How to Marry a Rake (13 page)

She rolled her eyes. ‘Have you no faith in me, Stephen? I’m disappointed.’

‘What you’ll be is tainted. Untouchable.’

She looked disgusted. ‘What I will be is married to some ore magnate or a stuffy nobleman who only wants an ornament for his arm. Dreams are fine, but they require work to turn them into reality.’ She huffed at him. ‘You are taking risks. Do you expect less of me?’

Stephen groaned. ‘I will not allow you to do something so foolish!’

‘Foolish?’ That wasn’t the part that he’d thought she would seize on. ‘Again, I am foolish?’ Scorn was writ large across her face. ‘We’ve covered this ground already, Stephen. I begin to grow bored.’

Bored? It was a childish taunt, but remarkably effective. He wanted to stomp his feet. Or grab her up and show her a better use for that mocking mouth.

She had turned away from him, her dainty nose in the air.

Look at me.
He wanted to scream it. He said nothing instead.

With one last disdainful glance over her shoulder, she moved to leave.

He let her go. She picked up her pace. He held himself frozen until she reached the line of alders, then he set out after her. Chasing her again.

Damn her.

He caught her before she’d made it more than a few steps into the wood. Grabbing her by the wrist, he scooped her up. Ignoring her protests, he dragged her deeper into the shelter of the trees and pressed her up against a sturdy elm.

She let out a gasp. ‘Stephen! Let me go!’ It was an order, but her wriggling attempts to free herself acted as a spur to his fury and lust.

‘No, damn you. The first time, you manipulated me into kissing you. Last night you tempted me beyond reason.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘You did. But this time we are going to kiss …’ He leaned into her, pressing himself slowly against her, starting at his thighs and continuing on until they were chest to chest. ‘This time we kiss at my behest.’

‘Your behest? Ha!’ She was practically spitting in anger. ‘If you—’

He stopped her with the press of his mouth on hers.

A hard shiver ran through her. And just like that, all of her rage died away. Fluid, she dissolved against him.

In response he gentled his kiss. Easing his hands from her shoulders, he ran them lightly along the length of her arms. Eager, trying not to hurry, he burrowed under her spencer to span her waist.

Through straining against his chest, her hands spread flat. Quick and nimble as the rest of her, her
fingers climbed up across his collarbone and along the length of his neck. Only a moment’s hesitation, and they took the plunge into his hair.

A shiver skipped down his spine. The feel of her fingertips on his scalp triggered a hidden spring. Just like that, the knot inside of him unravelled. There could be no room for conflict when he was filled with the achingly sweet taste of her. Fear and doubt retreated, helpless against the press of her soft bosom.

Unbidden, she opened beneath him. He deepened the kiss, only to be struck by an agonising thought. Other men. He’d been the first to kiss her, but some other man had taught her this—how to drive him mad with the heat of her mouth and the sweep of her tongue.

He redoubled his efforts. He would kiss her senseless and erase any memory of another man’s touch.

She moaned her approval. He took the sound as permission to cover the more-than-satisfying mounds of her breasts with his hands. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. He paused, unsure, but she thrust herself into his hands.

He broke the kiss, but only long enough to look down and address all the buttons of her spencer. Pushing it wide, he cupped her again, thrilled to discover the sharp little peaks of her nipples through the muslin of her gown. Deftly, his fingers explored.

Her gaze fastened helplessly on his. ‘I don’t think …’

This was an affront. His brain function had ceased minutes ago. Unfair that she retained sense enough for thought. ‘Don’t think.’

Did she never stop? Her mind was a formidable
opponent, but no match for his skills. He kissed her again. Down and down, through levels and layers of logic-stripping, emotion-entangling embraces.

Her décolletage loomed gratifyingly low. With one swift tug he hooked a finger in and drew it down, taking the soft linen of her chemise along with it. Dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead and across the beauty of her breasts, limned the dusky pink of her nipples.

He growled. Like an animal, low in his throat.

With no further warning he bent his head and licked. Her gasp echoed in the secluded glade. Hot ribbons of pleasure unfolded, tugging his erection higher as he circled her nipple with soft, biting kisses before drawing it in his mouth.

Lust swamped him. Good God—who knew that they would be so good together? He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to part her thighs right here against this tree and bury himself in her heat.

But beyond the soft rustlings of the wood, happy voices echoed closer. A giggle sounded dangerously close. This had to stop.

