Page 6 of How to Court a Rake (Wed Within a Year #1)

S afe was a relative concept these days, demonstrated most aptly by the idea that she was safer in a dark room with a rake than she was at the breakfast table of her own home. Mary would go as far as to argue that the person most at risk in this room right now was he. A marquess caught alone with a gently bred young woman would have no choice but to marry her. That was certainly not an outcome either of them was looking for out here.

She studied him as he toured the room, turning up a lamp so that they could see, taking care to draw the curtains against the lamp’s light so as not to attract notice from the garden with its glow. He was careful, attentive to detail. She’d never stopped to think about such characteristics before. They seemed to be the antithesis of what a rake was: a man who was care less , reck less . Perhaps this was how he’d survived so long without being caught. He took precautions to ensure his freedom.

He stopped at a sideboard displaying a row of decanters. ‘Port or brandy?’ He held a decanter up in each hand, giving each a swirl. ‘No sherry, I’m afraid.’ She liked his assumption that she was entitled to the option of drink as much as he was.

‘Port, please. I’ve always wanted to try it.’ The rebel in her was alive and well tonight: dancing with rogues, walking in dark gardens, sipping port—a man’s drink—alone in a room with a marquess of dubious reputation. It felt good .

Caine brought her a glass, his fingertips brushing hers, a gesture that set the butterflies of awareness fluttering in her stomach. Tonight, her body was sharply cognisant of his every nuance, every touch. Perhaps this keenness was akin to that special vividness felt by the dying. A star never burned as brightly as it did right before it was snuffed out, its energies spent, its presence swallowed by the universe. One last brilliant gasp. She was that star. Ever since her father had delivered his decree. This was her last gasp. At the end of the Season, she’d be snuffed out, carted off in marriage to become a matron, someone’s wife. No longer belonging to herself.

‘Sip it slowly. It’s meant for relaxing, for long conversations by the fire.’ Caine’s dark eyes were watching her as she took a swallow, his gaze following the liquid down the column of her throat. ‘Do you like it?’ He took the space beside her on the sofa, his leg brushing hers. For him it was no doubt a gesture without thought. Not so for her. She was aware of every inch of him.

She let the taste of the port linger on her tongue before giving a slow smile. ‘I do like it. You may have corrupted me. I could easily get used to a glass of this after supper.’ What she liked more was the man who’d poured it and the promise of a long conversation. With him. The very thought of exchanging such intimacies turned this foreign room into a private space rife with fantasy—what would it be like to sit on a sofa every night beside this man who ignited her with a simple touch? To sip port with him, this rogue who’d seen to her safety, who’d been cognisant of her reputation, who’d given her a waltz to remember and who was also a man wild and untamed, who followed no rules but his own.

Therein lay the fantasy—thinking such a man would be content with firesides and fortified wine, that a woman like she could domesticate a man like him, that such a woman could hold him.

She took another swallow to cover the sudden bitterness that came with the realisation that she could not aspire to such a man. She was too calm, her existence to staid. She was a good girl. And look what that had got her so far…angry parents and lost proposals. All it would get her in the future would be an enforced march down the aisle to a husband of her father’s choosing.

‘You look like a woman debating her choices.’ Caine nudged her knee with his leg in a gesture meant to convey casual enquiry. ‘Care to talk about it?’

‘You assume there are choices.’ She gave a dry laugh before sipping her port.

‘You are a woman with a dowry, connections and status. I would think there are choices aplenty. Creighton and Harlow are merely two men in a pool of several who would be appropriate for you.’

‘And any one of them will do? Does that standard apply to you? With your title there are also several women who are now available to you. Why not get married next week, then, if anyone will do?’ She scowled. ‘I expected a little broader thinking from you of all people. It would be nice if the breadth of a man’s thoughts matched the breadth of his shoulders on occasion.’

Caine chuckled and hung his head in a good-natured admittance of defeat. ‘Apologies. Of course, you want the same choices as a man, not only in drink but in larger considerations.’

