Page 5 of How to Court a Rake (Wed Within a Year #1)

S he’d agreed to a dance. What she got was a waltz—proof that the universe was still toying with her. Proof, too, that her mind had not exaggerated the memory of him: the magnetic pull of his dark gaze, the warm command of his touch where his hand fitted to the small of her back as if it had been designed to do explicitly that, the hard muscled breadth of his shoulder where her own hand lay on him taking in the hard form beneath the fabric. Every inch of his body vibrated with masculinity and power. It was enough to make even a level-headed woman giddy.

He smiled down at her, teeth white and straight, eyes intent with a gaze that drew a woman in, that made her a part of whatever mischief lurked behind that gaze. ‘Shall we give them all something to talk about, Mary?’

Mary. The low, husky gravel of his voice elevated her plain name to the realms of the sensual, sending a frisson of erotic awareness through her, as if she were Mary of the Magdalene sort and not the Virgin. This was how lovers might speak to one another. Never had her ordinary name sounded so delicious. Or so wicked, given that he had no leave to use it.

She ought not be surprised. Permission was not something Caine Parkhurst asked or waited for. It was part of his roguish charm—a man who did not stand on niceties, a man perhaps better suited for an era less dependent on manners for the definition of a gentleman. His recklessness inspired recklessness in turn and she was overcome with the desire to be equal to it, to him.

‘We might as well.’ She laughed up at him, trying out her own boldness. In answer, his hand tightened at her waist and drew her close until her skirts flirted with scandal. It occurred to her in those moments that this might be the closest she’d ever been to a man. ‘They’re bound to talk, regardless.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ he murmured, and moved them into the dance.

It was a quick waltz and Caine wasted no time getting them up to pace, taking her through turns with a rapidity that left Mary breathless, her cheeks flushed from the exertion and the sheer thrill of waltzing at top speed. ‘I’ve never dared to dance so fast,’ she said with a laugh as he guided them through a sharp turn, expertly avoiding another couple.

‘You’re a good dancer.’ She managed to catch her breath long enough to make conversation. Caine had a keen sense of navigation on a crowded floor and an innate confidence in his own skill. She was struck once more by the agility and enjoyment on display when he danced.

‘You seem surprised by that.’ Caine took them through a corner using a reverse turn as if on cue to illustrate the point.

‘Big men aren’t usually so gifted with such grace,’ she managed to say, still somewhat in awe of the reverse he’d just executed. It was one of the most difficult parts of the dance and he’d managed it effortlessly.

‘Aren’t we?’ He raised a dark brow, his gaze fixed on her, the hint of a sinful smile teasing his lips. ‘Are you an expert on big men, Mary?’ A low purl of naughtiness rippled through his words and her breath caught for entirely different reasons than the speed of their dance. She didn’t understand his reference entirely—no decent girl would—but she understood enough to know his innuendo was wicked. While she wasn’t an expert on big men, she suddenly wished she was, especially if that big man was him.

‘It’s only that you don’t dance much. I assumed it was because you didn’t enjoy it or lacked skill,’ she confessed openly, smartly letting his innuendo go untended. That was a battle of words she hadn’t the experience to win. She cocked her head and took in the dark gaze, the smiling lips. ‘Surely you see the contradiction. If you love to dance so much, why do you do it so seldom?’

His gaze lingered on her, meltingly warm. ‘Perhaps because there are so few partners worthy of my efforts.’

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks yet again at the implied compliment—that she was worthy. His flattery irrationally pleased her perhaps because it was true. She was a good dancer. What hadn’t come naturally had been drilled into her by countless dance instructors. Heaven forbid the Earl of the Carys’s daughter not be an asset to any ballroom she graced. One could not catch a duke without dancing. ‘I’m glad I do not disappoint.’

His gaze had gone from melting to smouldering and, despite the heat of it, she felt a shiver, a portent of excitement at his words. ‘You definitely do not. In fact, one might say you exceed expectations.’

He’d gone too far there. Regret flickered low in her belly. ‘Are you flirting with me, Lord Barrow?’ She didn’t want flirting from him. He flirted with everyone.

Her disappointment must have shown in her eyes. ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’

No. She didn’t. She’d not wanted to be everyone in this moment. She’d wanted to be unique to him, not just another partner, not like all the other women he flirted with.

Silly ninny , her logic berated her. Your hopes are too high for an apology dance—how quickly you’ve forgotten why he’s dancing with you at all.

And her logic was right.

Caine leaned close, his mouth grazing her ear, the adventurous citrusy sandalwood scent of him brushing her nostrils, reigniting the thrill of awareness that rippled through her when he was near like this. ‘In my experience, it is best not to call out flirting. It ruins the mystique.’

Heaven forfend she ruin the mystique and embrace the reminder that he was flirting to be nice, although one did not usually associate such a milquetoast word as ‘nice’ with Caine Parkhurst. He was worthy of strong words like dashing, reckless, fearless, shocking, scandalous. But he was not merely ‘nice’.

