The Rake Page 5

  “Thank you for your concern,” she said, “but it’s not necessary.” She needed to try to be pleasant to him, she reminded herself.

  The viscount pushed upright. “I’ll go with you. The fact that it’s not necessary simply reflects to my credit.”

  “No, it doesn’t—”

  Dare’s eight-year-old brother, Edward, pounded down the stairs. “If you’re going to Hyde Park, so am I. I want to ride my new horse.”

  A muscle in Dare’s cheek twitched. “We’ll do that later, Edward. I can’t give riding lessons and push Aunt Milly at the same time.”

  “I’ll give riding lessons,” Bradshaw interrupted from the landing above.

  “I thought you’d joined the navy, not the cavalry.”

  “Only because I already know everything there is to know about horses.”

  Dare began to look irritated, and so Georgiana gave him a genuine smile. “The more, the merrier, I always say.” She stepped aside, motioning him to the back of the chair.

  By the time they made it down the shallow front steps and onto the drive to join Edward, his horse, and Bradshaw, they were a party of eight, including all five of the Carroway brothers. Tristan looked over his shoulder as his brother Andrew hopped down to the drive, Robert following behind him at a slight limp.

  “Bradshaw’s giving riding lessons,” he grumbled, pushing his aunt out to the cobblestoned street, “but why are you lot here?”

  “I’m assisting Bradshaw,” Andrew said cheerfully, taking up position on the other side of Edward.

  “And you, Bit?”

  The middle Carroway brother kept his position at the back of the group. “I’m walking.”

  “Oh, this is so nice,” Milly said, clapping her hands together. “The whole family out for a walk together, just like when you were all naughty little boys.”

  “I’m not naughty,” Edward stated from aboard his gray pony. “And neither is Prince George.”

  “There are some who would disagree with you, Edward,” Tristan said with a slight smile, “but I’m sure Prinny appreciates the gesture of confi—”

  “Prince George is the name of my horse, Tristan,” the youngest Carroway clarified.

  “You may want to reconsider that. Perhaps simply ‘George.’”

  “But—”

  “You might call him Tristan,” Georgiana suggested, trying not to laugh at the exchange. “Is he a gelding?”

  Bradshaw made a choking sound. “Dare’s right, Edward. Naming animals after present and future monarchs is generally frowned upon.”

  “But what shall I call him, then?”

  “King?” Andrew suggested.

  “Demon?” came from Bradshaw.

  “Storm Cloud,” Georgiana contributed. “He is gray, after all.”

  “Oh, yes. And it sounds like an Indian name, from the Colonies. I like Storm Cloud.”

  “You would,” Dare said, under his breath.

  Georgiana’s spirits improving, she leaned down to tuck Milly’s blanket back into place. “Are you comfortable?”

  “More than any of you.” Milly chuckled. “Heavens, I may just take a nap.”

  “No, I insist that you enjoy yourself out here,” Tristan said, leaning forward to kiss his aunt on the cheek. “The sunlight and fresh air will do you good. Sleep is for laggards.”

  Georgie studied the viscount’s profile for a long moment. He did that without thinking, kissing and teasing with his old aunts. She hadn’t expected such easy affection from him, hadn’t thought he was ever anything but arrogant and cynical and self-absorbed. It didn’t make sense. If he had feelings and compassion, he would never have used her as shamefully as he had. The idea that he’d changed, though, was even more absurd than believing he had a heart to begin with.

  They must have made quite a sight as they reached Hyde Park: three exceedingly handsome single gentlemen in the company of two younger lads, one of them on pony back, two elderly ladies, and one female companion. All that lacked was a dog that jumped through hoops and an elephant, and they would have been a circus.

  “Georgie, do you have a horse?” Edward asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Her name,” she corrected, feeling the more females in this group, the better, “is—”

  “Sheba. A grand black Arabian,” Dare finished.

  “Oh, smashing. Is she in London?”

  Georgiana folded her arms and looked at Dare. “Ask your brother. He seems to be carrying on my part of the conversation quite well.”