Her nipple slid from his mouth with a slick pop. He leaned his forehead against hers and tried to gather his control.

His breath came fast and heavy. ‘I’m discovering new things about you every day, Mae Halford.’ He pulled back and gazed helplessly at her half-naked, eminently beautiful form. ‘But it’s the things that I’m discovering about myself that are most disturbing.’

She opened her mouth to reply, but someone called
out from just beyond their haven. Starting in alarm, she silently began to set her clothing aright.

The group of revellers passed. Stephen, his blood still boiling, fought for control.

Finally Mae was put back together. Finger to his lips, he pulled her onto the path and they headed back towards the lawns.

‘The racing starts in the morning. I’ll find you at the course.’ They had reached the mouth of the pathway. Stephen bent low over her hand and fixed her with a hard stare. ‘You will stay far away from Miss Hague.’

A tingle pricked at the back of his neck. He looked up to find Barty Halford watching them with a frown.

‘Don’t fight me on this, Mae.’

Her father still watched, but it was a rash of other, more accusatory gazes that weighed down Stephen’s soul. Many faces that could see all the way from Sussex only in his imagination, but stabbed him with sad and critical stares none the less.

He turned on his heel and strode away.

Chapter Eleven

‘T
hese tears? I do not understand them.’ Josette sounded as baffled as she looked. ‘You didn’t
want
that English lord. No?’

‘No.’ Mae, perched on the edge of her bed, dabbed at her eyes. ‘They aren’t tears. I’m not crying. I’m just … leaking a little.’

It was no wonder Josette was confused. This morning, Mae had felt lost. Now, after yet another physical encounter with Stephen—there were no words for her bewildered state.

Why did she allow him to affect her this way? Every time she found herself adrift in a mass of confusion and doubt, she could lay the blame squarely at Stephen Manning’s feet.

Or could she?

At least in the past they had both been consistent—she in her pursuit and he in his retreat. But now, cracks were forming in his reflective surface. He was allowing her a peek inside, if just a little. And physically—

No. She couldn’t lie to herself. The pattern was clear. This was just a new approach to pushing her away. He’d let her in, the tiniest bit, and then he’d pick a fight, use his kisses as a punishment for getting too close.

She flushed, and it came back to her then—the sight of Stephen nuzzling her breast, his lips and tongue stirring to life a frenzy of want and need.

‘It is a good thing that you did not let this Lord Banks kiss you,’ Josette said suddenly, her eyes fixed on the hem she was repairing.

Mae fought to concentrate on her maid. ‘Why?’

‘The kissing,’ she said with a dire shake of her head, ‘it makes them stupid. They become domineering, think they can order you about. And then it is much work convincing them otherwise.’

Mae considered this. Stephen had changed, become more critical, less accepting of her ideas. After telling her to listen to her own voice, he’d started issuing orders.

She shook her head. It was just another example of him sending one message, then instantly following up with its opposite. What could she conclude except that he was as confused as she was?

Mae started to roll her neck, but suddenly stopped. As angry and perplexed as Stephen made her, at least he hadn’t bound her shoulders into knots.

She glanced across the room, at the mirror, and she knew that she must take his advice—his first advice. She was going to follow her own instinct, both to find that damned horse and to find herself a husband. And right now, her inner voice was telling her to talk to Ryeton’s mistress.

Mae swivelled about in her chair. ‘Josette?’

‘Yes, mademoiselle?’

‘Fetch my riding habit, please.’

If Chester Cray was in Newmarket, he was playing least in sight. This was not sound business practice for a leg. Perversely, this gave Stephen hope that Cray might have a reason to hide—the theft of England’s favourite racehorse, perhaps?

Guilt had spurred him away from the party and on to an afternoon spent trawling among the pubs, inns and taverns of Newmarket. Unfortunately, he had turned up no sign of the well-known leg, and damned little word of him, either. The search had served admirably, however, as a means of avoiding any thought of what had happened between him and Mae earlier.

Until now, damn it.

She’d given him another chance to repay his debt to the people of Fincote. He owed her thanks, but he owed them his full effort and concentration. Mae was stealing it away. Somehow Stephen was going to have to find his balance in this topsy-turvy world, this planet on which suddenly he had more interest in Mae Halford than she had in him. Lord, it was like learning to walk again to even contemplate such a thing.

