The Rake Read online

  She surfaced from her introspection just as the carriage took a fork off of the main road. “Where are we going?” she asked a little blankly.

  “I thought perhaps we could drive down to the lake and have a few moments to ourselves before I took you home.”

  “But … we have been gone all day. Perhaps we could do this another time? I’m really very tired now.”

  “We won’t stay long.”

  A combination of fear and anger washed through Demi. Her lips tightened, but she didn’t trust herself to speak. He drew the carriage to a halt at last before the lake. She folded her arms over her chest and stared angrily at the water while he set the hand brake and looped he reins around it.

  “You are angry,” he observed coolly.

  “You are observant,” she snapped.

  He settled back in his seat and stretched his long legs out, propping them on the dashboard. Demi stared daggers at the toes of his boots and twisted in the seat, putting her back to him. He slid a hand around her waist and dragged her back against him before she even realized his intent, dropping his chin on her shoulder. “I’d only thought we might share a few private moments,” he murmured huskily next to her ear.

  A shiver went through her as his hot breath fanned the side of her neck. “Let go of me then, and we’ll talk.”

  He chuckled, dragging her onto his lap. “Talking isn’t what I had in mind.”

  Demi gaped at him, too shocked at his audacity to think of a response. He took advantage of her defenselessness, covering her mouth with his own … also her chin and the tip of her nose. The sense of suffocation was instantaneous and she planted her palms against his chest, twisting her head, struggling to pull free. His arms tightened around her, but she managed to free her airway and dragged in a breath of air, clamping her teeth tightly as she felt his tongue snake out, demanding entrance. He forced her jaws apart despite all she could do, throttling her with his tongue, drowning her with a wash of saliva so that she could think of nothing but escape.

  Her gyrations only seemed to excite him. As she twisted in his lap, a rod of flesh hardened beneath her thigh. He released her mouth almost as abruptly as he’d captured it. For perhaps a second, Demi thought he would release her altogether. Then, he fastened his mouth against her throat and began to work a slimy trial downward. She put the heel of her palm against his forehead, trying to thrust him away, without any discernible effect. Twisting her head, she glanced around frantically for something to club him with.

  Not surprisingly, she saw nothing. She hadn’t even thought to bring a parasol since it was early spring yet and the sun far too cool to warrant one. The hand brake caught her eye, however, and she struggled to reach it, just brushing it with the tips of her fingers. Frustrated, she dug her heels into the seat and thrust backward. He took the opportunity to fasten his mouth over her breast. Moisture saturated the gown instantly and even through the fabric she could feel his teeth and tongue as he raked them against her nipple.

  Ignoring him, she grasped the hand brake and snatched it back. The horse, already agitated by the struggle in the carriage, jolted forward.

  Releasing her abruptly, Jonathan dumped her onto the seat and grabbed for the reins. Setting the brake once more, he draped the reins around it again. When he turned, his eyes were glazed, dark, predatory. Grasping Demi, he tugged her hips across the seat toward him, pushing her backwards at the same time so that she fell back against the seat. Sprawling half on top of her, he covered her mouth in another drowning kiss. As he wedged a knee between her legs, freeing one from beneath his body, she kicked wildly at the hand brake, finally knocking it backward once more.

  Again, the horse jogged forward, jolting the carriage. The motion overbalanced their precarious position and Jonathan rolled into the floorboard, taking her with him. He released her instantly, however, struggling to catch the reins. Demi pushed herself upright, very deliberately planted her knee on top of his engorged manhood and focused her entire weight on it as she struggled to crawl up on the seat once more. He let out a bellow of pain and rage and jackknifed upright as she scrambled off of him.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, striving to compose her features into a look of concern. “Did I hurt you?”

  He sent her a glare and concentrated on catching the reins and halting the horse once more. The pain seemed to have cooled his ardor, however, if not his temper. He settled in the seat and raked a hand through his mussed hair. “No,” he answered finally. “I bumped my … knee.”

