Authors: The Cad
Bridget watched that dark head lower as he bowed over her cousin’s hand. She should be pleased, she told herself. She was being granted a rare opportunity to watch a supreme rake at work…or play.
He had a carriage waiting for them. He sat opposite Cecily and her mama while Bridget shrank against the carriage, looking out the window and trying to pretend she wasn’t there. She must have been successful, for no one paid the least attention to her.
But she soon discovered she could watch the Viscount without his knowing, because she could see his reflection in the window. It wasn’t a patch on seeing him real and whole in the sunlight. But it was more than enough for her; she didn’t think she could stay so calm and keep her face so serene if she saw more of him than that.
He looked even better by daylight, she thought sadly. Her quick glimpse of him had confirmed it. His hair wasn’t just dark, it was thick and black. His face wasn’t merely tanned but seemed brushed with tawny bronze, lending color to his changeable topaz eyes. He wore a
dark blue jacket, a casual but cleverly tied cravat around his strong neck, a canary vest over his dazzling white shirt, skintight fawn trousers, and gleaming Hessian boots. He was vivid, alive, devastatingly attractive.
The Viscount might prefer to spend most of his time between the sheets, but it was clear he didn’t, Bridget thought. Such exercise, spirited though it might be, couldn’t account for those shoulders, the muscles in his long, hard thighs…
She blinked. She’d actually shocked herself. She shook her head and tried to watch the scenery outside the window, not the vital man reflected there. M
ight as well try not to see at all
, she thought wretchedly, for he dominated her view.
Aunt Harriet, meanwhile, dominated the conversation. Cecily just kept giggling—although to be fair, Bridget thought, she sometimes simpered, too.
“The gardens are west of town,” the Viscount finally said when Aunt Harriet took a moment to clear her throat, “which is why it’s taking so long. But it’s worth the trip, I think—ah, we come in sight at last!”
They passed through iron gates and drove down a long tree-lined avenue before they pulled into a circular drive in front of a manor house. There were a few other coaches there.
The Viscount helped the ladies out. Bridget last. He took her hand with casual indifference and released it as soon as she stepped down, turning his attention back to Cecily and her mama.
“Shall we?” he asked, offering them each an arm.
And so Bridget walked alone, behind them.
They strolled the garden’s paths. Bridget saw some other well-dressed people walking by. They nodded as
they passed. But she was disappointed. It wasn’t because the strangers acted as if they didn’t notice her, trailing behind the trio as though she were a servant; in fairness, even though she was a relative, she wasn’t more than that to either Cecily or her aunt.
She wasn’t disappointed because the Viscount ignored her, either, she kept telling herself as she straggled behind them. She had his measure now, and of course she wasn’t unhappy about that! But she did feel a little deflated. She’d braced herself for having to endure and ignore his secret glittering glances, knowing smiles, or meaningful silences—and instead she’d not gotten so much as a glance or a grin.
She decided she was disappointed because the place was just a botanical garden. She loved flowers, but she’d spent her life in the countryside, and when she’d heard they were to visit a pleasure garden, her head had been filled with thoughts of entertainment that didn’t grow on a vine or a stalk. She’d thought of spectacles: grand rotundas, orchestras playing, long art-filled galleries. Or if gardens, then gardens with cascades of dancing waters and grottoes filled with fascinating statues or living tableaus, as Vauxhall was said to have. This was only a garden.
There was birdsong, but not much other sound except for their voices and the crunch of their steps on the crushed-shell paths. Cecily had a little parasol to protect her from the sun, but Bridget wore a bonnet. It cut off all vision except that straight in front of her, and when she lowered her head to watch her step, she could hardly hear the light conversation in front of her—apart from Cecily’s occasional giggles, the drone of her aunt’s voice, and an occasional rumbled comment from the Viscount.
It was a mild day; sunlight filtered through the treetops, and the play of light and shadow was soothing. Bridget followed the trio, staring at her slippers as she walked. It was better than focusing on his broad back or on how gracefully he moved for a man who was so tall, with such wide shoulders and long legs…. She started drifting away in her mind, diverting herself with her own thoughts, as usual.
“You don’t care to accompany us?” she suddenly heard the Viscount ask her.
