The Rake to Rescue Her

Chapter Two

Entering the modest lodgings in Laura Place she’d hired two days previous, her son and his nursery maid trailing obediently behind her, Diana, Dowager Duchess of Graveston, mounted the stairs to the sitting room. ‘You may take Mannington to the nursery to rest now,’ she told the girl as she handed her bonnet and cloak to the maid-of-all-work.

‘Will you come up for tea later, Mama?’ the child asked, looking up at her, hope shining in his eyes.

‘Perhaps. Run along now.’ Inured to the disappointment on the boy’s face, she turned away and walked to the sideboard by the window, removing her gloves and placing them precisely on the centre of the chest. Only after the softly closing door confirmed she was alone, did she release a long, slow breath.

She should have hugged Mannington. He would have clung to her, probably. Like any little boy, he needed a mama he could cling to. And she could hug him now, without having to worry over the consequences—for him or for her.

Could she find her way back to how it had once been? A memory bubbled up: the awe and tenderness she’d felt as she held her newborn son, a miracle regardless of her feelings about his father.

The father who, little by little, had forced her to bury all affection for her child.

She remembered what had happened later that first day, Graveston standing over the bed as she held the infant to her breast. Plucking him away, telling her he’d summon a wet nurse, as a duchess did not suckle her own child. He’d cut off her arguments against it, informing her that if she meant to be difficult, he’d have a wet nurse found from among one of his tenant farmers and send the child away.

So she’d turned his feedings over to a wet nurse, consoling herself that she could still watch him in his cradle.

A week later, she’d returned to her rooms to find the cradle gone. The child belonged in the nursery wing, Graveston told her when she’d protested. It wasn’t fitting for a woman as lowly born as the wet nurse to spend time in the Duchess’s suite. If she insisted on having the child with her, he’d end up hungry, waiting for his supper while he was dispatched to the servant’s quarters.

Of course, she hadn’t wanted her son to go hungry. Or to have his balls taken away, as Graveston had done months later when she’d tarried in the nursery, rolling them to him, and been late for dinner.

Though for the first and only time in their marriage, she had tried to please her husband, nothing she did was enough. The day she’d learned her toddler son had been beaten because their laughter, as she played with him in the garden under the library window, had disturbed the Duke, she’d realised the only way she could protect him was to avoid him.

And the only way she could do that was to harden her heart against him as thoroughly as she’d hardened herself to every other instinct save endurance.

She remembered the final incident, when having noticed, as he noticed everything, that she’d had little to do with the boy of late, Graveston threatened to have the child whipped again when she’d not worn the new dress he’d ordered for her to dinner. He’d watched her with the intensity of an owl honing in on a mouse as she shrugged and told him to do as he liked with his son.

She’d lost her meal and been unable to eat for three days until she’d known for certain that, no longer believing the boy a tool to control her, he’d left the child alone.

Only then had she known he was safe.

She sighed again. Having worked so hard to banish all affection, she’d not yet figured out how to re-animate the long-repressed instincts to mother her child. Now that he was older, it didn’t help that she couldn’t look at the dark hair curling over his brow or the square-jawed face without seeing Graveston reflected in them.

With a shudder, she repressed her husband’s image.

Her late husband, she reminded herself. That liberation was so recent, she still had trouble believing she was finally free.

Living under his rule had perfected her mask of imperturbability, though. Lifting her eyes to the mirror over the sideboard, she studied the pale, calm, expressionless countenance staring back at her. Despite unexpectedly encountering Alastair Ransleigh after all these years, she’d not gasped, or trembled, or felt heat flame her face. No, she was quite sure the shock that had rocked her from head to toe had been undetectable in her outward appearance and manner.

The shock had almost been enough to pry free, from the vault deep within where she’d locked them away, some images from that halcyon spring they’d met and fallen in love. Had she truly once been unreserved, adoring him with wholehearted abandon, thrilling to his presence, ravenous for his touch? She winced, the memories still too painful to bear examining.

She took a deep breath and held it until the ache subsided. Sealing her mind against the possibility of allowing any more memories to escape, she turned her mind to the more practical implications of their unexpected meeting.

She supposed she should have expected to run into him eventually, but not this soon—or here. What was Alastair doing in Bath? His family home, Barton Abbey, was in Devon, and though he’d also inherited properties elsewhere, what she’d gleaned from news accounts and the little gossip that reached Graveston Court indicated that he’d spent most of his time since returning from the army either at his principal seat or in London.

Would she have fled to Bath, had she known he was here? She’d had to go somewhere, quickly, as soon as Graveston’s remains had been laid to rest, somewhere she could live more cheaply and attract less notice than in London, but fashionable enough to attract excellent solicitors. Go while the servants were in turmoil, uncertain what to do now that their powerful master was no longer issuing orders, and before Blankford, her husband’s eldest son and heir, had time to travel back to Graveston from hunting in Scotland.