  Shaking like a leaf, Demi concentrated on straightening her gown. He handed her her shawl wordlessly, and she wrapped it around her shoulders. She’d lost the pin she had used to pin it over her less than modest neckline. The gown was torn where he’d pulled it loose. She folded the shawl over it and held it tightly to her. “I’m a little chilled,” she said after a moment when he merely sat, staring at her speculatively.

  Without a word, he flicked the reins and turned the carriage, heading back down the lane they’d taken to the lake. As the fear began to subside, Demi realized she’d lost half her hair pins, as well. Releasing the shawl, she made a half hearted effort to straighten her hair and finally merely stuffed the wayward tendrils under her bonnet and tied the ribbons more tightly under her chin.

  By the time they’d reached Moreland Abby, anger had replaced her fear. The moment the carriage rocked to a halt, Demi leapt down and stomped into the house without a word or a glance in Jonathan’s direction. She was half way up the walk when he caught up to her, grasping her upper arm. She was still trying to pull free when Jonathan brought her to a halt in front of the dining room. To her surprise, he released her abruptly.

  She saw why when she turned. Her aunt, seated at the opposite end of the table, was gaping at them with every appearance of shock. Since Demi had no doubt at all that she looked as if she’d been mauled, she wasn’t the least surprised. The bodice of her gown was torn, her hair falling down all around her shoulders and her face chafed from whisker burn. She glared at her aunt. “I will not marry this man! Throw me into the street! I don’t care!”

  “Demitria Standish!” Alma Moreland roared, coming to her feet. “We have company!”

  Demi noticed then that her cousin, Geoffrey, was seated at the head of the table. Ranged around the table were two of Phoebe’s particular friends and two gentlemen. One of them was Lord Wyndham. He was staring directly at her and Jonathan, his eyes narrowed, his face taut.

  “What is the meaning of this disgraceful display?”

  Demi glanced from her aunt to Flemming. Far from looking the least bit discomfited, he wore a half smile of triumph, his gaze locked with Lord Wyndham’s. It coalesced in Demi’s mind on the instant that she’d been set up by Flemming and her aunt. It was pure speculation, of course. It might also have been nothing more than a dislike of both of them, but it seemed a bit too convenient that they’d managed to arrive, in a disheveled manner that practically screamed fornication, to discover the dining room full of witnesses. And now that she thought on it, the doors were never left open while they were dining. Why now, unless her aunt had been anticipating her to arrive home looking as if she’d spent the day making love?

  “The man cannot drive!” she exclaimed on sudden inspiration. “I was nearly thrown from the carriage and killed, and all because he decided to drop Esme off before bringing me to the Abbey and thought we should drive faster to account for it!”

  Something gleamed in Lord Wyndham’s eyes, approval she thought, but both her aunt and Flemming looked as if they might burst a blood vessel. Phoebe and her friends tittered nervously, obviously as scandalized as they had been intended to be.

  Demi didn’t delude herself. Despite the story inspired by desperation, she knew very well that speculation would be rife and running through the county like wildfire before morning. Whether her aunt and Flemming had conspired against her or not, even if Flemming had only been inspired by the moment and had not planned it, she was ruined just the sam
e. If she married him, the scandal would eventually die down--once the whole county had counted the months until the delivery of her first child and been disappointed by the fact that it did not arrive early. If she did not marry him, she would not get another decent proposal, even if her aunt decided to allow her to remain under her roof.

  “Excuse me,” she muttered abruptly. Brushing past Flemming, she raced up the stairs. When she reached her room, she slammed the door and bolted it behind her.

  Still weak and shaken from her experience, her body urged her to collapse on the bed, but nerves and fury drove her to pace back and forth instead. Finally, she moved to her dressing table. The tear in her bodice was not too noticeable and, perhaps, they’d overlooked it. On the other hand, her gown was as crumpled as if she’d slept in it. Her bonnet was askew, and her hair was tangled and falling down all about her head. As she suspected, her cheeks were red from the abrasion of Flemming’s whiskers as he’d gnawed her face.

