Redeeming a Rake (23 page)

Several hours later she’d finished her
breakfast and was looking at the fashion plates that had arrived
that morning when there was a soft knock on the door. “Beg pardon
Madam, but there’s a gentleman from London. He’s presented a card
for the Duke of Lyndhurst. I’ve left him on the front steps like
you ordered.” Tolerance gulped down her excitement and forcibly
reminded herself that she’d asked him not to come in person. The
man had nerve, but then rake-hells by definition were impudent.
“Show him to the blue room and inform Peter and Paul that I wish
them to stand inside the room until the gentleman takes his leave.”
Tolerance sat and tried to collect her shattered nerves. Just
knowing the man was so close made her giddy with pleasure. She
wished she’d put on something a little brighter. She’d taken to
wearing black again; it felt comfortable. The heavy satin swished
around her legs making her feel protected, almost invisible. She
sailed into the large room with her head high her eyes bright with
excitement, but stopped abruptly. The man was a stranger with a
large flat leather folder under his arm and a leather satchel at
his feet. The man bowed respectfully and pulled a small odd shaped
wrapped package from the folder.

“Mrs Spencer?” She nodded that she was. “The
Duke of Lyndhurst has charged me to deliver this safely into your
hands…” The words sent a hot pink glaze over her pale cheeks. He
hadn’t forgotten her after all. She took the package clutched it to
her stomach. “…and he wishes me to beg you to allow me to sketch
your portrait for him. I’m to await your instructions.”

In the privacy of her library, the door
closed, she fell onto the nearest chair and proceeded to gently
open the package. The pale blue paper peeled away to reveal the
back of a framed picture with the words, ‘Thinking of my Angel’
scrawled in a familiar hand and a letter underneath secured with
several large blobs of sealing wax. She turned the picture over and
held her breath; it was a pastel miniature of Geoffrey with his
come hither smile dressed in a coat of pale blue velvet. It was the
rake-hell, but there was a hint of the vulnerable boy about his
eyes. After several long minutes of staring at the image she freed
the letter and smoothed out the single sheet.

Dearest Angel,

I beg you to keep my portrait and remember
the better me whenever it catches your eye. Tolerance felt her
heart freeze. Was this his way of saying goodbye? Had one of the
wealthy widows caught more than his eye? She refocused misty eyes
on the shaking page. As I sat for the painting I contemplated the
miracle of waking up and finding my angel lying asleep next to me
as my wife. Tolerance sighed with relief and read on. I came to the
conclusion that I would probably faint from rapture before I could
even reach out a hand to see if you were real.

I don’t know why I allow myself to dream of
being your husband; I have a better chance of being crowned King of
France. Every evening as the sun hides behind the edge of the city
my thoughts drift towards the temptation of ordering my carriage
and setting out in search of your door. If I thought for one whole
minute you’d actually see me I’d be on the road before I finished
dressing. I’d probably forget my shoes. Would my angel accept me in
my stocking feet?

I’ve attended several balls and soirees, but
London is deadly dull. I now know what a well dowered debutante
must feel like when hounded by fortune hunters. I have become a
desirable catch since my miraculous transformation. People who once
openly snubbed me now grovel and ingratiate themselves as if I’d
forgotten the past twenty years. It makes my blood boil. I’m trying
very hard not to say vile things, but I’m afraid at times my temper
gets the better of me. When the widowed Lady Spelsbury fell into my
arms with all the studied art of a stone garden nymph I wasn’t
thinking anything repeatable for angelic eyes. When I was seventeen
I thought her the loveliest creature I’d ever seen, curse my
youthful heart. The last time I courted her attention by bowing and
wishing her good morning she laughed at my ill fitting clothes and
loudly hissed to her companions that in her mother’s opinion my
pale blue eyes were the mark of the devil.

The other evening I was tempted to let her
fall on her backside, but I caught her in my arms and said, ‘Why
Lady Spelsbury, imagine meeting again after all these years. It’s
quite remarkable; you don’t look any older than forty-five. I
understand you’re searching for a son-in-law for that pretty young
thing over there.’ She nearly fainted as it sank in that my memory
wasn’t as deteriorated as she hoped.