Fortunately, the rest of the town appeared to be immune to this shocking upheaval. Talk of Pratchett’s disappearance, old hat to the diehard racing men who had been in Newmarket these last few days, was being kept alive by the influx of new arrivals. Men gossiped endlessly over who might take the Guineas, with Pratchett out of the way. They speculated nearly as much on
the Earl of Ryeton’s behaviour. Some whispered that he’d locked himself away in his office. Others insisted that he was chasing over the countryside, searching out every lead to his missing thoroughbred. Either way, the lack of his presence was as noticeable as Cray’s. Both gave Stephen much to worry about. Time was growing short. The tangled muddle of conflicting emotions that was his response to Mae Halford was going to have to wait.

Or perhaps not. By late afternoon, feeling dusty and defeated, Stephen returned to Titchley for a change of clothes. The garden party had wound to a close; only the servants were about outside, clearing up. Inside, the house echoed with silence. Lady Toswick’s guests must be recovering in their rooms or gone on to further entertainment in town. Stephen retreated to his room—only to find a request to call upon Barty Halford. At his earliest possible convenience.

Politely worded and printed on thick vellum, the thing still felt like a summons to the gallows.

That odd look Mae’s father had directed at him earlier haunted him. Had someone seen him with Mae? Had her father somehow quizzed out the truth of what they’d been up to?

He groaned. He was in trouble no matter what Barty Halford knew. He changed quickly, not willing to wait to find out how much.

He found the man in the library at the back of the house. Mr Halford smiled as he rose to greet him. There was no sign of Mae.

‘Lord Stephen—’ Halford extended his hand ‘—thank you for coming. Won’t you have a seat?’

There was a single chair across from the substantial desk. Two more sat comfortingly close to a cheery fire. Halford stood next to one plush chair by the fire and indicated the other.

Mystified, but feeling somewhat hopeful, Stephen took it.

‘It’s good to have you and your family back in England, sir.’

‘My thanks to you, young man. I admit it is good to be back.’ Though the room wasn’t cold, he rubbed his hands together before the fire. ‘I’m particularly looking forward to the start of the racing tomorrow.’

‘As are we all.’ Stephen grinned. ‘I admit I put down a wager on your filly for tomorrow’s run. She’s a beauty.’ He leaned forwards. ‘I appreciate your willingness to race her at Fincote Park, sir. More than I can say.’

‘I’m happy to do it.’ The older man’s genial expression changed. Stephen met his shrewd gaze and caught a glimpse of the man who had single-handedly amassed one of England’s largest fortunes. ‘By all accounts, you’ve done a stupendous job with your enterprise. I hear you’ve a solid, challenging course and adequate stables. Support of the community, too, which will make all the difference.’

Stephen blinked. ‘You’ve checked up on Fincote Park?’ He didn’t know whether to be insulted or impressed.

‘Of course. Information is power, young man.
Surely you’ve learned a bit of that by now. A man in my position can’t be too careful.’

Which position?
Stephen’s mind spun a little wildly. A man with a significant horse to race? Or a man with a marriageable daughter?

Halford sat back. ‘I have to say, I’m impressed with you, Lord Stephen.’ He raked a hard, measuring look over him. ‘I didn’t used to be. You were a young hellion when last I saw you.’ He held up a hand when Stephen might have responded. ‘Though I know that even then, you handled my Mae with tact and finesse.’ He chuckled. ‘Not an easy thing to do. I appreciated it.’

Stephen shifted. ‘Mae was merely young, sir.’

‘Young, yes. But being Mae—’ He shook his head. ‘She was formidable even then.’ He turned toward the fire, perhaps to hide the trace of a fond smile on his face. Kitchen noises drifted in from the hall. The door, not fully shut, had drifted open. Halford didn’t appear to notice. ‘Ah, but just have a look at her now. She’s a young lady to be reckoned with, to be sure.’

A footman passed in the hall outside. Stephen didn’t respond. Agree or disagree, he was sure to dig himself deeper into trouble.

‘You’ve spent some time together, these last couple of days.’ Halford’s gaze was measuring now, laced with perhaps a hint of a warning.

Stephen nodded.

‘You might have shunned her for the way she acted a couple of years back. Or shamed her. But my wife told me how you looked out for her when Lord Landry sniffed a little too close.’

Heat swept over him. ‘It was what any gentleman
would have done, sir.’ His face must be flaming. ‘Mae mentioned that she is … ah, gathering information. About potential husbands. I agreed to help her out, share my opinions.’

Halford’s mouth fell open. ‘She asked for your help?’ He snorted, suddenly clearly delighted. ‘Ah, my Mae. She will stir things up wherever she goes—but she’s been making a real effort since we returned.’