  Shuddering at the realization that she could smell him on her skin, she went to the wash stand and washed her mouth out, then scrubbed her face and hands with soap. A tentative knock sounded at her door while she was in the process of washing. She lifted her head. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Miss. Sarah.”

  Grabbing a hand towel, Demi moved toward the door. “Are you alone?” she asked cautiously before she unbolted the door.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Demi put her ear to the door, but could discern no sound that might indicate otherwise. Finally, she unbolted the door, grasped Sarah’s wrist and snatched her inside. She bolted the door again before she turned to her maid. “Help me undress, please.”

  Sarah looked her over anxiously, but forbore comment, merely nodding and reaching for the closure at the back of the gown.

  When she’d stripped down to her pantalets and corset, she ordered Sarah to take the clothing out and burn it. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”

  Sarah gathered the clothing into a ball, studying Demi worriedly. “Is it true then? The Reverend ravished you?”

  Demi stared at her, feeling blood surge up her neck and flood her face. “No! It is not true! Although he most certainly had it in mind.”

  Sarah looked relieved but still troubled. “There’s bound to be a horrible scandal. They’re sayin’ downstairs that you should never have accepted his proposal in the first place if you didn’t want to marry him, that you’ll have to marry him now, an’ the sooner the better--before your belly starts a swellin’.”

  Chapter Six

  So much for the clever story she’d cooked up, Demi thought morosely, but then she’d known no one would believe it when there was a much more scandalous possibility they might consider.

  When Sarah had left, she’d bolted the door again and pulled a nightgown out to wear. She supposed she really ought to go back downstairs and try to brazen it out, but she simply was not up to it at the moment.

  She’d been far more angered and revolted by Flemming’s amorous designs than she had been frightened, but the entire incident had been more than a little unsettling. She doubted, in any case, that going downstairs would do anything more than prevent them from talking about her behind her back. They were just as likely to pump her for the gory details as they were to refrain from discussing it because she was present.

  In any case, she had not heard any carriages leave and she thought Flemming might still be downstairs. Of a certainty, the others were.

  She didn’t think she could face Lord Wyndham.

  In truth, whatever occurred between her and her fiancé was no one else’s business, but she’d comported herself with a complete lack of restraint with Lord Wyndham only the night before. And now she’d arrived home with every appearance of having done the same, or worse.

  He must think that she was no more than a trollop.

  She felt as if she’d betrayed him with Flemming rather than the other way around. It didn’t matter that she had it backwards. That was the way she felt.

  When a tap came at her door again, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Who is it?”

  “Sarah.”

  She moved to the door, listened for a moment and finally opened it. Sarah rushed inside, balancing a tray. Bolting the door, Demi surveyed the offering without enthusiasm. “I’m not hungry.”

  Ignoring her, Sarah moved to a table and set the tray down. “You should eat.”

  “I’m too nervous to eat.”

  Sarah turned and fixed her with a stern look. “A hunger strike isn’t likely to help matters a whit. Like as not, you’ll faint, and that’ll only feed the wagging tongues.”

  Sighing irritably, Demi sat and nibbled at the food. “Has Reverend Flemming left?”

  Sarah made a face. “He’s holed up in the study with yer aunt. Lord Geoffrey, Lord Wyndham and Mr. Collins went round to the stables a bit ago, not long after you came in. I heard them say something about going shooting in the morning with Mr. Smythe and Mr. Fairlane … them’s cronies of Lord Geoffrey from Eton. Seems the lot of them got up to something and got themselves expelled. They wasn’t too keen on heading for home afterwards, so they came home with Lord Geoffrey for a visit, to rusticate, they called it. Miss Phoebe’s in the front parlor with Miss Charlotte and Miss Horatia, though … if you feel up to a bit of company.”