What would she do if the new Duke, not content with claiming his old home, was bent on retribution against the woman he blamed for his mother’s death and his father’s estrangement? What if he pursued her here?

Putting aside a question for which she had no answer, Diana turned her mind back to Alastair. What was she to do about him?

She wouldn’t remember how many years it had taken to lock his image, their love, and the dreams she’d cherished for the future into a place so deep within her that no trace of them ever escaped. All she had left of him was the pledge, if and when it was ever possible, to tell him why she’d spurned him without a word to marry Graveston.

She might well have that opportunity tomorrow if she accompanied Mannington to the park, where he hoped to encounter his new friend again. Should she take it?

Of course, the other boy might not come back, and if he did, Alastair might not accompany him. So rattled had she been by Alastair’s unexpected appearance, she’d not even caught the boy’s surname, though he must be some connection of Alastair’s. Even his own son, perhaps.

That Alastair Ransleigh had managed to disturb her so deeply argued for avoiding him. The process of locking away all emotion and reaction, of practising before her mirror until she’d perfected the art of letting nothing show in her face, had been arduous and difficult. She wasn’t sure how to reverse it, or even if she wanted to. Should that barrier of detachment ever be breached, whatever was left of her might crack like an eggshell.

As if in warning, despite her control, one memory from her marriage surfaced. The hope that she might some day speak to Alastair again had been the only thing that had kept her from succumbing to despair, or heeding the insidious whisper in the night that urged her to creep through the sleeping house to the parapets of Graveston Court and free herself in one great leap of defiance. Besides, though Alastair had almost certainly expunged her from his heart and mind years ago, in fairness, she owed him an explanation for that nightmare night of humiliation.

Very well, she thought, nodding to herself in the mirror. She would accompany her son to the park, and if Alastair did appear, she would approach him. He might well give her the cut direct, or slap her face, but if he allowed her to speak, she would fulfil her vow and tell him the story.

At the thought of seeing him again, a tiny flicker of anticipation bubbled up from deep within. Holding her breath and squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she stifled it.

* * *

Having awakened before dawn to pace his room until daylight, Alastair chose to avoid breakfast, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hide his agitation from his eagle-eyed sister. When mid-morning finally came, Alastair set out from the Crescent, his exuberant nephew in tow.

Much as he’d tried to tell himself this was just another day, a trip to the park with Robbie like any other, he failed miserably at keeping his mind from drifting always back, like a lodestone to the north, to the possibility of seeing Diana again—a possibility that flooded him with contradictory emotions.

The defiant need to confront her and force a reaction, and curiosity over what that reaction might be, warred with the desire to cut her completely. Overlaying all was a smouldering anger that she had the power to so effectively penetrate his defences that he’d been required to employ every bit of his self-control to keep the memories at bay—a task he’d not fared so well at while half-conscious. He’d slept poorly, waking time and again to scattered bits of images he’d hastily blotted out before trying to sleep again.

Fatigued and irritable, he tried to focus on Robbie’s eager chatter, which alternated between enthusiastic praise of the horse his uncle had ridden to Bath, a wheedling plea to be allowed to sit on said horse, and anticipation at meeting his new friend again.

‘The boy may not be able to come today,’ Alastair said, the warning as much for his own benefit as for Robbie’s. ‘You may have to settle for just the company of your dull old uncle.’

‘Uncle Alastair, you’re never dull! And you will let me ride Fury when we get back home, won’t you? We can still stop for cakes, can’t we? And I’m sure James will come again. His nurse promised!’

‘Did she, now?’ Alastair raised a sceptical eyebrow, amused out of his agitation by the ease with which his nephew turned a possibility into a certainty, simply because he wished it. How wonderful to possess such innocence!

But then, maybe it wasn’t. He’d had his innocence torched out of him by one splendid fireball of humiliation.

Whatever reply Robbie made faded in his ears as they entered Sidney Gardens—and Alastair saw her. Shock pulsated from his toes to his ears, and once again, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Dressed modestly all in black—at least her critics couldn’t fault her there—Diana sat on a bench, as her son tossed his ball to the nursemaid on a nearby verge of grass. While Alastair worked to slow his pulse and settle his breathing, Robbie, with a delighted shout, ran ahead to meet his friend.

Now was the moment, and with a sense of panic, Alastair realised he still wasn’t sure what he wanted. If Diana turned to him, should he speak with her? Ignore her? If she did not acknowledge him, should he go right up to her and force his presence on her?