  The viscount turned the chair up the path alongside Rotten Row. “Yes, Sheba is in town. She stables at Brakenridge House with the Duke of Wycliffe’s beasts—though as long as you’re staying here, you might as well move her in, too.”

  “Yes,” Edward said enthusiastically, bouncing up and down in the saddle. “You can go riding, and I’ll be your escort.”

  “And who will be your escort, stripling?”

  “I don’t need an escort. I’m a bruising rider.”

  Tristan’s eyes danced. “Your bottom’s going to be bruised if you keep bouncing around like that.”

  “Here,” Bradshaw offered, stepping in, “let me shorten those stirrups. And anytime you wish to go riding, Georgiana, Edward and I will be happy to escort you.”

  She caught Tristan’s scowl, quickly blanketed. “Yes, that would be lovely,” he grumbled, “man, woman, and child, all riding together cozy as bedbugs. That won’t start any rumors, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, just tow me along behind the horses,” Milly said, chortling. “I’ll lend some respectability.”

  Georgiana couldn’t help laughing at the image. “I appreciate your willingness to sacrifice yourself for propriety, Milly, but I am here to help you—not to put your life in danger.”

  Despite the general laughter, Georgiana was surprised at Dare’s thought for her reputation. More likely, though, he simply didn’t want his family entangled with her any more than was absolutely necessary. Well, she wasn’t after his family; she liked them. Her entangling was aimed straight at him.

  On the walk back from Hyde Park, Tristan watched Georgiana link arms with Aunt Edwina, chatting and laughing and smiling with his family. Over the past few years she always seemed determined not to be amused, at least in his presence. Today she radiated warmth and good humor.

  He couldn’t figure it out. Last night, a waltz. And today, when he’d thought to trap her into revealing something of her true purpose, his entire ramshackle family had invited themselves along and spoiled his plans.

  If she was merely in search of a way to occupy herself, the haut ton boasted several elderly ladies more in need of voluntary companionship than his aunts. She couldn’t possibly be comfortable or happy under his roof; she came from one of the wealthiest families in England, after all. His household still managed to be respectable, but lavish feasts and extravagant soirees had vanished with his father’s death.

  He decided to press his luck. “I almost forgot. The Marquis of St. Aubyn offered me his box at the opera tonight. I have four seats, if anyone would care to attend. The Magic Flute, I believe, is the piece.”

  Andrew snorted. “I can understand why Saint bowed out, but you’re going to the opera? Voluntarily?”

  “Did you lose a wager, or something?” Bradshaw contributed.

  Damn Bradshaw for mentioning wagering in Georgiana’s presence. “A show of hands, if you please.”

  As he expected, Bradshaw and Andrew lifted their hands, followed by Edwina and Milly. Georgiana didn’t, though he knew she liked the opera. But she wasn’t the only one who could play bluff-and-guess.

  “All right, you four it is. Just don’t behave too respectably, or you’ll damage my reputation.”

  “Aren’t you going?” Georgiana asked, understanding beginning to dawn in her eyes.

  He lifted an eyebrow, relishing the thought that he’d outmaneuvered her. “Me? At the opera?”

 
“But Milly will need assis—”

  “Andrew and I will manage,” Bradshaw said amiably. “We can drag her and the chair behind the coach.”

  “Oh, heavens!” Milly laughed again as they reached the foot of the short drive. “You boys will be the death of me.”

  Despite Milly’s protests, her cheeks were rosy and her hazel eyes clear. It was the best she’d looked in weeks, and Tristan couldn’t help smiling as he and Bradshaw lifted her out of the chair at the foot of the steps and carried her up to the morning room, Andrew and a footman following with the chair. The contraption was a damned good idea, and for that reason if no other, he was glad Georgiana had come to visit.

  The ladies all retreated into their sitting room, and Tristan went down the hall to his office. He hated doing accounts, but with his precarious position, he needed to be involved in every aspect of money management. Purchasing Edward’s pony and reimbursing Georgiana for the wheeled chair represented the total amount of his incidental funds for the month—and it was only the seventh. The wool sales would help, but he couldn’t expect to see that money for two or three months, at best.

