed. His servant had always been an indifferent horseman.

“I know you want what Mr. Alcock’s promised you,” Mr. Clyde said. “But I have to wonder if you warned Miss Symon away because being with her reminds you of who you really are.”

Rhys snorted. “Devil if I know what you mean.”

“This Symon girl, she’s a lady, you say. Not like the randy widows and wayward wives you usually favor, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Miss Symon sort of taps you on the shoulder and calls to mind that you’re still the son of a gentleman in your heart of hearts.”

“You’ve been with me long enough to know better than that.” Rhys had lost count of the number of times Clyde had held his mount in the alley behind a house, ready for a mad dash should the lady’s husband arrive home unexpectedly. “Only a fool doubts the evidence of his own eyes.”

“My ol’ pater used to say it’s a fool who sees
only
with his eyes.” Mr. Clyde’s father had been vicar of a small parish, so Clyde waxed philosophical more often than Rhys liked. “You may have chosen to act the rake, but that’s not who you are. I’ll lay my teeth on it.”

“In that case, you’d best get used to eating porridge. You forget yourself, Clyde. I do not need your moralizing. Save your country sermons for someone who’ll listen. I intend to rut Miss Symon senseless and in record time.”

Rhys laid a crop across his horse’s flank and leaped into a canter, leaving Clyde to bump along behind him.

“I’ll succeed,” he muttered to himself. “Miss Symon is as good as ruined.”

Like the cavalry officer he was, Rhys had reconnoitered the situation before he turned up in the Symon’s parlor. He’d known all about Olivia Symon’s penchant for orchids and had been prepared to converse intelligently about them. He’d discovered her tendency toward outspokenness before he set foot on her father’s vast estate and knew she sat a horse better than most young ladies of her station. He’d also learned that the heiress was the wealthiest wallflower in England, shy in social situations despite her strongly held opinions.

She needed a friend.

So Rhys pretended to become one. As Olivia toiled in her winter garden in order to gather buds in May, so he too was laying the groundwork for the time when he’d pluck her maidenhead as neatly as clipping a daisy. She’d relaxed visibly once he leveled the class distinction between them by insisting he was a commoner like her. He’d known just how to flatter her intellect, to build up her trust. Telling her the truth about himself had been a calculated risk, but it had paid off. She was intrigued rather than repelled by his admitted status as a rake.

Seducing this virgin was going to be far too easy to be sporting. If she weren’t so earnest about everything, he could almost despise her for being such a naïve little twit.

As Rhys bolted down the rutted road toward the sleepy little hamlet where he’d bespoken rooms at the inn, he decided he could be earnest as well. He would never lie to Olivia. He’d consider it his handicap in this game. When he managed to seduce her, he’d be fully exonerated for what happened at Maubeuge. He’d have his life back.

If he kept this one promise to himself—not to lie to Olivia Symon—perhaps he’d actually be able to bear living it.

Chapter 5

The longcase clock in the hall below chimed three-quarters of the hour. Olivia adjusted her jaunty little riding hat, pinned it firmly in place, and studied the effect in her vanity mirror. The rest of her ensemble was mourning black, but the hat was a cheerful shade of lilac trimmed in dove gray. The colors lent a soft rosiness to her complexion that unrelieved black had robbed from her. She gave her reflection a nod.