‘Port is a start, but, yes, I suppose I do. My life should be worth no less, my happiness no less important, my choices no more limited. And yet those are the items regulated by others, by their wants, their words, while you can do as you like.’

‘You’re talking about the consequences of me leaving you on the dance floor.’ He gave her an apologetic look, dark and warm. How could a woman not forgive that look? ‘Was it terrible?’

She’d not meant to confess anything to him. Perhaps it was the port, the intimacy of sitting side by side on the sofa in a dimly lit room, maybe it was just the simple invitation of his eyes or the soft murmur of his voice that suggested her secrets were safe with him, that her honesty was welcome, both of which were not welcome in her own home.

Fleetingly, she wondered how many other women had confided their secrets to those eyes? The answer didn’t seem to matter, didn’t change the words that came from her mouth. ‘My parents were furious over the ballroom incident. As a result, my father is determined to have me married by Season’s end.’

She paused, realising it might sound as if she were blaming him. ‘I think my father’s been looking for a reason to marry me off since Harlow went in the other direction. If it hadn’t been the ballroom, it would have been something else. He can always find reasons. He never wanted a daughter. I’ve never been enough for him.’ It felt good to confess it out loud to someone even if that someone was a rake and a stranger. Here in the quiet though, Caine Parkhurst didn’t feel like a stranger.

His hand curled over hers, his touch warm and easy—yet another way in which men had choices that women did not. He might touch someone at whim. A proper young lady, though, must never dare to take a man’s hand. His hand, his arm, must all be offered first. ‘What will you do?’

‘There is little I can do other than try to beat him to the choice. I cannot alter his decision, but I can perhaps influence who the man is. I think my best hope is to find a man I prefer, a man he cannot object to, before he finds one he prefers that I cannot object to, albeit for different reasons.’ She let out a sigh that held all her exasperation.

‘They’re all the same and I fear that when they look at me, they think I am interchangeable, too, that they don’t see me , but a placeholder for whatever comes with me.’ Her plan had not got off to a good start. The start had, in fact, been quite dismal. The field of candidates had not significantly changed since the year she’d come out, except perhaps to get smaller.

‘You are not alone in that thought. You look at the men and they all seem the same to you. I look at the girls and I think that, too. There is no life to them, no individuality.’ Caine offered her a melting smile. ‘I don’t think that when I look at you, though. You’re not like the other girls, Mary. Don’t worry on that account.’

‘But you can make your own choice. You can decide who it will be and you can decide when.’ That was all she wanted, too, but those simple variables were being denied her, had always been denied her. The Dukes had never been her choice either. She’d not known either of them. Creighton had been raised in India and Harlow had never been anything but resigned. Resignation wasn’t exactly what a woman wanted to see on her husband’s face.

‘Is that what you think? That I’m entirely in charge?’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Well, maybe I am when it comes right down to it.’ He leaned close and she breathed in the scent of him like calming salts from a vial. ‘Shall I tell you a secret?’

A delicious shiver took her. Secrets in the dark with a rake? Did he really think she could say no to that? The lure of possessing a secret held by Caine Parkhurst was irresistible even though the rules said she ought to. But why resist? What was the point? The whole rotten lesson of playing it safe, of being good, was that there was no grand reward for it. Good behaviour had changed nothing for her. But breaking the rules had opened up experiences she’d not dreamed of.

Tonight, she’d veered from the staid goodness of her life. She’d danced with a notorious gentleman, walked in the garden with him, drank port with him, confessed her own secrets to him. Why not be his confessor now? She smiled and slid him a glance, whispering the word that would take her one step further down a decadent path. ‘Yes.’

***

‘You have to mean it.’ Caine was only half teasing. It was a real secret. ‘I’ve not told anyone. Only the King, my grandfather and my family know.’ With the exception of the King, everyone else was entirely trustworthy.

He watched her nod solemnly, the light of the single lamp limning the delicate, classical lines of her profile. The semi-darkness enhanced her beauty, called attention to the elegant length of her neck, but it could not erase the edge of desperation that edged her voice. She knew she couldn’t escape her fate. She was doing the best she could with what tools she had.