  He was stupid to have volunteered his stable for Georgiana’s mare. He was already paying for feed for Edward’s new pony, in addition to the four coach and carriage horses, and his and his brother’s mounts. A feisty Arabian would eat twice as much as little Storm Cloud. “Blast,” he muttered, penciling in the estimated expense.

  This was why he’d finally listened to the aunties when they’d suggested he find a rich heiress looking for a title. This was why he’d been courting Amelia Johns despite his desperate wish to flee in the opposite direction.

  Tristan scowled as he pushed away from his desk. He’d barely spoken to Amelia in the past few days, and the last time he’d done so was to inform her that under no circumstances would he attend her bloody vocal recital. He needed to be more attentive, before some cash-starved earl snatched her up and he had to begin the courting process all over again with some other, even more simpering, chit.

  Dawkins scratched on the door. “The mail, my lord,” he said, holding out a silver salver laden with correspondence.

  “Thank you.” As the butler exited, Tristan sorted through the large stack. Besides the usual flood of correspondence from Andrew’s school chums, the estate manager at Dare Park had sent his weekly report, as had Tomlin at Drewsbyrne Abbey. Only two bills, both of which he’d already anticipated, thank God, and a perfumed letter for Georgiana.

  Not perfume, he decided as he sniffed it again, more carefully. Men’s cologne. What sort of dandy would scent his own correspondence? He flipped it over, the heavy scent making him sneeze, but the correspondent had omitted a return address.

  He wasn’t surprised that her acquaintances knew to send correspondence to Carroway House; after one evening the entire ton likely knew how much clothing she’d brought with her and what she’d had for breakfast. But he hadn’t anticipated that he would be handing her letters from her male admirers.

  “Dawkins!” The butler, no doubt anticipating the summons, stuck his head back through the door. “Inform Andrew and Lady Georgiana that they have correspondence, if you please.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Andrew galloped in first, then vanished again with his stack of letters. Several minutes passed before Georgiana appeared. As she walked into the room, Tristan looked up from the accounts he’d been unable to concentrate on while he wondered who in damnation had sent her a letter.

  If there was one thing he didn’t want, it was to seem interested, so he nudged at the smelly thing with his pencil and went back to scrawling figures. As she started out of the room, though, he looked up. “Who’s it from?” he asked, trying to sound as if he didn’t care whether it was from her brother or the president of the Americas.

  “I don’t know,” she said, smiling.

  “So open it.”

  “I will.” With that, she exited again.

  “Damnation,” he grumbled, and erased the chicken scratches he’d put on the ledger.

  Outside the doorway, Georgiana stifled a chuckle as she stuffed the smelly thing into her pocket. Sending letters to oneself was so…juvenile—except in this case, it had worked.

  Chapter 5

  Get thee to a nunnery!

  —Hamlet, Act III, Scene i

  By the time the household finished dinner and the quartet left for their evening at the opera, Georgiana was ready to reconsider her obligations to the Misses Carroway. She had no engagements this evening herself, feeling that her duties to Milly and Edwina should come before soirees and balls.

  And now that she’d been abandoned by the aunties, she was left with an entire evening of nothing to do but think about being all but alone in a large house with Tristan Carroway.

  He was an arrogant, impossible man; and the worst part was that she could still see how Amelia Johns could be enamored of him. If she could forget for a minute how awful he’d been to her, she could even imagine herself with him again, in his arms with his knowing hands and knowing mouth—

  “Georgie,” young Edward said, galloping into the library where she’d taken refuge, “do you know how to play ‘Vingt-et-un?’”

  “Oh, goodness. I haven’t played that in years.”

  “Don’t interrupt Lady Georgiana,” Dare’s deep drawl came from the doorway. “She’s reading.”

  “But we need four players!”

  She forced a smile, but could feel the blush creeping up her cheeks. “But you and I only make two.”

  “No. Bit and Tristan and I make three. We need you.”