They’d stopped. Bridget halted abruptly. If she’d continued to walk on mindlessly, she would have found herself ankle deep in water, because they stood on the banks of a wide ornamental lake.
“Miss Cooke?” he asked innocently.
He stood in front of her with a look of polite inquiry on his face. She searched for more but saw only that. His eyes were so bright and knowing, though, that her heart picked up its beat as she continued to stare up at him. speechless.
“The Viscount asked if we’d like to get into a swan boat and explore the island in the lake, Bridget,” Aunt Harriet said loudly and with a warning tone. “We’re wondering why you needed a separate invitation.”
“Oh, I don’t! I…just was wool-gathering,” Bridget said nervously.
“Spring fever,” the Viscount said lightly. “Unless, of course, she has a fear of the water?” he asked her aunt.
O
h, it’s “she” now, is it
? Bridget thought, bridling. T
he rogue, the cad, the wretch
! “
She
is not afraid of the water,” she snapped. “I was just being inattentive, and I’m sorry. Yes, of course, Aunt, I’d like it very much.”
The swan boat was really only a glorified rowboat,
made to look as though it were a giant swan floating on the lake. A carved representation of a huge swan’s body covered its hull, with the head jutting out in front and the high slope of its white wings protecting the passengers in the middle from any watery spray. A man with a pole stood in the front by the swan’s head; there was a long seat at the wing level, and one behind, by the jaunty tail.
“You ladies can sit in the center; I think there’s room for all of you. You’re slim, you should fit,” the Viscount told Cecily, giving her his hand. She lifted the hem of her skirt to show him a glimpse of her ankles as she daintily picked her way into the boat. “I’ll be in the back. It will be a squeeze, of course…unless you’d rather stay ashore, Mrs. Brixton? There’s a seat in the shade there, in the gazebo on the hillside. We won’t be long.”
Aunt Harriet hesitated, looking back at the lacy white gazebo longingly.
“They serve tea and cakes there, and you should be comfortable,” the Viscount added.
“I should,” Aunt Harriet said crossly. “That is to say,
if
I could be sure Cecily would be attended to.” She shot a look at Bridget.
“My dear Mrs. Brixton!” the Viscount said with shock. “You don’t think I’d let her come to any harm?”
Aunt Harriet gasped. Bridget had never seen her at a loss for words, and she almost felt sorry for her aunt when she saw her face as she scrambled to make horrified apologies.
“Neither would I,” Bridget said quickly. “Don’t worry, Aunt, I’ll be awake on all suits.” She took the Viscount’s hand, stepped into the boat, and settled herself alongside Cecily.
Cecily twirled her parasol and gazed up into the Viscount’s face as the boat was poled out into the lake. Bridget watched the pair, promising herself she’d be alert now. If the man had been able to sneak around and shock Bridget’s stockings off that night, and then come out this morning and pretend he’d never done it—and with such ease—who knew what else he was capable of?
But it seemed a man in search of a wife was a lot less inventive and much more boring than one in search of a mistress.
They left the swan boat when they reached the island, and strolled some more. This time the Viscount and Cecily walked together as a couple, with Bridget three paces behind them. The island was another disappointment to Bridget. She’d hoped for something exotic, but it was only more heavily treed and less formally landscaped than the gardens they’d left. The biggest difference was that Cecily didn’t have much to giggle about now. Bridget could hear the Viscount’s deep voice as he kept telling Cecily about the flowers, bushes, and trees they passed, and there wasn’t much humor in that. H
e’s much wittier when he’s looking for sport
. she yearned to tell her cousin.
“Yer lordship!” a voice called excitedly.
They all turned. The man who’d poled the swan boat to the island came running up behind them. “Best be headin’ back now,” the fellow puffed. “A storm’s coming up from the west. Sudden squalls come ’round here this time of year. Ye’ll be drenched like drowned rats if ye stay here now.”
“Oh, my!” Cecily yelped. She hurried back to the boat slip with the Viscount, huffing as she tried to move fast
and still tell him how dreadful it would be to get her new gown wet. It wouldn’t be dreadful for him, though, Bridget thought sourly; if the gauzy fabric got drenched, it would cling to her cousin like a second skin.
