Redeeming The Roguish Rake

Chapter Six

Her father, the not-so-subtle matchmaker, left after they’d eaten, hoping to get more men involved in the search for the criminals who had attacked a vicar.

A waste of time, Fox thought, unless they searched for men in London who had a jealous streak.

Fox stuffed the pillow tighter at his head and watched Rebecca.

Her bottom bustled nicely as she worked. It worked better than any laudanum to relieve his pain. His eyes drooped, watching each nuance. Each twist. Each whisper of movement.

He’d been wrong to think her drab. The sun sparkling in the window when she walked by the glass showed him otherwise.

In fact, the sun taunted him by showing him what he could not have. He looked at the ceiling again, trying to recall something in his past he’d wanted—something he’d wanted but not been able to have. Nothing came to mind except Mrs Lake. And he’d worked hard to get her from his mind—filling his world with all the beauty he could surround himself with. He’d determined never to let anyone else that deep into his thoughts again.

He’d even been able to talk Gillray into drawing a caricature. Gillray had created a picture of Fox surrounded by a bevy of ladies of all shapes and ages.

That had been before he’d turned twenty. It had been published. He’d been certain the former Mrs Lake would have seen it.

The bereaved Mrs Lake had been beyond beautiful, and twice his age at thirty-two when she’d dropped her fan onto his boot.

Seeing her tearful eyes as she had told of her loss had torn at his heart, but when she’d clutched at him for support—he’d been too green to understand that she had him by the pizzle. Unfortunately, his heart had been attached to it at that moment.

Within days he’d told her he loved her; she’d told him she would wait until he became old enough to wed.

Then the Duke of Marchwell’s wife had died and Mrs Lake had told Foxworthy he was just infatuated with her. That he would forget her and that she was much too old for him.

It had been quite immature of him to propose to the elderly Countess Bolton the day after Mrs Lake had announced her betrothal to the seventy-year-old duke, but even Earl Bolton had caught the humour in that proposal and thumped Foxworthy on the back and congratulated him at realising what a gem the countess was.

He doubted Mrs Lake had enjoyed the print as much as he had. The caricaturists in London had become quite fond of Foxworthy over the years.

Now was when he needed Gillray’s pen. Fox would like a sketch of Rebecca. One of her bustling about, hovering over the little needs of the village like a mother hen guarding the chicks.

Now the little mother hen faced him, and he waited for the sound of her voice.

‘You’ve met the earl as he’s chosen you for his vicar.’

He nodded, more with his eyes than his head.

‘He’s such a good-hearted man. Kind. Caring. We’re all so lucky to have him.’

No need to let her know her hero wasn’t perfect. His father was a kind man.

A boring but kind man. The most boring man on the face of the earth. Sanctimonious, too. Proud in his austere life. As if he thought the things he could turn his back on made him stronger. When his daughter had died, he’d even turned his back on the whole of London.

He’d not taken well to a son who didn’t turn his back.

Rebecca’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘You’ve a spot of blood on your nightshirt.’

‘How can you stand to look at this?’ He forced out the words, this time willing to ignore the pain.

Now she huffed out a breath. ‘I’ve never seen you any other way. That’s just how you look to me. And it’s the inner person...’ She paused. ‘Yes. It is.’

He shut his eyes. At least his eyelids didn’t hurt. And his inner person chuckled, stoked the irritation with a pitchfork and gave a spit shine to its horns.

‘And all things happen for a reason. Perhaps this is meant to give you time to spend in contemplation. And compassion for others in similar circumstances. We can never have too much compassion. Think of what is important in life.’

At that point, Fox’s inner person stuck out its tongue and made a fluttering noise. His outer person was older, however. ‘Ale.’ He held out his hand.

She stepped forward and softly slapped his fingers. ‘That’s not what is important.’

He pushed and threw one leg from the bed, and remembered he was in one of those nightdresses. He’d never worn such a garment in front of any woman. Ever. His inner person might have lacked modesty, but it did have some pride.

He reached up, flapping the neck of the nightshirt. ‘Cose...’

He looked around the room, searching for his trousers.

‘They’re put away.’

As soon as he moved his arm to fling back the covers, her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth went so tight her lips almost disappeared. A hand went over her face and she whirled around, her back to him.

He jarred his face and the pain nearly knocked him back to the bed, but he shoved himself forward. ‘Cose...’

‘You don’t know where they are.’

He grunted, three little grunts.

He swung his legs around. His head took a moment to catch up, so he sat while his view straightened again.

He could focus on the back of her head. Her elbows still stuck from the sides. They moved a bit. She reached for the basket. ‘I’m going outside and I’m going to pray until Father returns. I need to gather some apples for tarts.’

‘Uh-un.’ He spoke softly. He was certain he could find them on his own. ‘Cose...’

‘Your clothes are in Father’s room,’ she said. ‘On a peg. I washed them for you.’

‘...’ank...’oo.’

And then she swirled out the door, scenting the air with lilacs.

He watched her leave. Miss Prim and Proper who believed the inside of a person mattered. Only when it had enough ale to sleep like a babe.

