Redeeming a Rake (12 page)

One week later on a cool April evening, the
Duke of Lyndhurst rode up to Stamford’s largest coaching inn on the
Great North Road with a sullen look on his face and an empty
stomach. Announcing his identity, he was shown straight to the best
private parlour where he found his secretary asleep in front of the
fire. Geoffrey grabbed the other chair, he dragged it over the
wooden floor to the fire. The sleeping man jerked awake and looked
around to find his master scowling at him. “Well? Have you found
Lady Penelope Standish?”

“I’m sorry Your Grace, we’re still
searching. The family recently changed their residence and left no
forwarding address.”

“I’m not asking you to write a Dome’s Day
book. I need to speak with her. Find her!”

Hawkings was an intelligent man. His fear of
being eaten alive by his employer was always outweighed by the
pleasure of handsome quarterly wages. When one couldn’t give a
snarling devil what he wanted, one offered the next best thing.
Hawkings couldn’t open his leather pouch fast enough. “You have a
letter from your friend Your Grace.”

The words had an immediate calming affect.
The devil’s angry pale blue eyes suddenly calmed and his snarling
lips relaxed before turning up at the corners. “Thank you
Hawkings.” Her letter pressed to his stomach, Geoffrey could almost
feel a small ray of warmth shining into his cold innards. “Check on
my dinner. I want to eat some time this year…please.”

“As you wish…”

Alone, Geoffrey broke the seal, silently
praying he’d read something to cheer him up.

Dearest Geoffrey,

I’m glad to hear that you’ve shaken off your
latest cold. That makes three colds in six weeks. Please come back
to London and give yourself a rest. I’m very concerned for your
health. Are you sure you’re eating enough? Is it necessary to
search the breadth of England on horseback? I know it’s quicker,
but if it kills you I won’t get to see you again and yes I know how
selfish that sounds.

I’m so pleased to hear that the ache is
fading, but please don’t die from exhaustion before I can tell you
in person. Speaking of exhaustion, last night I came home from the
Preston’s dinner party feeling like I’d been wearing magic slippers
that kept me swirling all night. I was so tired I’d have crawled
into bed wearing my gown only Jane, my maid, insisted on keeping me
awake long enough to undress, the heartless creature. I’d still be
asleep, but for my naughty son. Those toy soldiers you sent him are
never far from his hands. I must say I was almost irritated with
you this morning when Alex escaped his nurse and used his sleeping
mamma as a battle ground. Little tin feet marched over my arm and
down my hip in measured time pulling me out of the most enjoyable
dream. He was quite upset when I rolled over and killed a whole
battalion. An uncomfortable state for the mountain as well as the
tin warriors. He’ll never know how close I came to spanking him. I
can’t stay mad at my baby, but at the same time he doesn’t seem
like a baby any more. He’s a little boy and I don’t know anything
about boys, or men for that matter. Alex is nearly three years now
and showing strange signs of maleness. I’m starting to wonder if
he’d be better off having a father. I once swore I’d never marry
again, but I’m starting to change my mind. I don’t want Alex
growing up to be a Mama’s boy, always clinging to my garter ribbon.
I’m sure you know the type of man who never get on with any woman
except their mother; they always look rather odd. I want to find a
man who’ll be a good father to Alex and who’d love numerous
children and cats. I’ve had a number of offers and I wanted to ask
your opinion. I know you’ll be able to tell me if they’re good men
or scoundrels in disguise. These aren’t the only men I’d consider;
these are merely the men who’ve actually asked me to marry
them.

Lord Billings

He seems like a good man. He’s a bit older,
but he has good teeth and he seems genuinely taken with me. Even if
I’m not in love with him I can at least say I enjoy his company. He
seemed quiet at first but he has a pleasing sense of humour.

Captain Wentwhistle

He’s rather short, but at least I’d never
get a crick in my neck. One could spend the rest of one’s life
looking straight into one’s husband’s eyes. He’s only a few years
older than me. I think he’d have gone into the church if he wasn’t
the second son. He has that enforced military air poor man, but he
seems fond of me, and he doesn’t make my skin crawl. He says he
likes children, but then it’s well known I’m an overly fond
parent.

