Page 15 of The Rake is Taken
He exited the carriage as it lurched to a stop, more of an expulsion. The coachman rushed to assist when his boot awkwardly hit the metal step, but Finn waved him off. Somehow he kept his feet, though his route across the sloping lawn looked as if he were trying to write his name in the stalks of grass.
By the time she reached him, he’d made it to the top step of the veranda and lay sprawled on his back, one arm flung wide, his hand cupped as if to catch a snowflake. The other lay over his stomach in a protective curl. His frock coat hadn’t made it home with him; his waistcoat spilled wide like the pages of a book, exposing lean but significant muscle beneath snowy-white linen. His neckpiece lay in a limp twist, the ends dangling. Someone had tangled his hair beyond hope of repair. A streak of oil, no doubt from the coach’s seat, split his brow in two.
He looked vulnerable, younger than she suspected him of being, and impossibly appealing.
Knowing that aiding the inebriated toast of London in the dead of night in nothing but her night robe was a dreadful idea didn’t stop her. However, she did whisper a reproachful, “This is a dreadful idea,” as she dropped to a squat beside him. With a sigh, she reached, halted, rounded her fingers into a fist, and let it sink into the folds of her skirt. As a friend, she could assist another friend, a completely foxed one from the look of it, into the shelter of the house. But there was no call for gratuitous touching, despite the overwhelming inclination to do so.
Tipping her head, Victoria gazed at the murky spill inking the sky, the stars startlingly brilliant pinpricks nestled inside opaque folds. Aside from the distant call of an owl and Finn’s soft breaths, the world was blessedly silent. Bucolic, far-from-town silent. Glancing back at him, she reminded herself that an attraction, when he and his family held answers she should have sought out long ago, was enough of a barrier. If the pending marriage required to save her family from financial doom was not.
When a summer romance would mean nothing, less than nothing, to one of the most profligate scoundrels in England.
“So,” he whispered, his words elegantly slurred, “are you going to help me up? Or shall we ruminate on the loveliness of a country evening…from what is turning out to be shockingly cold marble?Le plus inconfortable.” Very uncomfortable, he added, switching to French for no reason she could fathom.
She reeled, losing her balance, landing on her bottom beside him. “Are you mocking me, Mr. Alexander?”
“Do I seem the mocking type, Lady Hamilton?”
Yes, he did. But she laughed, unable to check the impulse. She didn’t want to like him. Was trying hardnotto. Partly because every female he encountered liked him too much. “Let’s get you sitting up. Then, if I have to call a footman, your incapacitation won’t seem as dire as it currently appears.”
His smile grew, but his eyes remained closed, a detail she was thankful for as she assisted him to a resting slump against the pillar. Settling in beside him on the step—far enough to prevent them accidentally touching but close enough for a shimmer of awareness to dance along her skin—she wondered if she should start a conversation or merely endure the charged silence for as long as she could stand it.
“What are you doing out here at this time of the night without that rabid-eyed duenna of yours?” he finally asked as he dug around in his waistcoat pocket. Gesturing to the cheroot he extracted, he anchored it between his lips.
Victoria nodded, charmed by his graciousness in light of the impropriety of the situation. “I couldn’t sleep. Agnes always can. At the drop of a hat. It’s so quiet here, except for the occasional creak of a floorboard or rattle of a windowpane.” She traced a crack in the step. “I suppose I’m used to the commotion of the city. The stink and bustle, the feverish pace. Even if one suspects they don’t like it, one becomes inured.”
He exhaled a wisp of smoke but didn’t comment. Then, in an outrageous offer, he offered the cheroot to her.
“Oh, no, I—”
“You can do anything you want, Tori. You left the vipers behind in Town. It’s just you, me, and the crickets.” He tilted his head, gazing at the sky. “And a thousand stars. Just look at them, will you? Besides, I know you to be a very bothersome package, up to a dare.”
Releasing a huff, she took the cheroot from fingers more suited to sculpting clay than smoking stubs and lifted it to her lips. The tip was moist, which sent a dart of heat straight through her. No way to deny it. “It doesn’t taste good,” she whispered with a grimace.
“Why, no, it doesn’t.”
She coughed and handed it back to him. “Then, why do it?”
His gaze caught hers, sapphire dialed down to onyx in the shadows. “Because I can.” Then he laughed, an enchanting sound that wrapped around her as handily as her missing shawl. And she found herself laughing with him. “There’s that wicked smile. I feared the prospect of spending your summer here had forever altered your disposition. Broken your courageous spirit.” He gave her one sweeping glance. “However, you’re here, cavorting around in your nightclothes. That’s courage in action.”
She rested back on her elbows, marveling at her ease with a man she barely knew. With his patient air and unruffled manner, he was gifted at making people feel comfortable. Even if being comfortable was not in anyone’s best interest. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here, or shall I wait for the explanation over kippers and toast?”
Finn stretched his legs out with a sigh. Long limbs that took time, there and back, to complete the study of. His boots were polished, his breeches pressed, shirt neatly tucked. What immaculate stylishness he had, even in this state. Another of his gifts. “What did Piper tell you?”
He needs a friend.
Victoria dug the tip of her pinkie deeper in the cracked marble. “Nothing, actually.”
“Many thanks, Pip,” he muttered beneath his breath.
“I believe the interpretation was, she’s your problem.”
He gave the cheroot a twirl, the flaming tip shooting a crimson glow over his skin. “For the first time in my life, I’m challenged.” He was silent for a thoughtful moment, his hand going to his brow and pressing. “But earlier today, while you were away from the house on your walk with Piper, thoughts just flowed through me like a rushing brook, and this is what I surmised. Without intending to surmise anything, I should add. One of the kitchen maids is worried about her mother after a recent illness. A footman, a fairly new arrival at Harbingdon, is obsessed with his cousin. Although I can’t say if it’s a man or a woman suffering from the footman’s admiration. Cook broke a tureen she worried she might need to prepare the roasted lamb. The guard at the gate”—he frowned and flicked the cheroot into the azalea bushes lining the veranda—“oh, Lord, never mind that one.”
She rolled to a sit and turned to face him, tucking her night robe around her. “How do you know these things?”
He tapped his temple. “Myparlor trick.”
She gasped and brought her hand to her head.