I’m trying to be what my Angel would call
good, but I fear I’m failing miserably. Only yesterday I was out
shopping to find a ruby for my future Duchess and was attacked by
an old woman who turned out to be some ancient Grayson relation.
She blocked my way for five minutes and loudly censured my taste.
Apparently being related to a man who likes wearing the colour of
the sky is a trial. I responded by informing her that I was
proposing a new law to the House of Lords that would legalise
executing old ladies who wore fashions more than twenty years out
of date. I don’t know which hurt more, being stabbed in the ribs
with her umbrella or knowing how disappointed you’d be with me for
my unkind words.

I didn’t find a suitable ruby either. I was
very irritated, but I will find a stone and then I shall commission
the ring. I know exactly what I want it to look like. Four
miniature winged cherubs will hold the stone in their arms as they
float over a silver filigreed loop. I hope my future Duchess will
approve; if only she could approve of me I wouldn’t feel so
melancholy. Some days, when my head hurts, I lie in bed and stare
at the walls and think vile thoughts about the people who attacked
me. Because of them I’m sitting here all alone wondering where you
are and if you miss me as much as I miss you. When I think how I
spent nearly two years without touching you or speaking with you it
makes me break into a cold sweat. I dread the thought of being
deprived of your sunlight for even another month. Please reconsider
granting me the privilege of visiting in person. I promise I’ll
endeavour to be a gentleman and refrain from doing or saying
anything remotely vile. I long for your company, but if you won’t
allow me the privilege of visiting you I pray you’ll have pity on
me and agree to let my messenger, Mr Williams, sketch you. I’ve
asked him to capture as many different expressions as possible. If
you’ll tell him how long you’re willing to sit he shall work within
those constraints. For pity sake forget that awful command to
address me as Your Grace. Reading it fills my heart with rain
clouds. I would deem it the greatest honour if you’d use my
Christian name; just remembering the sound of it on your lips makes
my heart waltz in my chest.

With the said blackened heart in my mouth I
remain your humbled obedient servant,

Geoffrey

Her eyes were drawn back towards the picture
of her friend. Could it be true? Could he really be trying to
change?

Geoffrey lay in bed staring at the dark blue
silk canopy above; the emptiness of his arms was almost as
uncomfortable as the throbbing in his head. He closed his eyes and
tried to pretend he was back at the Ancient House waiting for his
angel to return to smooth his sheets and check on her patient. A
soft knock on the door interrupted his daydream just as his
imaginary angel was bending over him to caress his forehead, “What
is it?” He clutched his head as his loud words echoed painfully
through his skull. The door quietly opened and the footman tip toed
to the bedside. “You wished to be informed of Mr Williams’s arrival
Your Grace. We’ve put him in your study.”

Geoffrey flushed with pleasure and rolled
out of bed. “My robe. Quick! Blast my aching head!” The footman
disappeared as Geoffrey struggled into his robe. His heart lurched
in his chest as negative thoughts swirled into his brain like
poison. What if Williams only had a message saying she was
returning his miniature? What if she refused to be sketched? What
if she’d sent him a message to go to the devil? What if…? Geoffrey
sat back down on the edge of his bed and took several long deep
breaths. He was going to end up in Bedlam chattering to invisible
angels if he wasn’t careful. He found Williams respectfully
standing in front of his desk ogling his ruby glass paperweight,
but Geoffrey’s eyes were drawn to the open portfolio on the
desk.

“Pray forgive my dust Your Grace; I
understood you wanted to see the sketches as soon as possible. If
I’d known you were ill…” The artist nervously bit his lip as his
sickly patron carefully picked up the pile of drawings and took
them to the window without a word.

Williams nearly jumped out of his skin when
the tall slender man spoke with a soft wet growl. “Tell me
everything! Did she accept my gift? Did she look happy?”

Williams ogled the wide gaunt shoulders and
gulped down his fear. The Devil was hardly going to shoot him for
accomplishing his task. “Well…I was shown to a large comfortable
drawing room. I particularly liked the way the colours of the sofa
were reflected…”

“Tell me of Mrs Spencer, not the cursed
sofa!”

“Yes of course Your Grace, well…when she
stepped into the room she looked excited, giddy. Her eyes were
sparkling and there was a definite bounce in her step until she saw
me. She stopped dead and stared at me with dismay. I believe she
was expecting you, Your Grace.”

“What?” Geoffrey nearly choked on his
breath. “Why the devil do you think that?”

