The Rake and The Rose (A Rake's Mistake)

The Rake and

The Rose

Amelia Clearwater

Copyright © 2013 Amelia Clearwater

All rights reserved.

ISBN:
1493513060

ISBN-13:
978-1493513062

DEDICATION

To my husband.
For spending time listening to the
tap tap tap
of the keyboard at all hours of the night and giving up precious sleep to allow me to write.

You listened to me talk about these characters, their lives flourished with your critique and nudging in the right direction. You are my happily ever after, and the very reason that I can write about them.

I Love You.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Rake and The Rose was written out of spontaneous desire, along with characters taking over a story all on their own. I couldn’t have done this without my Editor, historical consultants and Illustrator that created the beautiful cover art.  The process of creating a historical romance has been both exhilarating and life changing.

The historical aspects of this book although fictional, have been researched with great care, something that is very hard and time consuming to do. I am so grateful to have friends and family who are in the historical society who were there to help me in this endeavor.

My editor is not only family, but also a phenomenal historian, who has given me vast ideas to continue with my writing.

The cover was created by a Ms. Sehreen , who took so much time and effort into it that I couldn’t possibly ever thank her enough.

And last but certainly never least, my husband, he gave me my pen name and has put up with my writing at all hours of the night, sacrificing his sleep and comfort so that I could get my dreams and ideas down. He was my first romance story, and will be my last.

And finally, thank you to my readers. For without you, I could not make a living doing what I love

P
rologue

England 1815 . . .

“Alexander!” The shout rang through the entire household, starting from the ground floor; going to the first floor; ringing off the silk curtained walls, paintings, and down the hall of the manor and into the second floor; to the slumbering peace of the Lord Alexander Cromwell on the third floor. The country estate near Winchester was supposed to be his escape from the duties of a Marquess. His life-long maid, who had also been his nanny, came bustling in with her skirts in a swirl of agitation.

“Alexander!” She was the only one allowed to call him that instead of “My Lord.”

“What in confounded hell is it?” he groaned into his pillow gritting his teeth. One
malicious green eye stared out from a mopped head of brown. "It had better be good," he growled. "I'm as hung over as a sailor and twice as irritable as an old man."

Francesca chuckled. She had come to work in his family with children from strange lands. Despite her working for him for so many years, he still did not know where she came from. She had been taken in by his late father, Benjamin and mother, Evelyn. There were objections from his unruly step-aunt, who two years after the passing of the first Lady Cromwell, took on her sister’s married name.

The memory still struck Alexander raw. His mother's rooms had remained untouched, including her boudoir. He remembered his father announcing the engagement when he had turned eighteen. Now at twenty- three, Alexander was the talk of the town, and the rumors were that his reputation with women was a strange one indeed.

Alexander had hardly been able to muster up lust, let alone feelings for a woman after what had happened. Sure, he felt a man’s normal urges, but he never once gave in to them with wild abandon, as so many of his friends joked about with brothels. His aunt thought she knew what was going on. Although he had wooed plenty of women, never did he bed any of them, not after Lissie. He exhaled remembering the ache in his heart and thrust it to the side. Virgins were not an option, period, at least not until marriage.

Now, he faced a serious problem. He realized it as he got up and was promptly shown his laid out attire. He was the last male in the Cromwell line, and in order to keep the line going, his father had made him promise at his deathbed he would be married by twenty-three, and if he was anything he was a man of his word. He had to keep his word, at twenty one he needed to find a woman to continue the line. Better early than later.

He yanked on his half dress colors of deep blues and blacks, but contemplated on getting into his buckskins instead. Well, that all depended on the company.

It was not that he was not ready to marry, no any young man at twenty one started to realize that now was as good a time as any to fetch himself a lovely, young, and pretty bride to make young and pretty children with. He hoped, with a somewhat lacking sense of faith in that hope, that Giselle would not pick someone who he would find revolting let alone dull through the rest his days.

With the look Francesca gave him, he realized his hope would be somewhat shattered.

“So, who is here? Obviously you wouldn’t get me up early for no reason Francesca.” He shoved his hair out of his eyes and the older woman curtsied sarcastically.

“The women your aunt sent for to court are here…” She looked a bit annoyed. "I can tell them you are having the hangover, if you'd like."

The young Marquess’s irritation sparked, but his humor won out. “It isn’t like you to hold your tongue,” Alexander said sweetly, but raised a brow with a bit of worry in his gut at her more than dagger-sharp tone.

“Well, the pickings are slim in regards to brains, My Lord,” she said bluntly and bustled out of the room leaving him to finish dressing.

A few days prior . . .

She woke up in a fuddle.  She realized she was flat on her back, staring at a canopy of trees. Mud clung to her clothing from the previous rains and she felt a sharp pain in her head. Her upper body lay on a flat rock embedded in the ditch. The worst thing was she had no idea why she was there, or whom she was- or for that matter where she came from! It was all gone! She checked herself logically for any injuries. Only her head; it seemed sore in one spot, and gashed in another.

She heard the barking of dogs, and footsteps. Why was she so afraid? Rushing up despite her nausea, she broke west to where there was a gap in the wilderness. She saw a dirt road and stared at the signs: East to London; West was Bath. She glanced around and felt a sharp pang in her skull. No, she couldn't go east. Something was there, something very bad. She looked around and saw a sign that pointed in the direction of where she had just come, Caversham. She wondered what in the world that was, reasoning and foggy memory came forth that it was a town, like how London was a city.

Something cold touched her chest and she jumped. It was the large locket around her neck in a similar shape of a pocket watch, with a beautifully engraved cameo on the front and polished gold for the backing engraved "To Charlotte, Love Mama." When you opened the locket, there was a miniature portrait of a young woman on one side. There was another behind it, that of a little girl, who looked similar to the young woman, which was original to the locket.  

Both the girl and the woman had startling red hair. She regarded the miniature with a bit of surreal wonder, and glanced momentarily at the older woman on the opposite side. She assumed it was the mother, for she too had auburn hair.  But was the woman in the miniature
her
mother? Did she have red hair? She attempted to look at her hair and realized that she couldn’t tell.

It had taken her a bit of an effort to unlock the genius-devised latch. Only someone who knew how to twist it right could get it open. She assumed she had done it so much that it was out of habit, not out of memory. But then that begged the question- and brought on the headache- as to why she remembered habits and not memory. She then scolded herself  to not worry about trivial details in such a precarious situation. 

"Charlotte?" she said out loud. That must be her name. It felt right, which was a very good feeling, as nothing felt right at that moment. And with grim determination, she took a look at what she was wearing, and knew it wasn't quite all right to wear around polite society- not that she remembered what polite society
was
. Her night rail and chemise were smudged with dirt, so she went and found herself a small creek and washed off what she could. Her head was still terribly sore, but it was scabbing. Thankfully, her long thick hair had caught most of the blood.  The mere thought of it caused her to be dizzy.

Attempting to wash her hair proved of little use; the mud simply washed and caked again. Charlotte glanced at the way she had wanted to go, which was west. She realized she would have to walk through the woods, and exhaustion hung about her like a fog. But that would have to wait; besides it wouldn’t take too long to find shelter…would it?  She prayed it would not and started picking her way through the terrain of the English countryside.