The Writer and the Rake Read online

“I’m meaning that one day, Gabriella wandered in. She’d followed me. She was like Fleming. Pure. Never drank. Never did anything much apart from her damned embroidery.”

  “Really?”

  Her scalp shrunk despite her attempt to ice it. Gabriella was what? Ravished? He was there. And then? She shut her mouth. How the hell did a man live knowing if he’d been a decent husband instead of roaming off to play with a gang of sex mad floozies, his wife would be alive? No wonder Fleming hated his guts and Christian wanted his balls on a platter. His father disinherited him. He was so eerily contained it was unnerving.

  “Are you saying what I think?”

  “That depends on what you think.”

  “Well . . . I—”

  “She had her first drink.”

  “You mean she’d never ever—?”

  “I see you find that hard to imagine.”

  She shrugged. “Alas, we can’t all be perfect.”

  “It did for her.”

  “I’m sorry.” While it killed her to offer her condolences after his unbridled cheek, she rose to the occasion. “The poor woman.”

  “Oh I think you should say the poor man.”

  She fought not to raise her eyebrows. What poor man? There was only one standing here that she could see. Unless there was some other man Gabriella had taken up with?

  “Drink? Men? She couldn’t get enough. It was her total ruination and her damnation. And that is what Fleming has never forgiven me for. It’s gone too far and been this way for too long. So don’t try to interfere. I don’t want you here for that.”

  So far as she knew she wasn’t here for that. She was glad he said so. Now she could believe the real truth. That he’d caught some disease in the Hellfire Club and given it to Gabriella. Enough books had been written about Georgian women, their mice-ridden hair, their filthy dresses, their habits of peeing in chamber pots in public and their diseased husbands for her to know, the lot of a Georgian woman.

  It was better than thinking what he’d said was so unexpected, the canker of pity lodged in her heart. Relief, that she hadn’t shagged him and she wasn’t going to shag him was so much better. Nor was she going to listen to any more of this.

  “Fine. So? Who’s taking the couch, Mitchell? You?”

  “The couch?”

  “Yes. Don’t look so surprised. It’s a simple question. The couch. The one that’s there.” She offered her coolest stare. “Just as the bed is there. Even for the benefit of the servants I’m not getting in it with you. So where are you going to sleep? Hmm?”

  He looked her up and down. A moment so long it was a wonder the bells didn’t ring out for the dawning of the next century. But that was all right. Wherever he slept was of no interest to her since she’d no intention of sharing that space with him. It enabled her to offer her most effortless stare.

  “Nowhere I haven’t been before, that I didn’t learn to keep to every night, after Fleming was born, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “Me? Worried? Oh, I hardly think—”

  “Just lock the bedroom door before you turn in. It will keep the servants out seeing as we’re occupying separate rooms.”

  The words froze her stare to her face. Still she lifted her chin. “Separate?”

  “Yes. You seem surprised. Don’t be.”

  Surprised? By the fact he strode into his dressing room and shut the door? She supposed she was, a little.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mitchell Killgower inhaled the smell of old boots and soot from the cracked chimney and fought not to run his fingers through his hair. Sloshing drink everywhere, coveting the brandy decanter, stuffing her face at supper, was bad enough. Why did she keep eyeing him in a way he wasn’t mistaken about, for all she was icier than a frozen pond? So he’d fall into the trap and then she could go running to Christian? Even if Carter didn’t, how she hadn’t known what a fish knife was fare enough for the servants.

  Women had always been his fatal weakness. While he’d like to think it was because Gabriella hadn’t wanted him, he had to chase the tail. And his needs were rampant right now. He might as well admit he hadn’t just made the remark about the marriage being in name only to faze Carter. That her remark about lovers fascinated him as thoroughly as her behavior. When she wasn’t even attractive? When nothing could come between him and his birthright?

  Well, fortunately he’d seen the light and the enormity of the mistake he would be making for what? A piece of tail, that once it was his, he wouldn’t want.

  He never did.

  The woman didn’t exist who had ever kept him.

  This one was no damned exception.

  Tomorrow, if she didn’t start behaving he’d find another way to deal with her. If that meant throwing her out on her shapely backside to prove his point, so help him, he would. Whatever it took to prove to these servants, she was his God-fearing wife even if he’d never had any use for one, he’d do.

  Chapter 9

  “Breakfast.”

  “Uhm?”

  Breakfast? And it still pitch dark? A nightmare surely? Occasioned by the two or three brandies—oh, all right, most of the bottle Brittany had drunk last night to ward off the stark awfulness of being here as well as the hunger pangs nibbling her stomach. She dug her fingertips into the mattress. It was there, therefore she was. So was her throbbing headache.

  “Coffee anyway.”

  That was Mitchell Killgower’s deeply penetrative voice, therefore he was there too, sounding his unenthusiastic self.

  She reached for the sleep mask. It was also there. The edges anyway, stuck to her cheeks. Something clunked onto the bedside cabinet, rattling her head. She ran her tongue around her mouth, dry as bone and vile as an elephant’s backside.