“Don’t worry,” the Viscount assured her. “We’ll get back before the storm.”
Bridget glanced up at the sky as she hurried behind them. What she could see through the treetops looked clear and sunny to her. But it was the season of sudden downpours, and she didn’t know the district.
They stopped short. “What’s this?” the Viscount demanded when they reached the shore again.
The swan boat was swaying low in the water. Three elderly, terrified-looking people sat huddled in the middle. There was obviously room for only one more, at the tail end.
“Had to pick up some others at the far end of the island,” the boatman explained, “an’ they was there first. Besides them needing to get back more, if you know what I mean. Only room for one more, or the boat founders. Quick, who is it to be? Which one of ye will be comin’ with me now? I’ll be back soon as I can for the others.”
Cecily looked at the elderly passengers and then quickly back at the Viscount and Bridget. Her lovely blue eyes revealed her uncertainty. She didn’t want to get wet—who would? But it was clear she didn’t know what to do.
As Bridget weighed her own options, she was sure she looked as panicked as she felt. She didn’t mind getting wet, but she’d rather wade back than stay alone with the Viscount. On the other hand, if she took the remaining seat in the boat, her aunt would certainly kill
her for abandoning her duties and leaving Cecily alone with him. He might be playing the gentleman today, but he was just playing—they all must know that. The man was a rake.
Which was precisely why Cecily was worried, wondering if she should leave Bridget alone with him. A rake might someday make a reformed husband—for a gently bred girl. Or he might forget that idea if he became protector of an impoverished one.
The Viscount, his face impassive, strode into the water, ignoring what it did to his high polished boots. He held out his hand to Cecily. “Come, my dear,” he said. “I promised your mama I’d take care of you, and so I shall. Go now, be safe and dry. I’ll be along as soon as I can.”
Cecily hesitated.
Bridget bit her lip. After all, he hadn’t even looked at her. Why should he? Maybe he had been drunk that night. He was certainly cold and sober now.
“C’mon,” the man with the pole insisted, hopping into the boat, “or I’m off without any of ye. If the rain ain’t enough to make ye hurry. I got to tell ye, the lightnin’ be fierce in storms this time of year. And if one of them monsters is hit and falls,” he said, gesturing to the towering trees, “there won’t be nothing for me to pick up on my way back.”
Cecily squealed. Suspicions were one thing, lightning and thunder another.
“Go now, my dear,” the Viscount said kindly, and handed her into the boat.
Bridget stood at the water’s edge, watching the swan boat diminish to the size of a toy as it made for the distant shore.
She looked up and around then, wondering where to take shelter. Not under a tree, of course. But the place was all trees except down at the water, where she was—and she knew that near the water was the worst place to be when there was lightning around.
“Come,” the Viscount ordered her, holding out his hand.
She took it and followed blindly.
They ran around a turn on the little sandy beach. She got a stitch in her side trying to keep up with the long strides he was taking, but she kept running with him until he finally slowed. Then she looked up to see he’d led her to another gazebo. It was a simple wooden one, almost hidden by flowering hedges. She ran up its steps with the Viscount and saw it was a rustic retreat, with a wooden bench built all around its interior. She sat down and caught her breath, relieved.
The latticework above would be some protection from the rain when it came, because it was covered with bright yellow laburnum. The pink and white hedges would keep wind-driven rain from getting in the sides. It was a lovely place, actually, a fragrant and bright flowery bower.
The Viscount sat beside her.
She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice her. Instead, he was taking in the view with apparent pleasure. Bridget relaxed. She wouldn’t say a word, and maybe somehow they’d get through this with no embarrassment. There was no question about it—he
had
been drunk that night, after all, and was trying to forget the whole thing as much as she was. She sighed, folded her hands in her lap, and waited for the storm.
He turned to her.
“I thought they’d never leave,” he said, and smiled.
S
he blinked. For a moment it seemed the only thing she could do. But then Bridget found her wits.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, because she was sure she’d heard wrong.