The Viscount who’d courted her during her first Season was ‘nice’. Harlow was ‘nice’. Caine Parkhurst, who said wicked things about big men and used her first name without permission, was not nice. Which begged the question, why was he being nice now?

‘What do you get out of this? No one asked you to make it up to me.’ She did not believe for an instant that Caine Parkhurst was doing this out of entirely altruistic purpose, not when he had a brother to mourn.

‘I should think it obvious,’ he replied with a wicked smile. ‘I get to dance with an accomplished partner, a chance to make reparations and I get a break from the suddenly adoring crowds of insipid debutantes while satisfying my hostess’s desire to see me on the dance floor doing my duty to the ladies present.’

‘I see. One stone, three birds, as it were.’ This time Mary was careful to cover her disappointment. Caine would call her out on it if she didn’t. She had learned that lesson, at least, even if she hadn’t learned there were consequences for asking Caine Parkhurst bold questions.

Caine chuckled. ‘Don’t ask questions of an honest man if you don’t want honest answers, Mary.’

She tilted her head. ‘ Are you an honest man, Lord Barrow?’

‘I am. Honest enough to admit I am sorry our dance is ending. Honest enough to prefer you call me Caine.’

She shook her head, feeling prim and prudish, the very epitome of what society had made her into, as she uttered the words, ‘You know I cannot. It is far too improper based on the newness of our acquaintance.’ But how delicious such a privilege would be, to be able to claim that kind of intimacy with this man who had the devil’s own reputation, but the decency enough to make reparations.

Perhaps it was yet another contradiction in the character of Caine Parkhurst, or perhaps someone who knew him well would understand how the pieces all fit seamlessly together. Perhaps they would understand, too, that he was more than what London rumour made him to be? What would it be like to be that person—the person who was privy to the heart and soul of rakish Caine Parkhurst? Did he, like her, hunger to be truly seen? Was there even such a person who saw him?

That person would not be her. Soon, their dance would be over, he would bow over her hand, thank her for the dance and be gone, her questions unanswered, her comfort unoffered. The music stopped and a little wave of sadness swept her. She would not see him again, not close up at least. They would cross paths at various entertainments now that his new title was of interest to so many, but his duty to her was discharged. She would not dance a breathless waltz with him again.

She prepared to curtsy to him and depart, but he reached for her arm. ‘Would you care to walk in the garden with me?’ His voice was low, his eyes intent as if he very much wanted her to accept.

There was no flirtation now, no obligation to satisfy, and the lack of a structure in which to understand the request startled her. There was no reason for this invitation except genuine preference for her company and that was perhaps more intoxicating than anything else he’d done. Here was the real danger.

She had no guidebook for this, for going into a garden with a known rake where the protections of the ballroom did not exist. She would be on her own. She ought to say no. Two weeks ago she might have refused. But that was before she’d become a woman living on borrowed time—the sands in the hourglass of her freedom were running swiftly now. If she was to be led to the altar like a sacrificial lamb, she would not go quietly. If her father did his worst, she would have at least a few memories to take with her.

‘Yes, a walk in the garden would be lovely.’ She offered him a conspirator’s smile, inwardly celebrating her boldness and the thrill of satisfaction that came from it. ‘If anyone should ask, I find the ballroom has grown…heated.’

‘As have I.’ He offered a private laugh that did funny things to her stomach and made her glad she’d chosen boldness.

***

Heated. Crowded. Overpopulated with too many people he didn’t want to spend time with. Underpopulated with people that he did. Caine had not intended to do more than dance with Lady Mary Kimber and discharge his self-imposed duty of rectifying things with her. Normally, he wouldn’t bother. His usual sort of woman understood the rules and risks of being with him. In fact, they thrived on it. But Lady Mary had been unsuspecting.

Despite her surprisingly sharp wit, she had not been prepared for what dancing with him might mean that night at the Barnstables’ ball. He’d intended to dance with her tonight, but he’d not intended to like it quite so much, or to be loath to leave her company when it ended. Perhaps the reason was nothing more than the logic of comparison. She was far better company than the mamas and daughters who stood waiting for his return.

Outside, he steered them towards less travelled paths in the hopes of privacy. The fewer people encountered, the better. The ballroom was work—a chance to seek information about the saboteur under the auspices of bride-searching. Out here, the garden represented a moment’s escape. He didn’t want to stop to talk to anyone. There would be time for that later when he returned inside.

‘This is much better.’ Mary played with the gold locket at her throat, the gesture belying her nerves.

‘Is it? Are you uncomfortable being out here with me?’ That would be a first. Most women went to great lengths to be in the dark with him.

‘No, of course not.’ She let go of the locket. ‘It’s just that I want to discuss something and I am not sure how to go about it. I do not want to pry and I am cognisant that we are mere acquaintances.’ Her grey eyes were genuine, sincere. He gave her a nod of permission. ‘What happened in Wapping?’ she asked softly.

