When a Rake Falls (22 page)

“I lack information about the relations between men and women, I suppose.”

Silence.

His muddled mind struggled to understand her.

She gulped again. “I want to know,” she said, picking up his hand.

“Are you daft?” He snatched his hand away. “Get that slug Charles Henry to teach you.”

“You don't understand. It has to be your touch.”

“Why?”

“You don't know why? The reason seems obvious to me.”

“Then explain why my…
touch
exactly?” he repeated, his tone uncertain and mind whirling.

“You're an aristocrat with extensive experience of females.” Her lighthearted smile was likely feigned. “All of the ladies desire you. Maybe it's your title, money, possible marriage, and the promise of a good life? Your experiences have given you the ability to please many ladies without engaging your feelings or allowing them to reach your heart.”

He gave her a hard, fulminating stare. “I will ignore the insult, for your sake. My touch is just a part of some big experiment to you, is that it?”

She shook her head. “No experiments. No logic. No regrets.” She picked up his hand and kissed it.

He widened his eyes and stared at their hands.

She kissed each of his long fingers, the center of his strong palm, and the tender inside of his wrist.

He did not make a sound; his jaw tensed.

She moved closer to softly stroke his cheek. Running her fingers over his rough whiskers, she opened her palm to turn his head to face her.

He pushed her away, searching her eyes for a motive behind her advances.

Scooting close until their hips touched, she sat, unmoving, staring at his profile lit by the orange glow of the coals and the fading daylight.

He ignored her.

Silence.

He considered whether or not to march her forcibly out of the door this instant or concede to her desires.

She moved her body closer, touching him full along his side—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from the skin around her cheeks. Then she pulled him into a slow, full kiss on the lips.

He pulled away and thoroughly examined her countenance. All he saw was physical desire.

“Boyce?”

He felt desire too, but he also struggled with his continued anger. His resentment strong enough to lash out, consent to her advances, and teach her a lesson. He'd teach her about being burned from playing casually with fires of desire and the consequences of her bad choices in choosing her partner in life. “Yes, yes, maybe you are right.” He slapped his knee. “Change your mind, what?” He stood, removed his coat, and laid it on the carpet before the fire. “Come here.”

She joined him on the floor.

He jumped up. “Must lock the door.”

“I already did that.”

He lay on the cool lining of his coat and then wrapped his arm around her waist. “Clever girl.” He pulled her sideways a few inches. “Twist just this way so the top of your head is lit by the fire. I want to see you.” He ignored her winsome smile. “Yes, see you. Do you agree to accept my advances?”

She nodded, not a speck of fear or worry appeared in her eyes. “There is nothing I want more.”

He hesitated. “Right.” He tightened his grip and started to kiss her hard—a kiss of demand marked by severe pressure of his lips and repeated stimulating thrusts of his tongue.

She did not faint or pull back. Instead, she mimicked his rough movements, learning about her pleasure and attempting to respond in kind.

Pulling back, he placed both hands on the top of her sleeves and managed to pull her gown off one shoulder.

Turning around, she reached behind her. “Unbutton me.”

He obliged and quickly had her gown and chemise around her waist.

She gasped but moved to face him.

The firelight fell upon two lovely breasts covered in glowing bronze skin and set under a beautiful slim neck. Struggling for air, he could never remember another woman lovelier. At the sight of her willingness to love him, he became hard, and it drove away his anger in the flash of a second. With his mind clear, the gentleman returned, a man horrified by his resentful actions toward a good lady who did not deserve his harsh treatment. She had done nothing, nothing but desire him and offer her body to pleasure him, while he had acted like a cad, a scoundrel of the worst sort.

She scooted forward slightly. “Do you want to kiss me here?” She glanced at her breasts.

He died a little inside. All he could do now was to gather all of his skills and pleasure her the way no lady had ever been brought to ecstasy. While he would use every fiber of his being to check his desires and withhold his pleasure—all for her benefit. He vowed to make this moment truly lovemaking and special enough for her to remember him forever. He needed to give her that gift. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

Eve felt a tear well in her eye. “I don't think so.”