“Why should you?” he asked lightly. “You haven’t done anything—yet. I have, though, and it took a lot of planning, I can tell you.” He leaned back, his arm on the rail behind her, and smiled down at her. “How can a fellow winkle an attractive young woman out of her house and arrange a way to get her alone without actually kidnapping her or setting her household in an uproar? A problem, certainly. But all in all an enchanting one, for a change. I carried it off simply and smoothly. Wellington couldn’t have done better. But enough of me applauding myself. Aren’t you impressed?”
“Impressed?” Bridget said as her eyes widened. “Impressed?” she cried as she shot to her feet, looking around wildly. “I’m—I’m appalled! How could you?”
“Oh, please sit down.” he said calmly. “I won’t hurt you. I’m a rake, not a cad.” He shrugged as she stood staring at him. “Or don’t sit down—it’s as you like. But as for
how
I could, it was so simple it’s almost embarrassing. Boatmen are underpaid, and there are too many old people who need money in London to mention. Poor old dears. Being paid to take a pleasant walk in a garden and then getting a free boat ride in the bargain is almost a vacation for them, or so they said. I feel such a pleasant glow—it’s nice to do charitable work.”
“But the storm, the danger…”
“There’s no storm coming, Bridget. Yes. I can see you’re beginning to understand that. You’re not slow. It’s one of the things I like about you. Oh, and you can stop looking for a place to run and hide. You can, of course; I won’t stop you. You’ve read too many novels if you think I will. But all you’ll find here are bushes and trees, and a long, lonely wait for the boatman to come back. He will. There’s no reason to run away. I simply want to talk with you.”
She continued to stare at him. He didn’t look as though he’d pounce. The awful thing, she thought as she slowly sat again, was that he looked as though he’d never have to pounce on a girl. They’d be too busy trying to pounce on him, if they’d eyes in their head.
“Why me?” she asked simply. She said what she thought. Being alone so much had bred that trait in her. It was hard to keep trying to stop it. Now she didn’t have to.
“Look in the mirror,” he said, his gaze on her face.
“Oh. That again,” she said, a little sadly. She lifted a
finger to her upper lip, almost unconsciously touching the indentation as she felt it. “It’s from a childhood accident. There’s no terrible story to go with it. It says nothing about my character.”
He frowned, looking puzzled. “Why should it?”
“Well, Cecily said, just today, that she’d heard some men talking…. And I have, often enough,” Bridget said, looking anywhere but at him. “There’s something about someone like me that excites a certain kind of man. Somehow they think I’m less of a lady, more of a wanton…whatever, I hardly understand it myself. But it’s not true. I’m no less because of what’s on my face; it’s just not so.” She raised her eyes to him, hoping he’d understood.
He was frowning even more fiercely.
“So little Cecily has more wit than I’d supposed,” he said in an angry rumble. “Or at least more bile, which passes for wit these days. Listen, I wasn’t talking about that.” He gestured to her lip in annoyance. “I’m not attracted to it, nor does it detract from your appearance. I told you that the other night. If anything, it enhances you, nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” she asked in outrage. “Are you blind? It’s changed my entire life!” She reined in her temper, remembering he was a nobleman, and that she was at his mercy now, besides. But she was still angry that he made light of something so painful to her. “It’s fully two inches long! Or would be,” she admitted, “if you straightened it out. It’s too deep to cover with powder, too. I suppose if I were a man, it might be nothing. Or even attractive, as Cecily said. Huh! If I were a man, I’d grow a mustache and be done with it! I can hardly do that, you know.”
He smiled. “Faint heart! You could try.”
She conceded a grin.
“But if you were a man, you wouldn’t, you know. You’d show it off, claiming it was a saber wound from your student days, or a reminder of the war, and all the ladies would swoon over you. It wasn’t either of those things, was it?” he suddenly asked, pretending to be nervous and afraid of her.
It was too bad such a terrible man could seem so likable. She took a deep breath. “Look…,” she began slowly.
“I am,” he told her amiably. “I can’t seem to stop. You don’t know how lovely you are, do you? Such fine skin, so clear. Such an insignificant nose, but straight as a die, and adorable, even when pinched with fury, as it is now. Your eyebrows could have been painted on by a master, but I see they weren’t; there’s no artifice about you. And such eyes, gray, glowing with light. Your passion becomes you, you know. Your lips—I’ve praised them before, but why not? They’re perfectly etched, full, tempting. You have a scar, yes, but it distorts nothing. Your neck is lovely, smooth, and graceful. And that form! Those magnificent br—”
“Stop!” Bridget shouted, clapping her hands over her ears.