To Caine, that was real bravery: to fight on knowing the odds were supremely stacked against you. Something in him had answered to that, awakened. Empathy for young, privileged girls was not his usual suit. But Mary Kimber was proving to not be the usual.

‘This is serious, Mary.’ He had his mouth at her ear, breathing in the spring scent of her soft lilies and vanilla. She smelled fresh, clean, pure, all the things his world wasn’t. He should not drag her in, should not lure her with an irresistible temptation, yet, he wanted to offer her misery his company, to let her know that she wasn’t alone.

‘I must marry within the year if I want my title to survive me.’ He leaned back from her ear, watching her face take in the revelation. ‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t get to decide when.’ It wasn’t quite the same. He had more time than she did, but one might also argue the opposite. She’d been expected to marry from the time she was eighteen, more time to accustom herself to the idea of it, whereas he’d had no pressure to marry and had not truly expected to.

He lived a dangerous life, chasing down saboteurs at midnight. A family, a wife, would become complicit in that life, collateral to be held against him, used against him. Such ties would make him vulnerable, fallible. Weak. No matter how much he might want those things in theory, he could not force his life on others.

He felt the press of her hand overlaying his. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Truly.’ She was uniquely poised to mean it, to understand.

‘So you see, we have something in common. The rogue and the rose, both facing enforced marital obligations.’ He chuckled to make light of it.

‘I am no rose,’ she demurred.

‘Yes you are, Mary. You’ve got more thorns than I anticipated and I’m usually a good judge of character.’

She laughed, a light, natural sound void of the usual debutante affectations. ‘Are you suggesting I’m thorny? I would think a rake with your reputation would be more adept with compliments. Usually a rose is known for its blooms, its delicate scent.’

‘Don’t settle for the usual, Mary.’ He laughed, but the reply was offered in all seriousness. Her company was surprisingly delightful. What had started out being an attempt to do her a favour had left him thinking the roles had been reversed and she was the one doing him a favour. An idea came to Caine. ‘Do you have any candidates in mind?’

‘No. Do you?’ Mary took a sip of her port and he let his gaze linger once more on her throat as she swallowed. He wanted to stroke that neck, wanted to trace the lines of it with the tip of his finger from jaw to the edge of the lace on her rose silk gown, to feel her skin grow warm beneath his touch, to see the pulse at the base of that elegant throat speed with excitement caused by him. He knew how to rouse a woman and she would rouse quickly. The curiosity, the interest was already there even if she tried to fight it, tried to reason it away. He would enjoy the tutoring. There was much he could show her, so much she ought to have the right to experience.

Caine shifted on the sofa, crossing a leg over one knee, aware that his body was already rousing as a product of the conversation. ‘No. I’ve not found any prospects either.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Maybe I won’t find anyone.’ This was the real secret. ‘If I don’t find someone suitable, perhaps I will let the title lapse with me, rather than settle for someone unsatisfactory.’ It appealed to him to show the Crown that he could not be brought to heel with a title. He gave Mary a slow smile. ‘You’re the first to know.’ This was not something he’d voiced yet with anyone, not even Grandfather.

‘Some would call that a very brave rebellion, indeed. Many would also call it foolish,’ Mary challenged softly. ‘I am happy for you that you have the choice. We are different then, not quite as alike as you originally posited. You still get to choose. No one, not even the King, can truly force you if you are willing to pay the price, which is not so very great. You get to keep your title for your lifetime. It’s still more than you started with.’

Whereas for her it was all still captivity. He saw the unspoken juxtaposition of her argument. She was just trading jailers. Not for the first time that night, Caine thought this woman beside him, who followed the rules so diligently yet thrilled to the sipping of port, who dared to dance with him on not one occasion but two, deserved something better than the fate that awaited her. Perhaps there was something he could do for her, something he could give her.