With anyone else, he would indeed have found the question intrusive, a blatant bid for gossip. With Mary the question seemed genuine. But it didn’t change his answer. He covered her hand with his where it lay on his arm, wanting to convey his own sincerity in his response, yet one more way in which he found himself taking pains to sheathe his jagged edges when he was with her. ‘I regret, Lady Mary, that is something I cannot divulge.’

‘I am sorry about your brother.’ The words came out on a careful sigh as if she was not sure she should offer them. The words were intimate and, personal. Perhaps she was thinking they were too personal.They did not know one another well. Out of habit, Caine waited a heartbeat, for her to ruin it with the enquiry that always followed—‘Do you think he’s truly dead?’ He’d had to field that impertinent probe more times than he could count in the last two weeks. But the words did not come.

Something softened within him at her innate sensitivity and he offered her what he’d offered no one else—an answer to that question although she’d not asked. ‘I have not given up hope. My brother is infinitely resourceful. If anyone is a survivor, it is he. Even now, he might be making his way to us.’

She gave him a gentle smile. ‘You are very brave to live with such hope. You do him a credit, even though such hope must be as exhausting as it is a source of strength.’

Caine paused to study her in the lantern light, struck by her words, by what she saw. ‘Exhausting is exactly the right word for it.’ He laced his fingers through her gloved ones, absently studying the size differential between them. Her fingers were long, elegant and slim, capable of great delicacy like the woman herself. His were strong, capable of great power, to protect, to pummel as needed.

‘I rise in the morning with hope renewed that perhaps today will be the day there will be word of him. I go to bed each night with those hopes dashed.’ He shook his head. He’d talked of this with no one, not wanting to burden his brothers. They had their own grief. They didn’t need his. What they needed was his strength, his unrelenting confidence that it would all be all right.

‘Each day that passes that flame of hope wanes a bit more. I wonder how long I should keep it up? When weeks become months? When months become a year? When does hope become ridiculous?’

‘Why don’t you ask the Church? They’re going on nearly two thousand years of hope, aren’t they? And as long as there’s no body, they can continue on, can’t they? Just like you.’

Caine stared at her for a long moment before he threw back his head and laughed at the stars, a great rippling chuckle taking him. He was seldom wrong about people, but he’d been wrong about her. Never had he thought such words would come out of her well-bred mouth. ‘Lady Mary speaks heresy.’ He smiled, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

‘Oh, hush! Someone will hear you,’ she scolded, casting a worried glance about her. They were deep in the garden now, past the ornamental bushes and decorative fountains where other couples lingered in decency.

‘No, they won’t,’ he countered in measured tones, letting each of his words make their point. It wasn’t being heard that should bother her. It was the prospect of not. She was in the dark, alone with a notorious rake who’d already managed to bring scandal to her once. He should offer to take her back into the light, back on to well-trod garden paths or into the ballroom. He should put himself back to work searching for saboteurs and fending off eager mamas with daughters in tow.

They should return to being the Marquess and the lady, or the rogue and the rose. What they should not do was stay out here as Caine and Mary. The longer they talked, the more the mutual intrigue between them grew and that was dangerous. He recognised a woman’s interest when he saw it and he’d unmistakably roused Lady Mary’s. It was there in her gaze, in her wit, in her questions, her sensitivity. It was not what a woman’s ‘interest’ in him usually looked like, but it was interest none the less. He intrigued her. And, damn it all, if she didn’t intrigue him as well.

To stay out here was to court all nature of temptation. Already his mind was wondering what it would be like to capture her mouth, to taste the sweetness of her on his tongue, to feel the softness of her body as he held it against him, his hands at her hips, tutoring her with his touch. There was something intoxicating about the idea of offering her such tutelage, to put that sharp tongue of hers to good use, to bring her, however briefly, into this world of his, to satisfy her intrigue, to show her what it was like to tempt a rake. But to do so would be to ruin her. She didn’t deserve that.

He offered her what she did deserve—his protection. ‘Would you like me to take you in?’

‘Back there?’ She gave the distant ballroom a disparaging shake of her head. ‘No.’

Gravel crunched, followed by the flutter of feminine laughter, the jovial slur of a man’s voice who’d had too much to drink. Her eyes went wide with the implication of discovery. She froze. He was already in motion, gripping her hand and pulling her through the garden towards the edge, hoping the light colour of her gown didn’t give them away. At the edge, he found what he was looking for—a door into the back of the house, into a dark room not in use for the evening. He rushed her inside and shut the door behind them. ‘We’ll be safe in here.’ But he thought it was rather a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.

‘Will we though?’ Mary said drily. ‘Forgive me if I respectfully disagree. I think you and I understand “safe” a little differently.’

‘Do we indeed?’ Caine laughed. For the second time that night she’d managed to surprise him.