“Well…when the footman opened the front door
I handed him your card and didn’t get any farther than saying your
name when he closed the door. I was left on the front steps for
fifteen minutes and then escorted to the drawing room.”

“She let me in?” Williams shivered with fear
at the wet velvety words. Would the Duke of Lyndhurst kill him for
witnessing private embarrassing emotions? “What was she
wearing?”

“Well…she wore a black high-waisted silk
gown with a modest neckline hidden under a transparent white silk
scarf. Her hair, well…it was covered by a fitted white cap with
black ribbons. For someone so pale I would have thought the black
and white to have washed her out, but they actually accentuated her
colouring. She looked quite healthy with bright pink cheeks. She
smiled on hearing that you’d sent me and well, I’ve never seen
anything so… How can someone so plain be so beautiful? I’ve never
seen anyone like her.”

“What happened next?”

“She took your gift away and returned twenty
minutes later looking pleased…well, comforted might be a better
word. She said she’d sit as long as I needed, but insisted I eat
something and rest for an hour while she changed. Two hours later I
started sketching her in the pale blue dress you see in the
drawings with a pale blue ribbon entwined in her hair. I thought it
particularly odd that she chose to wear such an old ribbon, but
ladies often assume artists aren’t going to notice these little
details.

“Are you sure it was pale blue? You weren’t
drunk and seeing things?”

“Drunk on a job? Well…heaven forbid…I can’t
work when I’m drunk. I remarked that a darker ribbon might make a
stronger affect, but she just smiled and said she wished to wear
that particular ribbon.” Williams didn’t know what else to say and
stared at the floor praying he’d survive the experience as the room
fell silent for several agonising minutes.

“Open the desk drawer. There’s a purse in
the back left corner.”

“As you wish Your Grace!” Williams slowly
opened the drawer to find nothing deadlier than a penknife. There
was only one purse in the drawer, a heavy leather purse. Williams
opened the draw string and looked inside with amazement. There had
to be twice the money he’d asked for. “Thank you Your Grace!”

“No, thank you Mr Williams; I’m well pleased
with your work.” Williams let out a sigh of relief and bowing
respectfully disappeared as quickly as his legs could carry
him.

Geoffrey’s heart threatened to burst from
his chest as he stared at the image of his angel. He slowly picked
up the top portrait and set it aside to see her with a thoughtful
expression from a different perspective. Had she spent the whole
sitting thinking of him? Was she resolved to make him suffer just
because he didn’t deserve her? It wasn’t until the bottom of the
pile that he found a sketch of his angel smiling like the sun, her
eyes looking straight into his heart. His legs collapsed underneath
him as he fell into his chair. Seeing her on paper made him long to
see her in the flesh. His first impulse was to order the carriage.
If she’d let him in once she’d let him in again, but would his
presence give her another reason to distrust him? How could he
convince her that he was her knight in pale blue velvet not the
Devil? There was only one thing he could think of that might
persuade the angel that he really wanted to change, that he wasn’t
just trying to get her into his bed. He knew Lady Penelope was
residing in London; he just had to get up the nerve to call on the
woman. The thought made his stomach ache and his head throb. He had
no desire to revisit the unpleasant past or admit he’d been a
heartless blackguard, but he had even less desire to spend another
year as a single man. Completing the list might convince his Angel
to give him another chance.

Tolerance smiled at her picture of Geoffrey
propped up on her desk and opened the longed for letter. She
carried the picture everywhere she went, but reading his thoughts
was always better than looking at his picture and wondering what he
was thinking.

Dearest Angel,

I’d almost forgotten how beautiful you are.
I long to kiss you…everywhere a gentleman is allowed to publicly
salute the woman he adores, of course. I thought having your image
would ease this hollow ache, but I miss you even more than I did
fifteen minutes ago. Before Mr William’s arrival I was in bed
daydreaming of my angel soothing my brow. I feel like an earthworm
that’s crawled out of damp soil to keep from drowning only to be
stepped on by a blind gardener. I know I’m a worm, but I wish that
I could lie in the dirt at your feet where the sun always shines
with kindness. My head hurts. Forgive me if I sound like a lunatic.
It’s only because I miss you. I am trying to change. I’m trying to
deserve you even though I know I never can. I never want to deserve
that frozen look a second time. I long to see you smile at me, as
you smiled at the other Geoffrey.