Before he could settle on a course of action, with a grace that sent a shudder of memory and longing through him, Diana rose from the bench—and approached him.

‘Mr Ransleigh,’ she said as she dipped a curtsy to his stiff bow. ‘Might I claim a moment of your time?’

A reply sprang without thought to his lips. ‘Do you think you deserve that?’

‘I am sure I do not,’ she replied, the serenity of her countenance untroubled by his hostile words. ‘However, I vowed if I were ever given a chance, I would explain to you what happened eight years ago.’

The violet scent she’d always worn invaded his senses. Unconsciously, he looked down, into eyes as arrestingly blue as he remembered from the day they first captivated him. No lines marred the softness of her skin, and the few dark curls escaping from under her bonnet made him recall how he’d loved combing his fingers through those thick, sable locks. Desire—powerful, potent, unstoppable—rose up to choke him.

He had to get away. ‘Do you really think, after all this time, that I care what happened?’ he spat out. ‘Good day, Duchess.’ Pivoting on one boot, he paced away from her down the gravelled path.

He heard the crunch of her footsteps following behind him. Torn between a surge of triumph that this time, she was pursuing him, and a need to escape before he lost what little control he had left, he could barely make sense of her words.

‘Although I may not deserve to be heard, since you are a gentleman, Mr Ransleigh, I know you will allow me to speak. Infamous as I am, it’s best that I do so here, now, out of sight and earshot of any gossips.’

‘I have never paid any attention to gossips,’ Alastair flung back, turning to face her. She halted a step away, and he couldn’t help noticing the flush in her cheeks, the rapid breathing that caused her bosom to rise and fall beneath the modest pelisse—as if she were recovering from a round of passion.

Desire flared again, thick in his blood, pounding in his ears. Curse it, why must the Almighty be so cruel as to leave him still so strongly attracted to this woman?

But what she said was true—if she was determined to speak with him, it was far better here than at some ball or musicale or—worse yet—a social function at which Jane was also present. ‘Very well, say what you must.’

‘Walk with me, then.’

In truth, some tiny honest particle of his brain admitted, he wasn’t sure he could have turned away. Curiosity and lust pulled him to her, stronger than reason, common sense, or his normal highly developed sense of self-preservation.

Despite the volatile mix of anger, confusion, pain and desire coursing through him, he also noted that, though she asked him to walk with her, she did not offer him her arm.

Not that it mattered. So intensely conscious was he of her body a foot from his, he could almost hear her breaths and feel the pulse in her veins.

‘I met the Duke of Graveston at one of the first balls of my debut Season,’ she began. ‘He asked me to dance and accorded me polite interest, but I thought nothing of it. He was older, married, and I had eyes for only one man.’

Her words struck him to the core, despite the fact that she said them simply, unemotionally, as if stating a fact of mild interest. Swallowing hard, he forced his attention back to her narrative, the next few words of which he’d already missed.

‘...began seeing him at home, visiting Papa. They had similar scientific interests, Papa said when I asked him. It wasn’t until some months later that I learned just what those “interests” truly were. By that time, the Duke’s wife had died. To my astonishment, he proposed to me. I politely refused, telling him that my heart and hand had already been pledged to another. He...laughed. And told me that he was certain I would change my mind after I carefully measured the advantages of becoming his Duchess against marrying a young man of no title who was still dependent upon his father.’

Though they walked side by side, Alastair noticed Diana seemed increasingly detached, as if, transported to some other place and time, she was no longer even conscious of his presence. ‘He returned a week later, asked me again, and received the same answer. In fact, I urged him to look elsewhere for a bride, as, though I was fully aware of the honour of his offer, it did not and would never interest me. He said that was regrettable, but he had chosen me for his wife, and marry him I would.’

Alastair had to laugh at that fantastic statement. ‘Are you truly trying to persuade me that he “gave you no choice”? That horse won’t run! This isn’t the Middle Ages—a girl can’t be forced into marriage.’

She nodded, still not looking at him. ‘So I thought. But I was wrong. You see, those “visits” to Papa hadn’t just been spent in scientific discourse. They’d also been gaming together—a pleasant match among friends, Papa later called it when I taxed him about it. But the Duke was a very skilful player, and Papa was not. When I refused again to marry him, he produced vouchers Papa had signed—vouchers worth thousands of pounds. Unless I married him, he said, he would call them in. Of course, there was no possible way Papa could have repaid such a sum. He would be sent to debtors’ prison, the Duke said. How long did I think, with his delicate health, he would last in Newgate? At first, I was certain the Duke was joking. He soon convinced me he was not. He warned that if I said a word about this to my father, he would have him clapped in prison, regardless of what I did. I didn’t dare call his bluff.’