Halford suddenly slapped the arm of his chair. ‘Well. I admit, I was fearful that she’d fall back into her old habits, make a nuisance of herself, but if that’s the way of it, then … I like all that I’ve heard of you, young man. I think your father would be proud.’ Halford bit out the words in his blunt way, but somehow that made the compliment all the more meaningful. ‘I’ll be happy to race my filly at your track—especially up against Toswick’s Butterfly.’

‘You won’t regret it, sir. I promise a demanding race, run clean.’ He sat straighter, hoping to open the subject of Ornithopter, but Halford wasn’t finished.

‘I’d also like to sponsor you for membership into the Jockey Club Coffee Rooms.’ He tilted his head. ‘It’s not a full membership, but it’s a start.’

Pleasure wrestled guilt into submission. This was compliment and opportunity both. ‘Thank you,’ Stephen said with real gratitude. He stood and extended his hand. ‘Your sponsorship would be an honour and a privilege.’

Halford clasped his hand, then crossed before the open door to a small table on the same wall. ‘There will be a vote, but it will be a formality, really. Can’t think that anyone would object to you—not now that
Ryeton’s busy, eh?’ The older man laughed as he raised the lid on an elegant humidor. ‘Shall we smoke to celebrate?’ He raised a thick cigar.

Stephen nodded. ‘Thank you. But I did wonder if you might also consider racing Ornithopter at Fincote Park?’

Halford clipped his cigar. He didn’t look up. ‘Ornithopter, eh?’

He didn’t expect an answer. This was fortunate, as Stephen suddenly found himself unable to provide one. Someone else was passing in the hallway. A curvy someone in a navy riding habit who just happened to be creeping along with her boots in her hand. She froze when she glimpsed him through the doorway.

Stephen glared.

His back to the door, her father approached. ‘And who would you have in mind as a match for Ornithopter, lad?’

Stephen took the offered cigar. Halford bent slightly to light it and Stephen shot his daughter an evil look over his shoulder.

Mae gave a silent laugh. Deviltry lit up her whole face. With a wave of her hand, she disappeared down the hall, towards the back of the house.

‘I’m working on that, sir,’ Stephen said, his tone grim.

Mae’s heart pounded as she flew through the kitchen, startling the help and flipping the cook an apologetic wave. Her mother was napping and she hadn’t expected her father to be in the house at all, let alone to have Stephen Manning with him.

The kitchen step radiated cold even through the thick layers of her habit as she sat down to pull on her boots. She couldn’t suppress an amused snort. Oh—the look on Stephen’s face! He’d known exactly what she was up to—she could tell by the order implicit in his gaze. Even without words, she’d made sure that he could tell that she felt no compunction to follow his orders, implicit or otherwise.

Her fingers flew as she buttoned up the last boot, and then she was up and nearly running to the stables. It had looked as though her father had Stephen well and truly trapped, but she would take no chances. Stephen would never give her away—but he would come after her. She wanted to be well away before he escaped her father’s clutches.

The groom had her mount saddled and waiting. She thanked him with a big smile and a larger coin, but he was wise to her ways. ‘Just give me a moment to saddle up, miss. Ye know yer father does not want ye riding out alone.’

‘Not to worry, Henry,’ she assured him. ‘Lady Corbet is already waiting for me at the end of the drive. She’s in dire need of new ribbons for her bonnet, before the start of the racing tomorrow.’ She grinned and cocked her head at the groom. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be in dire need of any ribbon, would you?’

‘Cor! No, miss, not me.’ He eyed her doubtfully. ‘If yer sure the lady is waiting?’

‘I’m sure!’ she called, wheeling her mount about. ‘In fact, I’m running late.’ Hiding a grin, she was off, hooves clattering over the cobbles, hopefully before Stephen had puffed his cigar to a full burn.

Newmarket was not far, and Mae kept to a slow pace as she made her way along High Street. Her heart beat a good deal faster, though, as she hoped she would encounter the person she sought before Stephen caught up to her. She had been ambling along for nearly ten minutes when her target breezed past.

Miss Charlotte Hague. It could be no other. She drove the pretty little cabriolet, painted a bright red, that the girls at the tea had described. She looked beautiful in her scarlet driving suit, her matching ribbons trailing merrily from her bonnet. She was heading east, out of town, just as she’d been reputed to do every day since she’d turned Ryeton out.