Page 3 of Rake in Disguise (Wicked Widows’ League #33)

Chapter Two

Blythe had not looked at any of the men bidding on her but stared over their heads, wishing to be anywhere else, but now that someone had won, if one was to call it that, she needed to see who it was.

And even though she was afraid of the unknown, some of her nerves lessened when she looked at his face.

She had seen Dr. Valentine around the camp, treating injuries and illnesses.

He seemed kind and caring, so perhaps…

Just because a person behaved in one manner while in public did not mean they were a nice person in private.

Yet, she needed to believe that Dr. Valentine was kind both in public and in private.

Besides treating those who requested his services, she had seen him visit the tents of the camp followers, often, and during the day, which was likely why she had noticed him.

Intimate matters usually took place under the cloak of darkness.

Not for Dr. Valentine, though. He visited in the morning and afternoon.

Blythe did not fault him, of course. She’d been told that men of a certain age had a need for intimacy and if forced to go too long without that it could be detrimental to their health.

She did not know this for a fact of course because her only experience and knowledge came from her marriage, but since the only unattached women present were the camp followers, Dr. Valentine had little choice as to where he, um…

maintained his health? But, as he did visit so often, Blythe could only assume that he was likely nothing more than a rake disguised as a doctor.

Maybe he was tired of visiting the camp followers and she would be more convenient.

Blythe’s stomach tightened again.

“We will wait here until you return with payment, Valentine,” John called.

Blythe continued to stand still, the warm sun beating down on her, sweat pricking her brow.

What if he didn’t return? Would she have to endure the humiliation of another auction?

What if she were not so fortunate next time.

Then again, she didn’t really know what Dr. Valentine intended or if she was lucky this time.

Please, let him be good and decent .”

When he returned, Blythe nearly blew out a sigh of relief.

It did not matter that she had never met him, there was something in his manner and bearing that assured her that all would be well.

Except, she had also believed herself in love once and that man had just sold her, so her judgment of men was not exactly trustworthy either.

“She is yours,” John said as he took the money and handed Dr. Valentine the rope.

It was bad enough that she’d been led to the auction block by a rope and feared that she would be led away in the same manner to complete her utter humiliation.

“The rope is not necessary,” Dr. Valentine said as he untied the knot then examined her wrists, running a thumb over the bruised and scratched skin.

He drew in a breath through his nose and his jaw clenched.

Oh dear, was he someone who easily angered?

“Are you certain? She may try to run off,” John laughed.

“I would not blame her if she did,” Dr. Valentine retorted.

Blyth blinked at him, surprised by the response.

Valentine bent and picked up her satchel. “This way, Mrs. Clay.” He then offered his arm and led her through the camp to where the medical tents had been erected. “I have an ointment that will help with the pain and healing of your wrists,” he promised.

Word had already spread, or so she assumed, because everyone they passed stared at them. Once she inside Dr. Valentine’s tent, she might never leave until it was finally time to return to England.

* * *

It was bad enough that Mrs. Clay had been forced to stand on a wooden block as her husband auctioned her, but for him to tie her hands and waist with a rope, as if she were livestock had caused a rage inside the likes that Orlando had not experienced since he was a child.

What kind of man treats anyone that way, especially a woman, his wife ?

“Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the cot.

Mrs. Clay eyed it with trepidation. No doubt she feared that he had purchased her for one purpose only.

“I have no intention of making you my wife,” Orlando assured her as he opened a case that held his ointment and bandages kept for personal use and minor injuries.

“Am I to be treated as your mistress instead? Someone to warm your bed when you are in need,” she inquired calmly. “I had hoped that you had honor but I find that my first impression was correct.”

“First impression? We have never met.”

“An introduction is not needed for an opinion to be formed.”

“And what was or is your opinion of me?” he asked out of curiosity as he knelt before her and took one hand to examine her injuries before gently applying the ointment, massaging into the skin, except for where it was broken, and used care so as not to cause her any pain.

“That you are nothing but a rake disguised as a doctor.”

Orlando chuckled. “I supposed there are worst things a man could be accused of.”

He bandaged the first wrist then picked up the second and dipped his fingers into the ointment.

“As I have seen you visit the lightskirts and camp followers during the day, I can only assume that you are going to force me to act as your mistress which makes you nothing but a true scoundrel and rake. To think, at one time I had admired you.”

Mrs. Clay was not as timid as he had first assumed, and Orlando liked that she had spirit.

“Admired?” he questioned. “I assume that was before you decided I was a rake.”

Her face took on a crimson hue. “I stand corrected. That was my first opinion of you, when I observed you with patients. You seemed kind and caring. The second was when I observed you visiting camp followers so often.”

“And now, because I purchased you, your opinion has been altered a third time.” He finished wrapping the bandage around the second wrist.

“That remains to be determined.”

Orlando tried to fight the smile but couldn’t help but be flattered that she had noticed him—enough to form opinions.

His estimation of her had been that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in an army camp and must love her husband very much if she had to be with him, even with war on the horizon.

He’d witnessed as she scrubbed laundry against a board before hanging it from a line to dry and prepared meals over an open fire and assumed that she also kept a neat tent.

Without knowing who her husband was, Orlando had been jealous of the man.

He also found Mrs. Clay quite delightful, even in her judgement of him. Of course, none of that made a difference. Nothing could change between them.

“I have no intention of making you my mistress for the same reason you will not be my wife,” he assured her.

She frowned. “Why?”

“You are already married. The church would not recognize a union between us, nor would England. A marriage cannot be simply terminated with a bill of sale,” he explained. “And I will not commit adultery.”

She pulled back as her dark brows rose. “You are very religious.”

This time he chuckled. “No. I was raised by a vicar. It is more that I do not want to disappoint him than my own convictions.”

“Would he not object to the camp followers?”

“Not as much as he would if I took another man’s wife as my lover,” he answered. “Do you have any other injuries?” If her husband had no difficulty chafing her wrists and tying her with a rope, what other atrocities might he have committed against her person?

“There are none.”

He took Mrs. Clay at her word and started to put the ointment away.

“What am I to you then? A laundress, cook…?”

“More of a sister,” he answered. It was the only thing that he could think of that might put her at ease.

Mrs. Clay gaped at him. She certainly had not expected that response.

“I will sleep on a cot elsewhere and you can share the tent with Isabella.”

Her blue eyes widened in alarm. “Who is Isabella? Your wife?”

“My sister.” Orlando chuckled.

“Sister?”

“Orlando, I just heard the strangest rumor. I am certain that it cannot be tru...” Isabella trailed off as she fully entered the tent and saw Mrs. Clay. “Or, perhaps it is.”

“Mrs. Clay, this is my sister, Isabella.”

His guest looked from Isabella to Orlando and back to Isabella.

“Most men bring wives.”

“Yes, well, I do not have one of those and my sister can be quite stubborn,” Orlando returned with a smile.

“And you are?” Isabella asked.

“Blythe. Formerly Mrs. John Clay, but I would prefer to no longer use that name.”

Except, she was still very much married to that blackguard.