Mr Thackeray

I think he’s my favourite from the present
list. His teeth are bad, but he has kind eyes and he always treats
me with the utmost respect. I can’t imagine him teaching my son
rude habits or being a cruel thoughtless husband, but one can’t
always tell. I’m so scared of accidentally marrying another
Charles. Ideally I’d prefer to marry a friend who would hopefully
prove a loving husband and father, but one can’t always have what
one wants. I believe you know the other three; Lord Felton, the
Earl of Leicester, and Lord Shrewsbury. I’d be most grateful if you
could let me know if you think any of these six men would make a
good husband. I’m in no hurry. I have no wish to chain myself to
the wrong man.

Just incase you return to London and try to
call on me, there’s a slight change in my diary. The Somerset
musical was cancelled last week so I’ll be going to the Farnham’s
ball instead. Do tell me if you like any of the men on my list. As
I’m sitting here draped in your glorious silk shawl I must thank
you again. I’ve been wearing it every day since it arrived three
weeks ago. I had another envious lady ask yesterday where I got my
sun shawl. When I told her it was a gift from a friend she asked me
if I was friends with many lucky devils. I think of you every time
I wrap it around my shoulders. I wonder where you are. I wonder if
you’re taking good care of yourself and if you’re riding through
the wind and rain. I wonder when I’ll see you. May it be soon!

Sincerely your sunny friend,

Tolerance

Geoffrey managed to finish the last
paragraph before a noxious mist obscured the elegant scrawl and a
sharp stabbing pain in his chest caused the unmanly sensation of
water droplets escaping from his eyes. His friend was contemplating
marriage and his name wasn’t on the list. Even more unspeakable,
she wanted him to approve one of the worthless worms. The letter
was crushed into a ball and shoved into a pocket. He was too
exhausted to pull himself back into a saddle. He’d have to waste
eight precious hours on sleep while the angel danced the night away
with men more worthy than himself. “Hawkings!” Geoffrey’s rage
rumbled off all four walls. A few moments later his secretary burst
through the door.

“Yes Your Grace?”

“Get me food. I need my bed. Wake me first
light, I’m going back to London.” Hawkings took in the heartsick
expression shadowed by rage and closed the door, his running
footsteps thundering into the distance. His stomach bloated with a
cold meat pie and warm ale, Geoffrey collapsed onto his bed fully
clothed and fell asleep with his cheek pressed into a cold wet
patch on his pillow. Finding himself outside the wooden gate he
marched through the yew tunnel and stopped. The garden looked like
a smeared pastel painting. He blinked away the mist in his eyes he
roared over the bird song. “Sunshine!”

She came running from the far end of the
garden with a worried expression, her skirts hike up to her knees.
“What’s the matter? You look upset.”

Geoffrey blinked away another layer of mist
and crossed his arms. “Of course I’m upset; I thought you cared for
me.”

She looked at him as if he’d accused her of
growing wings. “I do care…”

“If you care Madam, how could you send me
that cursed list? If you couldn’t bear the thought of including me,
even if only to soothe my self-esteem, you could have spared me the
pain of knowing I’m not even at the bottom.”

“Why are you shouting at me? What list? What
are you talking about?”

“You wrote me a letter listing possible
husbands. How could you ask me to critique a list of worms when you
know how I feel about you?”

Her eyes went wide as she stepped closer.
“How do you feel about me?”

She was staring up at him with an expectant
look that made him suddenly feel nervous. What if he revealed his
feelings and she replied that she only wanted to be friends? “I
want to kneel at your feet…and thank you…for everything.”

“But how do you feel?”

A heavy silence fell over the garden as if
the birds and trees were waiting to hear Geoffrey’s answer.

“When you’re near the sun always shines. You
make me feel that I could do the impossible if you believed in me.”
Her adoring smile allowed him to sigh in relief. “Knowing you care
for me makes me feel I deserve to be alive, if only to love
you.”

She reached up and touched his cheek. “I
said in the letter that the list wasn’t complete. Who do you think
I meant that for? I only sent the list to see if it caused a
reaction; I miss you!”

“Reaction? I nearly had heart failure. I’m
riding back to London in the morning; don’t be surprised if I show
up on your doorstep and chase you to the nearest church waving a
special licence.”

“As long as you don’t chase me on foot. I
understand running is considered undignified for a Duke.”