  Horatia Wynthrope was probably the biggest gossip in all of England. How fortuitous that she’d been at Moreland Abbey to witness Demi’s downfall! “On second thought, I believe I won’t go down again this evening. I’d thought, maybe, it would help if I did, but Horatia Wynthrope will only pump me for information and then twist everything I say.”

  “I expect you’re right, but they’ll be leaving soon, and probably Reverend Flemming too. You’d best barricade your door if you mean to keep Lady Moreland out.”

  Demi smiled wearily. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

  Sarah moved to the door but paused when she reached it. “It’s not my place to say so, Miss, but you’re liable to find yerself locked in if you think to stay holed up in here long.”

  Demi, who’d risen to lock the door behind her maid, hesitated but finally nodded. “She’s liable to lock me in anyway, for fear I’ll slip the noose. I’d leave tonight if I had anywhere to go. Unfortunately, I can’t think of anyone that would take me in, especially not now.”

  She was propped up in bed, waiting, when her aunt arrived at her door several hours later to ring a peal over her for her ‘disgraceful behavior’. It took an effort, but Demi bit her tongue and endured, tuning out most of it. Eventually, she ran out of steam and left, but not before she’d emphasized at least a dozen times that Demi had ‘burned her bridges’ and needn’t think she had any alternative other than marrying Mr. Flemming as quickly as could be decently arranged.

  She didn’t bother to point out that that would only feed the gossip mills. Alma Moreland could hardly be unaware that such actions would only be feeding the fire.

  She resolved, however, that whether she was forced to marry the man or not, she had no intention of seeing him again until that time unless she simply couldn’t avoid an encounter.

  After an anxious night, most of which was spent tossing and turning, she rose early, dressed and went downstairs. Her aunt and her cousin generally broke their fast in bed before they came down and the house was as silent as a tomb when she reached the breakfast parlor. She found it empty, Geoffrey and his cronies apparently already having departed to go shooting. The maid, clearing away the remains of their breakfast, returned with a plate and she settled down to eat in blessed solitude.

  When she’d finished, she went into the library, found a book, and left the house for the solitude of the garden. She was tempted to go further afield, but if Geoffrey was out shooting, she thought it safest to stay near the abbey. The boy--young man--had always been a menace with a gun. He was eighteen now, but she sincerely doubted he’d improved since the day he’d shot his gamekeeper in the buttocks with bird shot
.

  She heard a carriage arrive shortly before noon. Her belly clenched. She knew it must be Mr. Flemming. Resolutely, she ignored sounds of an arrival. She might have to marry him, but they would have to bind and gag her to get her into another carriage with him in the meantime.

  The sounds filtering to her from the house escalated and she frowned. She couldn’t imagine Jonathan Flemming arousing such a flap. Finally, curiosity overcame caution and she made her way inside, drawn by the babble of excited voices to the front hall.

  Her heart nearly stopped in her chest when she saw the mayhem there. Phoebe was wailing almost hysterically and Lady Moreland looked as if she might faint dead away at any moment. Geoffrey was being supported by two of friends. Blood streamed from his hand, dripping onto the tiles of the hall.

  She wondered, without a great deal of sympathy, if the fool had shot his hand off loading his gun. Before she could decide whether to surge forward and offer help, or retreat and leave them to their own devices, several more men struggled through the front door, carrying Lord Wyndham, who was either unconscious … or dead.

  A wave of such horror washed over her that she sank weakly to the floor. She didn’t breathe for several moments. It was only as she gasped in a desperate draft of air that she realized she’d been holding her breath as they crossed the hall with his limp form.

  She regained her feet as they started up the stairs with him and rushed over. “Is he … is he…?” She stammered.

  “He is unconscious at the moment, Miss Demitria,” the man following the procession announced. “I would like to have him comfortably settled before he comes around.”