Scarcely about to credit anyone capable of perpetrating such a Byzantine scheme, Alastair retorted, ‘Why did you not come to me, then? True, I’d not yet inherited, but I could have persuaded my father to advance me a sum, and borrowed more on my expectations.’

‘He threatened to ruin you, too, if I gave you even a hint of what he intended.’

‘Ruin me? How?’ Alastair replied derisively. ‘I was never a gamester, and though I was certainly no saint at university, I’d done nothing serious enough to dishonour my name, no matter how the facts might be distorted.’

She paused a moment, as if to say more, then shook her head. ‘This would have.’

‘No, it’s all preposterous!’ Alastair burst out. ‘Graveston did have a sinister presence about him, but I can’t believe he convinced you he would do what he threatened.’

She turned to give him a sad smile. ‘Do you remember my little spaniel, Ribbons?’

‘The black-and-white one with the ears that trailed in the wind?’

‘Like ribbons, yes. After the Duke revealed his intentions, he gave me a day to think it over. When he returned the next day, he asked me how my dog was. I’d not seen Ribbons that morning, and when I looked, I found him—dead. The Duke merely smiled, and told me as his Duchess, I could have as many dogs as I liked.’

Despite himself, Alastair felt the implication of those words like a blow to the stomach.

She continued, ‘As you know, we were a small household—just Cook and two maids and a man-of-all-work, all of whom had been with us for years. I questioned each one, and they all swore they’d seen—or done—nothing unusual. I realised then, if the Duke could bribe one of my own household to harm an innocent dog, or infiltrate someone who would, he was perfectly capable of forcing Papa into prison and ruining you. That the only thing to prevent him extracting retribution upon the people I loved would be for me to marry him. His final requirement in leaving you both unharmed was to never tell either of you the truth. You must both believe I married him of my own free will.’

Struggling to decide whether to accept the story she’d just told, Alastair shook his head. ‘It’s...it’s unthinkable that someone would act in such a fashion.’

‘Very true. Another reason why the Duke didn’t worry about my confiding in anyone but you or Papa. Who would believe such a story?’

‘Well, I don’t,’ Alastair retorted, making up his mind. Feeling both betrayed and disgusted that she would try to fob off on him such a Banbury tale, he said, ‘Besides, do you really think your apology now makes any difference to me? Frankly, I would respect you more if you just admitted the truth—that the lure of a duchess’s coronet outweighed whatever I could offer you.’

She turned to him, for a long moment silently studying his face. ‘I have told you the truth. I cannot make you believe it, of course. But I did want you to know that it was not for any lack in you that I wed another man.’

‘I never thought it was.’

‘I don’t expect your respect. I’m rather certain you despise me, and I can’t blame you. Nor is there anything I could ever do to make up to you for the embarrassment and humiliation of the Coddingford ball.’

The words exited his lips before he was even aware he meant to speak. ‘Well, since I’m currently between mistresses, you could fulfil that role until I tire of you.’

Aghast, he waited for her to gasp with outrage or slap his face. To his astonishment, after staring at him for another moment, she said, ‘Very well. Make the arrangements and send me word. Fifteen Laura Place.’

Before Alastair could respond, two small boys pelted up from behind them, one grabbing his hand. ‘Can we go for cakes now, Uncle Alastair?’ Robbie asked. ‘James and I are powerful hungry.’

‘Yes, Mama, may I go today?’ Diana’s son asked her.

‘Today you may go,’ his mother responded. While the two boys whooped and slapped each other’s backs, without another glance at Alastair, Diana turned and walked away.

Stunned, incredulous—and incredibly tempted—Alastair gazed after her until the turn in the pathway took her from view.

Chapter Three

After admonishing the boys that the hoydenish behaviour allowed in the park would not be tolerated in an establishment that served cakes, Alastair shepherded his young charges and Lord James Mannington’s nursemaid across Pulteney Bridge, down High Street, around the Abbey and into the bakery off North Parade that served the famous buns. In a mechanical daze, he ordered cakes for the boys and the blushing maid, dismissing with a distracted wave her protest that he need not include her in the treat.

It was good that both boys had learned their manners well—or that the presence of the nursemaid restrained them. For with his mind whirling like a child’s top, he could not afterwards recall a single thing they’d said or done at the shop.

Melted butter congealing on the bun set before him, Alastair went over again and again in his mind the exchange between himself and Diana—particularly the last bit, when he, incredibly, had offered her carte blanche and she, even more incredibly, had accepted.

If he’d had more time after that fraught final exchange, he probably would have retracted the hasty words, perhaps covering the naked need they’d revealed by delivering the stinging response that he’d only been joking, for Diana did not meet the minimum standards for beauty, wit and charm that he required of a mistress.