“How else am I to chase an angel? I can’t
fly and what if you run into a house; I can ride a horse into a
drawing room.” Almost reassured by the smiling woman the ache eased
allowing him to tug a lock of her hair. “Besides, it affords the
Duke a tantalising glimpse of charming ankles. You wouldn’t deprive
your groom such a simple pleasure?”

“That depends, on how long it takes you to
catch me.” Geoffrey’s heart thundered in his chest as he raced
after the laughing woman with her skirts hiked half way to her
knees.

The Farnham’s ball was a mad crush.
Tolerance could barely hear herself think as she smiled at the man
talking to her about something to do with politics. From the few
words she understood, it appeared he was hoping to gain a seat and
become an MP, but he needed a wife. The direction of his eyes
towards her décolletage suggested he was hinting he thought her a
suitable candidate. She had a feeling his interest had more to do
with the income from her son’s estate which she had sole control of
for the next eighteen years. Being a politicians’ wife meant
smiling and fawning over an endless list of self-important bores in
the hope they’d support her husband. If she wanted to be tortured
there were many well known techniques that would kill her long
before boredom. Being polite she kept smiling at the man and tried
to keep her thoughts from drifting to the dream Garden. The only
reason she’d come to the ball was because she’d mentioned in a
letter to her friend that she’d be attending. The ballroom faded as
she remembered waking up laughing. The dream Geoffrey’s had been
helping her out of the fishpond after an improvised dance had
somehow gone wrong. She could still hear him swearing on his honour
he hadn’t planned it. She laughed out-loud as she remembered his
warm arms pulling her close and continuing the dance. The future
politician, flushing with pleasure that Mrs Spencer found him
amusing, didn’t notice the tall slender man with short black hair
winding his way past ogling groups of ladies.

“Hello Sunshine!” The husky whisper in
Tolerance’s ear made her flinch in shock. “Remember me?”

Forgetting the politician, she whirled
around and stared open mouthed at her dream Geoffrey in the flesh.
“Geoff…?” The pale blue eyes smiled in smug triumph before looking
her over with the same admiration she’d seen in her dreams. “Tell
me you’re not a lovely dream!”

He took her offered pale blue glove and held
it tight as he brought it to his lips. “To be thought a lovely
dream by such a lovely lady is a dream come true.” He kissed her
hand again, his lips lingering longer than society dictated as
proper causing a wave of whispers from curious bystanders.

She forced her eyes to leave his face. His
white waistcoat and his cravat looked oddly bland. It wasn’t until
she looked at the naked fingers holding her hand that she realised
there was something missing. “You’re not wearing any rubies.”

“They held unpleasant memories.”

“Have you sold them?”

“No.”

“If you don’t want your ring, will you sell
it to me?”

“Why would you want it?”

“Because…” She couldn’t tell him it was
because he was her knight in pale blue velvet. He wouldn’t remember
the irritating child who’d interrupted his solitude. “…because it
holds good memories. I’ll pay you twice its value.” His come hither
smile was making it hard to breathe; was she awake or asleep?

“It’s not for sale.”

“But if you don’t want it, what will you do
with it?”

“Give it away. After eighteen years of hell
I think it’s earned a more deserving finger.” Staring into his eyes
she could see the inn and feel the chill in the evening air. She
was twelve. Her parents had stopped half way home after visiting
relatives. Her empty stomach ached for food, but her mother had
threatened another hungry night if Tolerance didn’t find her ribbon
and plait her hair.

There was only the large private parlour
left to search. Feeling hopeful she found a large fire in the
grate, but the room appeared empty. Closing the door she started
methodically checking the dark flagstones for her ribbon. Cold, she
approached the fire and sighed in despair as she held out her
hands. It was going to be another hungry night. The mouth watering
smell of roasting pig in the kitchens made her stomach rumble.
Sniffing away her tears she reminded herself that there were a few
more dark corners in the room left to explore. Swivelling to her
left she saw the solitary chair turned away from the direct heat of
the fire was occupied. The man was a dark shadow with a hand of
flesh sporting a large ruby ring. Ghost stories flashed through her
mind, but overcoming her fear she reached and caressed the pale
blue sleeve and sighed in relief to find it was real silk velvet.
“I’m glad you’re not a ghost…”