The Rake Read online

  The Rake

  By

  Georgeanne Hayes

  (c ) copyright Georgeanne Hayes

  Cover art (c) copyright Jenny Dixon

  Smashwords Edition

  New Concepts Publishing

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  Chapter One

  Moreland Abbey's ancient walls had not seen such a gathering in over a hundred years. Demitria Standish knew that because she knew the Abbey's history far better than any living Moreland. Glancing around at the knots of people gathered in her Aunt Alma's hall as she moved among the guests as unremarked as a wraith, Demi decided to qualify that thought. Correctly speaking, the place had never known anything quite like the gathering this evening.

  The ladies were dressed in the elegant, stylish draperies of the Empire style. Quite modestly, too, since there were none of London's more daring ladies attendant with their scandalously thin, and sometimes even dampened skirts, and even more scandalous necklines.

  The gentlemen were another matter.

  They had a notable Corinthian among them, none other than Garrett Trowbridge, Viscount Wyndham. Typically, he was dressed with subdued elegance in almost unrelieved black. Though she'd stolen several surreptitious peeks at him as she wandered restlessly about the huge room that had in ancient times been known as the great hall, Demi hadn't actually had to see him to know that. He had attached himself to her cousin, Phoebe's, growing circle of admirers some weeks before illness had forced them to abandon the season and hastily depart London, and had long since become a familiar sight to her.

  Those men present who cherished the thought of considering themselves in the good company of so notable a sportsman were dressed in a like manner, though not nearly as elegant since few could rival the handsome viscount in face or form.

  However, there were a number of dandies in attendance and their attire was not nearly so subdued. They favored more colorful attire and sported stripped or floral waistcoats topped by coats of charcoal or navy. And even the dandies were vastly overshadowed by the macaronis.

  Those strutted among the ladies' whites and pastels, the Corinthian's somber blacks, and the conservative blues, grays and purples of the dandy, sporting all the brightest hues of the rainbow. They favored the very extreme of fashion with their wasp waists, exaggeratedly padded shoulders, enormous buckles and buttons, and wore heels so high they minced when they walked. Their waistcoats were gorgeous indeed; broadly stripped in bars of scarlet and green, or black and white; some boldly embroidered with cabbage roses, butterflies or bees, above breeches that sometimes matched, and sometimes did not, the tightly fitted jackets they wore over their gorgeous waistcoats.

  Settling herself finally on the horsehair sofa at a little distance from the one occupied by her cousin, Phoebe, and Phoebe's admiring court, Demi studied these last with a mixture of amused contempt and purest curiosity. Just as it was inconceivable to her that Phoebe encouraged this set to dangle after her, it was impossible for her to fathom why the macaronis would wish to dress themselves as figures of fun only to attract attention. She didn't care to be the object of curious interest herself, and certainly would not wish it under those circumstances.

  She was happy enough to observe and be ignored, which was just as well since she generally was. In truth, she didn't even particularly wish to observe, having seen sufficient social functions in London to appease her curiosity about them, and would have simply remained in her room if not for the fact that she knew her Aunt Alma would notice her absence and remark upon it with disapproval once the guests had taken their leave.

  And no one displeased Aunt Alma with impunity.

  After a moment, she dismissed the macaronis, for in truth she had little interest in studying their ridiculous dress or observing their affected mannerisms.

  She had a great deal of interest in observing Garrett Trowbridge, which was why she'd chosen the position she had, at no great distance from him, where her view was almost completely unobstructed. Nerving herself, feeling as breathless and lightheaded as if she were contemplating a leap from the barn loft into a haystack, Demi allowed her gaze to skim lightly over him as if she were merely glancing around the room.

  She was not surprised to discover Phoebe held his entire attention, nor was she perturbed. Instead, some of her uneasiness dissipated and a tentative surge of enjoyment filled her.

  She supposed there were more handsome men in England, but she had yet to see one who appealed to her more. He was tall, of medium build and as classically handsome as any of the men depicted in the Elgin marbles. Despite his dark hair and dark blue eyes, she would have been tempted to think of him as angelically fair if not for the mischievous amusement that so often glinted in his eyes. That was a dead giveaway that he was anything but angelic even before she'd learned that he was considered a very wild young man in his first years on the town and had scarcely settled a whit in the years since.

  Regardless, Aunt Alma had been avidly anticipating receiving him as a son-in-law ever since he'd first cast his interest in Phoebe's direction. Phoebe, herself, waited in breathless anticipation for him to pop the question, as well, though Demi was inclined to think that Phoebe was not so enamored with his person as she was with his wealth and title.

  As if sensing her gaze, Garrett looked up at that moment and Demi looked down at her hands in her lap, frowning faintly at her thoughts. In the next moment, one of the macaronis spoke to Phoebe and Demi tensed, glad that fate had given her the chance to guard her expression.

  "I say, that companion of yours is a queer bird. Is she a mute?" he asked with a titter, glancing toward Demi out of the corner of his eye since his shirt points were so exaggerated he had difficulty turning his head.