Holding the iron bed frame, he put his weight on his legs and stood. His head swam, but then strength returned to his legs. His feet burned in spots, like small, fierce coals jabbed at his soles. But the tingles felt good and strength shot into him.

He strode to the inner door. Inside the other room, his eyes stopped on the shirt hanging over the peg. Two garments on one peg. Under the shirt, his trousers. He shut his eyes, relieved.

He stripped the frippery of a nightshirt from his shoulders, taking deep breaths and moving slowly while he finessed it around his jaw. The pain angered him. He tossed the shirt to the floor.

He dressed, finishing by leaning against the wall, using his strength to control the pain.

Putting on the clothing wasn’t too difficult, but the cravat was the loosest one he’d ever tied and his jaw ached afresh.

He might not be dressed well enough for callers, but he definitely preferred the apparel over the nightshirt. It lay under his feet. He scooped it up with one hand, crushed the cloth within his grasp and tossed it on the bed. No valet would be along behind him. The mistress of this house was also the housekeeper, cook and scullery maid.

The mirror on the wall had a crack running the length of it, but the nails at the edge held it together.

It beckoned him. The scarred mirror.

He walked to it. Even the eyes that stared back at him didn’t seem his own. He had all the organs necessary to make a man. At least the appearance of a man.

These people thought him a vicar. A man with a caring heart. A person who fit in his father’s world. The exact opposite of who he was.

Well, he could play that game. It was perhaps the only one he hadn’t tried. They wanted him to be a vicar. Until the man his father chose arrived, then Fox would be the vicar. A pretence to see how it would be to live as a man who saw someone behind the soulless orbs.

If he wasn’t going to be able to smile his way into people’s good graces, then perhaps he could... No, he couldn’t. He could never go back among the people who knew him and be anything but Foxworthy.

Now he touched the swollen cheek, his skin feeling leathery. The left side of his jaw looked the most swollen and the thin cut line along it showed the remnants of the club’s mark.

He moved his head to one side, and then the other, still not believing the image followed his movements.

He put his hand over the glass, feeling the coldness where the eyes stared back at him. He spread his palm, covering the image.

He could not smash every mirror in the world. He could not hide away for ever. But he could not let anyone see him. Some of the swelling would have to recede. The colour would have to return to a semblance of human skin.

Someone would answer for this.

He returned to the main room of the house. His conscience was not sitting in her sewing chair.

Chapter Seven

Rebecca walked into the house and instantly her eyes moved to the empty bed. She stilled, except her heart doubled in speed. She wanted to call out his name, but realised she didn’t know it. ‘Vicar,’ she whispered.

He dipped his head to walk under the door frame from the bedroom. An unshaven man, dishevelled, except for his hair. In bed, he’d taken up the size of the mattress. In the doorway, he completely filled her eyes.

She didn’t speak and she took a tiny step back.

‘Th...ank you for washin...’ he said. ‘Shirt...’aistcoat...’

She rushed to the table, putting her basket down, not looking his way, watching the apples. She took one from the top and put it on the table. She reached for a knife to peel the apples.

‘The boots.’ She indicated the footwear her father had brought back.

He looked at them and nodded, but he didn’t get them.

The man moved to the chair and sat at her table as if it was his own. All the men of the village did the same occasionally. Even the earl had once or twice. But the vicar sat with his bare feet apart, his mangled head high and his eyes staring straight ahead. And he sat on the wrong side.

She pressed her lips together hard, then she spoke softly. ‘You’re in my father’s chair.’

His brows raised and he slowly turned his head to look at her. She couldn’t read his thoughts.

Then he stood and moved to the other chair and sat.

She moved to the stove, but then he turned the chair slightly so she was in his direct line of vision and it was much more straightforward than before. The trousers and shirt seemed to make him into a real person, not an invalid. And not the same.

In the bed, he’d not taken up so much room, but in the chair at the table, she couldn’t move without being closer to him.

Then she laughed at herself. She was being foolish. She’d just not seen a man so undressed before. Not even her father. He was always very particular about how he looked because at any moment a parishioner might appear and need counsel.

She took in a deep breath. ‘You look half—’

He waited.

She couldn’t say naked, wild, or any of the first words that hit her mind. ‘—dressed. But more like a gentleman.’

He pointed two jabs to his face.

‘You don’t look that bad.’

He pointed to the sky, jabbing upwards, and then to his ear.

She let out a deep breath, looked down and spoke softly. ‘You do look rather bad.’

He agreed with a rumble from his throat.

She would do her duty. She would be a good wife if they married. She would learn to love his misshapen face. If she could love a hissy, splotchy orange cat with a missing ear then she could love this man. It would be nice to care for someone in such a way. Marriage softened the harshness in life. She would no longer be a woman and he would no longer be a man. They would be one, together.

Although it would take some time. She could tell that by looking at him.

And he was a bit too concerned about his appearance, but she could help him get over his vanity, although at this point, he might need a smattering of it.