  “Coffee? Did you say coffee?”

  “I thought we should talk before you give the standard orders to the servants.”

  Why the hell would she do that? All she wanted to do was die. Quietly, without fuss. She fumbled with the mask trying to push it upwards.

  “Me?”

  And how dare he come into what was technically his room when all she wanted was to sleep herself into another universe, somewhere where silence wasn’t a racket and beds weren’t as hard as nails. She jerked her head off the pillow. White light blinded her eyes. 1765? Even if she had been reported missing what the hell was anyone going to do about it? Send detectives back to find her and shoot that bloody, mooing cow that had kept her awake all night, while they were about it? Small wonder her eyes felt luminous. She fell back on the pillow again.

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “Because I am not the lady of the house.”

  “Well, I hate to disappoint you darling, but neither am I.”

  She pinged the mask firmly back into place. Why not? He was almost too pleasantly dishevelled standing there, tousled dark hair, a dark dressing gown—silk damask? Whatever fabric it was, it was casually tied across a nightshirt. Not a long nightshirt. A short white one. How did she know? Actually a good question. She just didn’t want to remove the mask to confirm it. Not when she was lying down.

  “Is that really what you think?”

  He was going to be difficult. She could tell by his voice. They had a bargain. They had this. They had that. Blah, blah, blah. Well, not at some ungodly hour in the morning. What they had was her trying to get some sleep so she could face the pain and agony of what was going to be her day unless she found that bloody portal. It wasn’t in here. She’d looked.

  “Let’s get something straight, shall we, if this is going to continue? I don’t think in the morning.”

  “Which is why I’ve brought you something to get you thinking.”

  The mind boggled. When she thought of the shortness of his nightshirt, she just hoped
nothing else did.

  “I don’t eat breakfast. I’d sooner die. And thanks to you, I didn’t have dinner last night either.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it when there’s probably none to eat. Whatever there is, won’t actually be served till eleven.”

  That was almost civilised. She smothered a yawn.

  “Well, that’s fine. I’ll see you then.”

  “If you’re going to be here, I’d prefer it if you saw me now.”

  “Oh, please stop being pushy. Do you have any idea of just how exhausting it is? You kept me up late last night with all that talk about Gabriella. I’m tired, darling. I need my beauty sleep. Now, go away.”

  “Miss Carter, are you actually listening to me?”

  “Me? Don’t be silly.”

  What was that clink? Whatever it was wasn’t important. She cuddled the pillow tighter.

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “Not right now you’re not. Now, get up.”

  She was being hauled to her feet? No man had ever been so bold but he tossed the covers aside and grabbed her wrist, pulled her out of the bed. She dug her impaired heels into the floor, as they stuttered across it. Her voice stuttered too, although she did try to draw herself up.

  “I see you are leaving me very little choice in the matter.”

  She was also seeing him because her mask had fallen down her face and was round her neck. Still, so long as he let her go, she wouldn’t sink her teeth into his knuckles, which were splayed across hers. Not on this occasion anyway.

  “It was bad enough waylaying Dainty to get her to bring us that coffee,” he growled.

  “Only in your imagination, darling.”

  “But I did.”

  “Congratulations. That must have been quite an achievement.”

  “If you think I don’t see the game you’re playing here, that I’m having you messing up my chances because you are incapable of doing anything other than lying on your backside, too inebriated to speak of, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “I think you are meaning someone else.”

  She dug her heels in harder, although her feet . . . her feet, if she said so herself, had not quite recovered from last night. And not just her feet.

  Her mind was an empty abyss, the state of her feet, as he dragged her forward, enough to stop her from wondering, was she lying on a backside that was too inebriated to speak of, or was she too inebriated to speak as she lay on her backside?

  But the door and the stairs meant one thing. He was throwing her out. After all she’d done for him. Throwing her out with no place to go. In 1765 for God’s sake. No coat, no shoes, no money, nothing. All because she fancied a lie-in. And he wasn’t throwing her out the front door either, she saw, as they reached the foot of the stairs and turned sharply to the right, her sighs and protests echoing in the cavernous hallway. This was the servant’s door, for God’s sake. How ignominious.

  She should have known that tigers and lions padded beneath that calm exterior, waiting to pounce. Now, she did and they did, she must appease them. The door shrieked on its hinges as he opened it. A chill wind nearly blew her hair off her head. She braced herself to land in the mud.

  “Mitchell, darling, I know you seem to think we have got off on the wrong foot, you and me. And I am some sort of spy. The truth is, while I can’t tell you the truth, because then . . . well, I just can’t, I’m not. I’m not a spy. I never met Christian before yesterday.”

  He kept a tight hold of her wrist. Still, the door didn’t slam behind her as her feet splattered through the mud. Look on the bright side. She’d really thought it would, and then she’d be knocking on it begging to get back in.

  “Mitchell, are you listening to me? Let me go. There’s no need—”

  He stopped.

  “Mitchell . . . What? What are you doing?”