  The fop beside him, his bosom companion, snickered. "You can't mean to compare her to a swan? It would be an offense to the poor bird," he commented in a tone that was perfectly audible to everyone in the group, and to Demi, as well, despite his pretense of voicing his witticism sotto voce.

  Phoebe Moreland tried to look both shocked and offended. It took no great intelligence, though, to see that she was not-so-secretly amused, as well, and trying very hard not to be pleased over the fact that her admirers considered her cousin so unfavorably. "For shame, Mr. Randall! And you, too, Mr. Henson! That's monstrous cruel and I'll not have it! Demi Standish is my cousin, I'll have you to know!"

  She glanced toward Demi, adjusting her expression to a nicety to one of both compassion and protectiveness. "Of course she can speak! It's only that she has a..uh..a bit of a lisp and she's uncomfortable talking to anyone she doesn't know well."

  Garrett Trowbridge fixed Phoebe with an unfathomable look that nevertheless made her squirm. At nine and twenty, he was the eldest and most dashing of her court of admirers. Wealthy, titled, and blessed with a face and form that had made many a damsel before her cast hopeful, covetous eyes in his direction, his advent into Phoebe's circle had been quite a feather in her cap as far as her fond parent was concerned. For herself, Phoebe wasn't certain whether she was more flattered or disconcerted by his interest since she, unfortunately, had the uncomfortable suspicion that he was also the least enthralled.

  Of a certainty, he was the least to be depended upon. She had been convinced when he appeared in the countryside hard upon the heels of her rustication that he meant to press his suit. Instead, like a will-o-the-wisp, he was there and gone again, attending almost every function she attended for a time and then disappearing for days or weeks on end before he reappeared once more.

  An expression of amusement settled upon his handsome features as he very pointedly and measuringly studied each member of the group before finally his gaze came to rest upon the two macaronis, decked out in all their most beautiful finery. "I since
rely trust you don't mean to liken us all to fowl, Henson. While I suppose it's true the assemblage here might be rather unflatteringly compared to a gaggle of geese, pouter pigeons, clucking hens, or.…" He paused significantly as he surveyed the macaroni's attire from the tip of his pointed shoes to the elaborate wig upon his head. "…Strutting peacocks, I'm sure they wouldn't care to have it pointed out to them and I well know I wouldn't."

  Henson tittered nervously. "Well! Upon my word, Trowbridge! There's no need to take me up! It was merely an observation."

  "And an impertinence," Trowbridge responded lazily.

  Phoebe frowned, casting an accusing glance in her cousin's direction, as if Demi, by her mere presence, was entirely responsible for the uncomfortable situation. "I do hope you don't mean to be unpleasant to poor Mr. Henson, my lord."

  Garrett's dark brows lifted in a mild expression of surprise, as if he, who was quite notorious for dueling at the drop of a hat, couldn't imagine that she was suggesting he would provoke a fight. In fairness, he'd rarely been known to, for he was in general a very agreeable fellow. However, he was not so amiable that he ignored blatant insults, nor was he at all loathe to accept whatever challenges fell his way. "On no account, my dear! I was merely, as Henson before me, making an observation. However, as I can see I've distressed you, I'll tender my apologies and withdraw."

  With that remark and a smile that encompassed the group, he rose and sauntered away.

  For once Demi was scarcely aware of his departure. She was concentrating fiercely upon pretending to be deaf and completely unaware of the remarks she'd overheard. Aunt Alma's remarks about eavesdroppers echoed in the back of her mind, but then she hadn't been eavesdropping. They had known she was there, had almost certainly known she would overhear. It could have been nothing but deliberate. The thing was, she couldn't understand why.

  Phoebe's behavior, she understood well enough. Phoebe was fond of her in her own way. However, it had been plain from the time Demi had first come to live with the Morelands after her parents' deaths that she was considered an interloper. Phoebe had resented Demi's inclusion in 'her' family from the very first.

  It hurt nonetheless.

  Henson and Randall's assault were incomprehensible. She'd never, to her knowledge, done anything to warrant such an attack. She frowned, wondering if perhaps she had not concealed her contempt of their affectations as well as she'd thought. Or maybe it hadn't even needed that? Possibly it was sufficient that she had shown no admiration?

  That thought dulled the prick of hurt and she dismissed it as something too insignificant to allow it to wound. She didn't care for their opinion, after all.

  She did, however, care about Garrett Trowbrige's opinion. She would far rather he had not heard that exchange between Phoebe and her beaus.

  It wasn't that she considered it at all likely that Garrett would notice her in a favorable way. She was not nearly beautiful enough or wealthy enough for that, particularly when she fell under Phoebe's shadow. But it would be far better to be ignored than to be looked upon with pity or contempt.

  She wished suddenly that she had not yielded to the temptation to see Garrett and the apprehension of provoking her Aunt's wrath and joined the guests. She wished she could simply vanish from their midst.

  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."