  “Yes, we need you,” Tristan echoed.

  She tried to read his expression to see whether he was being anything less than innocent, so she could retaliate, but she couldn’t tell what he might be thinking behind those light blue eyes.

  If she declined Edward’s invitation, she would look like a coward and a snob; even worse, Dare would be sure to call her one or both names, since he had no inclination to be a proper gentleman. One of them would have to rise to the occasion, and better she than he. “Very well,” she said, closing her book and standing. “I would love to play.”

  She ended up in the drawing room seated between Edward and Robert, which meant that she had to face Dare’s knowing gaze all evening.

  As Edward dealt the cards she turned to Robert, mostly to avoid looking at Tristan. She knew little of the middle Carroway brother, except that years ago Robert had been talkative and witty and very funny. Everyone knew he had nearly been killed in the war, and she had seen him in public only rarely since his return. Except for a slight limp, though, he looked as fit as he ever had.

  “How did you manage to get talked into this?” she asked with a smile.

  “Luck.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” she pressed, despite his uncommunicative response, “how did you get your nickname? Bit, isn’t it?”

  “I named him Bit,” Edward said, setting down the remainder of the deck and examining his cards. “When I was a baby that’s how I said his name.”

  Young Edward must think her and his brothers ancient. “Do you have nicknames for any of your other brothers?”

  The youngster squinted his dark gray eyes in concentration. “Well, Tristan is Dare, and sometimes he’s Tris; and Bradshaw is Shaw; and sometimes we call Andrew, Drew, but he doesn’t like that very much.”

  “Why not?”

  “He says it’s a girls’ name, and then Shaw calls him Drusilla.”

  She tried not to laugh. “I see.”

  “And they call me the Runt.”

  “That’s awful!” Georgiana glared at Tristan. How typical, that he would use such a demeaning name on a member of his own family.

  “But I am the runt! I like it!” Edward squirmed upright, sitting on his folded legs to give him more height in comparison to his tall brothers.

  “He likes it,” Tristan drawled, drawing another card from the pile at the center
of the table and setting it before her.

  “I can’t imagine why,” she sniffed.

  “Vingt-et-un,” Bit said, spreading out his cards for their view.

  Tristan scowled at his brother, light blue eyes dancing. “Never trust the quiet ones.”

  There it was again, that fond look with which he favored his family members from time to time. Georgiana cleared her throat, surprised to find that the intimacy and ease among the brothers could make her feel awkward—and annoyed at Dare for appearing to possess those kinder qualities.

  In a strange way, it made him more…enticing. She was the seducer, she reminded herself. She was not there to be seduced. “I’m surprised you’re not at one of your clubs tonight, my lord. Surely your skill with cards could be put to better use there.”

  He shrugged. “This is more fun.”

  Apparently playing cards with an eight-year-old and a near mute was also more fun than attending the opera or going to Vauxhall Gardens or visiting one of his mistresses, or any of the other ways he typically spent his nights. If he was trying to impress her with his domesticity, though, it was a wasted effort. Nothing he did for the rest of his life would ever impress her, because she knew precisely what kind of man he truly was.

  “So are you ever going to confess who sent you that letter this afternoon?” he asked, when they’d been playing for over an hour.

  “It was unsigned,” she said, gathering the deck for her deal.

  “A mystery, then,” he returned, leaning forward for his glass of brandy. “Any suspects?”

  “I…have my suspicions,” she hedged, as she dealt them each two cards, faceup. For heaven’s sake, she’d only meant to plant the idea that she might have determined suitors willing to breach the masculine stronghold of Carroway House; she hadn’t expected the Spanish Inquisition.

  “Who?” Tristan leaned his chin on his hand, gazing at her, while Robert signaled for an additional card.

  Georgiana’s first instinct was to remind him that her business was none of his. The purpose of this exercise, though, was to make him fall in love with her. That being the case, she really needed to stop insulting him with every breath. “I wouldn’t wish to falsely implicate anyone,” she said, trying not to sound arch. “I will therefore reserve my response until further evidence should appear.”