  The cold water, the freezing cold, icy water when it spurted from the pump she incidentally hadn’t noticed yesterday, answered her question. Could these screeches, these glugs, these terrified choking sounds, really be coming from her, as she rose shivering like a demented wraith in her nightgown, trying to cover her soaking face with her arms?

  “The –the—the—the s-s-s-servants . . .”

  “Now then, Miss Carter, let’s get one thing straight. The servants, when I explain this to them, won’t lift a finger, bloody or otherwise, because I will say it is part of your morning ritual to be doused in ice cold water. You being God-fearing.”

  “M-m-my r-r-r-ritual?”

  “I’m afraid so. Now, would you like some more, because, believe me, Miss Carter, there’s plenty where this came from.”

  She jerked up her water-sodden chin. He was a little breathless, but the poise, the control, left hers in tatters. The politeness, as if he was asking her to tea when he’d probably caused a water shortage by trying to drown her in ten gallons of water, made her nails itch to be raked across his face. The only thing to talk about was the fact that the Neolithic Period had not ended in two thousand BC. It was still alive and flourishing in 1765. The only thing to decide was which exotic cheekbone she raked her nails down first.

  But, if she didn’t swallow her ire, smother the tremors streaking her spine, let that intake of breath sit there, paralyzed in her chest, what then?

  If ever a moment convinced her to leave no stone unturned today in her search for that bloody portal, this was it. How could she have failed to see he was a maniac? What had she done that was so awful she deserved this? But then, look at Fleming.

  “I—I—” She couldn’t afford to be put out of here. She needed to muster her calm. It didn’t matter how difficult that lesson was, how much fury coated her skin. She tore a breath, shrugged. “W-W-W-While it is very n-nice standing out h–h-h-here, I do fancy a little h-h-hot coffee.”

  He let go of the handle. “Are you telling me you see sense, Miss Carter?”

  Did she hell? As for the coffee, what she fancied was a bolt of lightning to shove in his left eye. His right one too. The cheek, the bloody, incomparable cheek was what she was seeing. But a curtain twitched in a nearby window. The servants were watching and she didn’t want them watching her inability to master herself. It’d go back to Christian he was a battered husband, even if it served him right. That would infuriate him further when he was infuriated enough. That might encourage them to feast their eyes on her every move so she couldn’t make one.

  “I am s-s-so very glad you t-t-think so.”

  Just please don’t let him see her tits through this nightdress. It was all she asked. When she considered the three wishes she might make right now, it was nothing to beg for. A small favor when her gown clung recklessly to every inch in ways that made her feel her body did not belong to her.

  “D-Do you w-wish that I should take y-your arm?”

  He flicked a strand of black hair out of cold blank eyes that rivalled those of the stone dragons staring from every corner of the yard.

  “Not with fire tongs, Miss Carter. What I wish for is what you seem incapable of granting.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “I wasn’t aware t-that I was. What I am m-meaning is fire away. D-do. T-tell me, my darling what it is you w-wish me to g-grant and I will d-do it. Believe me, your command is my d-dearest wish.”

  What could he say that would surprise her? While she could identify with his situation, she reserved her sympathy for herself, not for him, or, his impassiveness in the face of Christian’s sneering remarks yesterday. It was just as well but it might be helpful to know what had triggered this, so she also knew not to do it again, just in case she didn’t find that portal today, or even tomorrow.

  “Don’t pretend. You’re hardly this obliging, or caring.”

  “This, from
the man who wants to see his son disinherited and who nearly drowned me, is rich.”

  “I don’t want to see him disinherited. I just want what is legally mine. But I’d be a fool to try to achieve it with a woman whose recovery from what I’ve just done is so instant and so obliging, it’s low. A woman who couldn’t oblige me when I first asked.”

  “Me? Well, by all means let’s be lower, darling. I don’t think you just wanting what is legally yours is how it seems to Fleming. N-not when you obviously lost it behaving like a first class prick to his mother, and now here’s her sister sticking it to you every which way she can. I think what he wants, what he needs, is a father he can look up to, can respect. Not one who is doing all he can— ”

  “When I want a governess to tell me what he needs, I’ll send for one. Until then he can wait, as we’ve all had to do in life. It’s called being good for the soul. Believe me, there’s been plenty has been good for mine.”

  “And yet it hasn’t improved it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That boy got us into this mess. I’ve yet to see you being troubled about it. But then maybe that would give you nothing to take back to Christian, which is why I think it’s probably best if you don’t come back indoors.”

  “What?” She hoped he thought she wanted to go back indoors but then, where else could she go? “I thought we were discussing your dearest wish.”

  He set his jaw. “I think we just have.”

  “But you said, ‘probably best.’ It suggests--”

  “I said—”

  “No. ‘Probably’ suggests you’re open to negotiation. Mitchell, I’m not in cahoots with Christian. I swear it. I probably feel the same about her as I did about ruining your son.”

  He glanced across the yard then he glanced back, the brute bloody arrogance and lack of an apology as infuriating as it was interesting. She wouldn’t call it more than the latter. She reserved that for her heroines.