He reached a hand to cup the fine curve of her jaw, his touch slow and sure so as not to startle her with the intimacy of it, but there was no mistake—this was not how a gentleman touched a lady. Her eyes followed his hand, he felt her skin warm against his palm. ‘You are all petals and pearls. I’ve never seen skin so fine.’ His thumb stroked the high, elegant arch of her cheekbone, her quicksilver eyes going dark at his words. He moved his thumb to the rosy bow of her lips, drawing them apart, tracing the lower one in a slow, lingering caress.

Her hand gripped his wrist, her fingers too slender, her grip too small to encircle its girth entirely. ‘What are you doing?’ The question came out on a breathy sigh. She was teetering—wanting to know as much as she felt she ought to put a halt to it.

‘Say my name,’ came the whispered growl. ‘“What are you doing, Caine?” and then maybe I’ll tell you.’ His mouth was at her ear again, feathering a gentle breath against it, his hand moving to rest at the base of her neck, feeling her pulse accelerate.

‘What are you doing, Caine ?’ She breathed the words and he smiled against her skin.

‘Can you not guess? Surely you have imagination enough,’ he teased softly, his teeth nipping at her ear, eliciting a gasp of pleasure. He trailed kisses along her jaw, slow and deliberate, making his destination clear, giving her time to object. He did not kiss unwilling women. But there was no objection, only a sigh that ended with a little sob of want and the shift of her head as she turned into his kiss, her mouth meeting his.

He led her into it with the gentle instruction of his mouth, coaching hers to open, coaxing her to taste, to tangle in mimicry of his own.

Copy me, follow me , it said. Come with me a little further on this path we’ve walked tonight and I will show you a garden of delights.

And she did. He felt the moment when she gave herself over to him, to this brief adventure. There was the press of her body against his, the realisation that kissing was not for mouths only. She tasted deliciously of the port, smelled of English springtime, sweetness and seduction rolled into one. Did she realise what she was offering with the crush of her breasts against his evening jacket? He dared not take it, not when she was caught up in the first throes of passion newly discovered. The moan that purled up her throat was his sign that they’d reached the end of that path. He should not take them beyond this point.

He withdrew from the kiss gradually, cupping her jaw once more as he released her mouth, letting his eyes hold hers so that she could see his want, his regret that the kiss must end. He did not want her to doubt, or to think he withdrew from disappointment when just the opposite was true. He’d enjoyed kissing her, more than he would have thought a few weeks ago. Hell, a few weeks ago he’d not even conceived of kissing Lady Mary Kimber.

But a lot had changed in two weeks. Stepan was missing, a traitor was at large, he’d been made a marquess and given an ultimatum to wed. The Four Horsemen had gone from hellions to husband material, a sure sign of end times.

Her grey eyes were wide in posthumous realisation of what they’d done, of what she’d experienced. Her elegant fingers went to her lips as if she could touch the memory of him, a gesture that he found provocatively erotic. Her voice was a sensual husk when she spoke. ‘Why did you do that?’ There was no scold in it.

‘Because you deserve to know passion, at least once,’ he said in quiet tones. Because now she would have something to hold on to against all the kisses to come. He could not change her fate, but he could gift her with a memory.

She blushed, her gaze downcast, a soft smile on her lips. ‘Thank you, Caine.’ Then she rose. He did not stop her. It was beyond time to return to the ball.

He stood with her. ‘I will go back by way of the garden.’ She would go back to the ballroom through the hallway to ensure they arrived separately. He held her gaze, forcing her to look at him. ‘Will you be all right?’ He felt protective of her. She gave a small nod of assurance and turned for the door.

‘Mary,’ he called at the last. ‘If you ever have need, send word.’

She glanced over her shoulder, her features already schooled into politeness, her mask firmly, admirably already in place. ‘Of course, thank you,’ she said as if he’d offered her a glass of punch, as if they’d not, moments before, had their tongues in one another’s mouths. The door shut behind her and Caine raised an appreciative toast to the empty room. Lady Mary Kimber was a cool customer indeed. Who would have thought?