He did have elegant lashes. She could compliment him on his lashes. His hair. She wasn’t certain of his teeth because he couldn’t seem to open his mouth. But there would be a lot of things she could remind him of so that he would not feel so...lopsided. She tilted her head. Yes, he was just lopsided and in different hues than anyone else she’d ever seen. He did not quite look as good as Mr Tilton did when he was dead, but Mr Tilton had only been kicked in the face by a horse.

He caught her looking at him with her head tilted. He crossed his arms. One could believe in beasts when he looked at her like that.

Stopping a moment, she reminded herself that all creatures were beautiful. And he was handsome in his own way. He did have a nice colour of hair.

He leaned across, and took her knife from her hand, and he worked at peeling the apple skin into one thin and perfect ribbon. He looked her way briefly and continued, his concentration on his task.

With his thoughts on his task, he didn’t intimidate her at all and with his head down, he could be endearing enough, this man with bare toes.

He finished the peeling, then deftly sliced the apple in half, cored it and made another slice. He held it out to her. She took it, their fingers brushing, and ate it. Then he cut the smallest sliver, put it in his mouth, shut his eyes, chewed carefully, and she could see him tasting, swallowing. He opened his eyes, cut another piece for her and held it high, to her lips.

She took a bite and shut her eyes.

His hand stilled, fingers straightened and rested on her cheek by the crease of her lips.

She opened her eyes, and whispered, ‘What is your given name?’

His eyes tightened. ‘Dam...’ His hand jerked away from her face.

‘Did you just say Adam?’ she asked.

Then shook his head. ‘Dam...nation.’

‘The oath?’

He nodded with a flick of his brows.

‘What are you...angry with yourself for...?’ Her cheeks reddened.

He took one hand, putting it under her chin, and lifting so that her eyes aligned with his vision.

He shook his head. With his free hand, he reached to cup her face, but he stilled just before touching.

Neither moved.

* * *

He took a step back, letting his hand slide from her. This would not end well. Not for her at any rate.

He wanted to kiss her, but he could not. He could not let his face against hers. No woman should be touched by such ugliness. He reached out and rested his fingertips against her cheeks. Then he traced her perfect nose. Even her jawline was perfect.

He’d thought nothing fascinating about her face, but now he looked closer. In her plainness, she had a simple beauty. The wisps of hair framing her face enhanced the softness of her skin. Such a contrast to the rough hands—the work she did made the woman more delicate.

He grasped her shoulders and her eyes opened. She’d taken pity on a beaten man and helped her neighbours with whatever they needed. He could see purity. An unaware angel.

He must kiss her. He must.

But he brushed his hands along the sides of her neck and downwards, tracing the shoulder, brushing her dress aside to the limits of its closures, ignoring the texture of fabric while his mind told him what lay underneath.

Her lips parted.

‘Kissed?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘Never?’

Her head wobbled a ‘no’. Eyes begged him.

‘Later.’

His right hand rested against her throat. Her pulse hammered. She swallowed.

‘Promise?’ she asked.

He traced the fullness of her lips and without words made a promise to both of them.

Chapter Eight

‘Bran...ee...’ he mumbled, turning away. Brandy. He needed the brandy he’d sent to his father’s estate.

He should put some space between Rebecca and himself. A road. A town, even.

‘Ale.’ He changed his request. Anything to create movement—distance between them.

She whirled around, poured a swallow of ale and diluted it with enough water to make it tasteless. She handed it to him, moving so fast their fingers couldn’t touch.

Then she dashed away to pick up her stitching.

He looked at the glass. He wanted to down it, but he couldn’t. He drank, ignoring the pain. Finally, he thumped the empty glass on to the table, much like he did during the contest with Lady Havisham.

Then, he moved the chair beside Rebecca and sat.

After she did three more stitches, he leaned forward, tugging on the little dress.

Her eyes moved to his face.

‘Do you need something?’

He gave a bump of his shoulders.

She started stitching again. Her words jumped one after the other. ‘I do need to get this finished. The babe could arrive any day, or I could be called to care for the other children. And once she needs me I’ll be busy for a time.’

He tugged at the little skirt, but she didn’t stop stitching as she pulled it away. Surely she understood he could not kiss her.

‘...and all the little boys she has are just like you. Except they are children and they have an excuse.’

He grasped the dress, held firm and pulled it slowly away from her. She had no choice but to tumble towards him or stop stitching.

She picked up her scissors and rapped his hand. Instantly, he released the fabric and touched the tapped spot. He glared at her. He felt worse about not being able to kiss her than she did. And he was certain that scissor tap was punishment. Punishment he didn’t deserve. He deserved a sword-tap on each shoulder, not a clunk from a pair of dull scissors.

‘Oh, my pardon,’ she said, smug. ‘Perhaps I did that harder than I meant. Forgive me.’

Then she looked at him, eyes wide. ‘Oh, you must forgive me, mustn’t you? You have no choice.’ She chuckled softly and began sewing, pulling the last of the thread through the garment. ‘I know how that feels.’

He didn’t. Forgiveness was only for people unable to plot a good revenge.

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