He cocked his head to the side. “I was merely going to say something about your bright eyes again.” he said innocently, but his own eyes sparkled with mirth. “I haven’t got round to your hair yet. If you’d take off your bonnet?…I suppose not. Then I really will have to get on to your form.”
“T
hat
,” Bridget cried, “you shall not!”
“I meant metaphorically, of course,” he said with a little smile.
“I know what you meant,” she said vehemently, “and I wish you’d stop. It’s not decent.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“I’ll bet that if I were Cecily, you wouldn’t say such things!”
“Of course not. Cecily’s all curls and giggles—it would be like making love to a baby. I have my faults, but that’s not one of them. I’m surprised at you, Bridget.”
He really seemed offended. She almost apologized, but then she got a grip on herself. He was very dangerous. Sitting there, all indolence, all relaxed strength, bold and masculine, with those laughing eyes, and clever as he could stare, to boot. He had an attractive face, a fascinating form, a deep, dark purr of a voice with a lilt to it she couldn’t quite place, though it wound its way into places in herself she dared not name. Oh, very dangerous.
She’d never felt the lure of a man like this before. But she was confident in her virtue, and too terrified of disaster if she should ever stray. She was amazed to discover she was a little sorry about that now, but it gave her some much-needed confidence.
“Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she said primly, “but you can praise me to the skies and it won’t matter. I won’t be your mistress, or anything like it. You can ask me again and ag—”
“I won’t,” he said simply, cutting her off. As she stared, he added, “I asked twice. That’s enough. More than that is pleading, and I don’t do that. Pity, though. It would have been good for both of us, suited both our needs. I’ve plenty of money, and you’ve none.”
“I have morals, and you’ve none!” she shot back.
“Yes, but I don’t need morals, and you do need
money,” he said gently. She fumed silently, finding no way to rebut that. He nodded and added. “You work and are unappreciated. With me, there’d be nothing but play, and you’d be incredibly appreciated. No, don’t fuss, I’m just explaining. I was attracted to you by your face and figure. But you’re quick and I’d have liked talking to you, too.”
“You were attracted to me by my condition!” she declared, sitting up straight. “You wouldn’t have asked any
lady
at the ball what you asked me.”
“Oh, they were complaining about it, were they?”
I
mpossible man
, she thought darkly. “No, they weren’t—or if they were, I didn’t hear it. All they said was that you’re a rake. That I did hear.”
“And that is what’s discouraging you?” he asked mildly.
“No!”
“Well, if it is,” he went on, as though he hadn’t heard her, “it shouldn’t. What’s in a name, after all? Especially
rake
.”
“It’s a warning to women. It means a man who—who—” She struggled, trying to find proper words for an improper thing, and, watching his growing amusement, decided to spit it out. “Who has many women!”
“No,” he said, “not necessarily. For instance, there were at least a dozen men I could have pointed out to you at the ball who have had more women. But those women were social equals, and the men had what society calls ‘discreet affairs’ with them. Most of the men were married, and their affairs were with women married to other men. They’re considered men of the world, while I’m called a rake. But I don’t dally with married women; it’s a peculiarity of mine. And I can’t dally with any other kind of lady without providing a ring for her finger first.
“So then, who
can
I ‘have,’ as you so discreetly put it? Street women? Too vulgar. Women provided in certain establishments? Too crass. I’m trying to be delicate about this, you know, but if your face gets much redder it will go up in flame. To be brief, then. I’ve had mistresses, yes. And in the plural, yes. Mistresses are usually of a lower class, thus I’m a rake.”
“I’m not of a lower class,” Bridget said furiously. “My father was the third son of a baron, but they cut him off from the family when he married my mother. She wasn’t lower-class, either. She was the daughter of a bookseller, that’s true, but worse than that in their eyes, she was Irish.”
“Hence the temper.” he mused.
“That is a vile thing to say. Worse, it’s a cliché and—”
“Mind, I’m part Celt myself,” he said. “Half my ancestors come from Wales.”
“Oh,” she said, “I see. Hence the accent.”
He laughed. “Touché. Yes, hence the accent. I was brought up near the border. So. Two Celts. We have so much in common.”
“We both breathe and eat, that’s true, but otherwise we’re as far from each other as Ireland and Wales are,” she said, enjoying herself now. She hadn’t had so much fun in a long time. Each time she got frightened, thinking she’d said too much or gone too far, he’d meet her and make her go further. But it was only talk, she reminded herself, and only for a little while, and she was beginning to feel sorry about that.
She eyed him warily. He smiled back at her serenely and crossed one long, well-muscled leg over the other. She looked away, trying to ignore her reaction to his powerful physical presence. The man only had to move
a muscle, and she felt a corresponding movement in the pit of her stomach. When he looked at her steadily, her heart beat unsteadily. And he kept looking at her. But she hated silences, and they had to pass the time until the boat came back. She wondered if he’d laugh if she commented on the weather.
Bridget no longer thought the Viscount would pounce on her, but she was beginning to feel he had some kind of supernatural magnetic force, because she felt him drawing her even nearer. His arm was draped around the rail in back of her. But only that. He was within arm’s reach, no closer. She kept thinking, though, how easy it would be for him to just reach out those long arms and take her.
“Who was the one man who had a proper offer for you,” he asked suddenly, “and why didn’t you take him up on it? Surely it would have been better than playing companion to Cousin Cecily.”
She stared at him.
“That night we met, you said you’d had many offers like mine, but only one proper one. You see, I remember everything you said.”
“Rakes have to have good memories,” she grumbled, “so they don’t call their women by the wrong names.”
“Exactly!” he said, clearly delighted with her. “I suppose it was a tragic relationship, and that’s why you’re not telling me?”
“Oh. That. Well, if you must know, it wasn’t, not at the time, though it turned out that way. He was a boy I grew up with. When my father’s family cast him out. Papa went to live with Mama’s father and tried to help run the bookstore. When that failed, he got a position as a tutor in the north. Jeremy was one of his pupils, the local squire’s son.”
“A bully and a fool, I suppose.”
“No!” Bridget flared. “A very decent boy. We were friends. I was surprised when he offered, though. I thought it was because he felt responsible, since it was his mother’s dog who’d given me the scar, but he said no, he’d known me for so long he never noticed it anymore.”
“A dog?”
“Yes. Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, stiffening again, as she always did when she thought of the scar. “A spaniel, old and mean, and gone in the wits. I was petting it one day and it snapped with no warning. Unfortunately my face was in the way. At least, that’s what Jeremy’s mother kept crying. I only half remember, for I was just seven at the time.
“The worst part was that it wouldn’t let go and they tried to drag it away. Hence,” she said, bitterly echoing his comment about her temper, “the long and jagged scar. It could have been worse. The squire put me on his horse and raced to the doctor. He decided to reopen it and cut it more neatly, drawing the ends together so it would heal without pulling my features crooked. It didn’t so much hurt as horrify me, I remember. Or else I was so horrified I didn’t feel the hurt of it. He was supposed to cure me and he came at me with a knife? I squalled the roof down, until he promised he’d make me look pretty again if I’d only be still and let him do it.”
She sighed. “I was so disappointed. I’d thought he meant he’d heal it, erase it entirely. When the bandage came off, I was shocked to find it still there.”
“I see nothing I can say can heal what you thought all those years ago,” he said softly.
“Not
all
those years ago, my lord,” she said, stung, “I’m five and twenty, old enough, but not ancient.”
“I see that the snapping stayed with you, too,” he said.
She glowered at him, but not for long. The sun was in his eyes, finding gold there, lightening them to glowing amber with accents of sparkling green. They turned down slightly at the corners, as did his thin dark brows. That, along with his long, high-bridged nose, gave him almost a haughty expression, aloof and distant. But when he turned his gaze on her, that notion vanished. His eyes kindled, promising something warmer than she’d ever known. She gazed back at him, too fascinated to be aware she was staring.