“No, no thinking, remember?”

His mood confused her, biting mockery one minute and now his whole mien softened. When she took her place next to him in front of the warm fire, she feared he was too befuddled to understand her actions. Now with his pause and seeming change of heart, she gathered her bravery once again to make him understand what he meant to her. By giving herself to him fully, he had to understand the depths of her love for him. She vowed to express every fiber of her love until even he acknowledged it. Perhaps in her wildest dreams, she might determine if he returned just a little piece of her affections—some little sign or words to hold on to, because this was their last moment together, and she would never have the chance again. She focused on the seductive hollow in his throat, illuminated by the fire. “Yes, feelings only,” she whispered just before a bout of long, heavenly kisses.

When the kisses stopped, he focused on her forehead. “Right now every inch of your skin lit by the firelight shines a bronze color. The rest of your features are shrouded in darkness. I plan to kiss and caress every inch of your body as it becomes revealed in the light.” He moved to kiss her forehead, followed by dragging his cheeks and lips across her temples. Moving down to her nose, he kissed the top and then rubbed his nose backward and forward over hers.

She giggled softly.

He lifted his head. “Right, I'll return to those lips later.” He pushed her an inch or two away from him. “Ah, now your chin and neck take on the light of the fire.” His head turned as he moved his lips to her neck and kissed her long and lovingly.

As he kissed and licked under her ears, she sighed. When he lifted his head again to push her several inches to illuminate more of her body, she caught his glance.
Is
he
a
man
consumed
by
love
or
a
man
consumed
by
lust?

“Ah, now I see that the orange glow of the fire landing on the top of your breasts.” With deft fingers and a little help from her, he managed to turn her so that both breasts fell under the full illumination of the firelight. He sighed once, before sitting up on his knees. “Let me look at you. Beautiful, beautiful.” He repeated the word until his mouth covered the top of her breast. With a rhythmic move of his torso, he kissed and licked and kneaded her breasts, his tempo increasing.

Arching her back to increase her pleasure, she moaned in enjoyment, an odd sound, so she couldn't help but giggle.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Only if you do that forever.”

A deep, rumbling chuckle escaped him. “Good.” He resumed his caresses.

She became aware of the rising, languid urgency of unfamiliar desire. “Please,” she said. Her reason seemed obvious; her love had to be written on every feature; her passion expressed by her every move and every word. Did he recognize it?

He pushed her another quarter turn, so her lower half now received the light of the fire. Lifting her skirt and spreading her legs, he began to kiss the inside of her thighs—a strange feeling, not uncomfortable but one that evaporated her early ease. She rose on her elbows. “Boyce.”

He paused and glanced up.

She threw out a small lure to determine his affections. “Do you love me?”

“That's what I'm doing, sweetheart.” He began to kiss her intimately between her legs and the soft urgency returned.

She had to tell him now, before she became lost. “I love you.”

“Yes.” He kissed her full on the mouth once. Then he unbuttoned his falls and penetrated her. Without moving, he said, “Do you feel me inside you? Do you feel us as one? Do you feel our love?”

She found herself in the mortifying position of being in the presence of the man she loved without being able to string two words together. She only registered a new type of pleasure. Their glances held, and she saw something new in his eyes. He loved her, and this was his way of telling her—his gift, this one time.

He pushed forward and pulled back slowly before accelerating his thrusts.

She rose on a cloud of warm urgency. The cloud lifted her, suspended her, her awareness only punctuated by the sounds of slapping flesh. Without warning, her feeling vaporized, leaving her shuddering and slowly falling back to earth, eventually landing on the carpet in front of the fire in his embrace.

He withdrew from her and remained lying facedown on his coat.

Relishing her newfound experience, she stared at the plaster ceiling, vaguely aware of his continued movement.

Minutes later, a slight groan escaped him. He remained facedown on his coat and did not move.

They remained still for a long time; the scent of sex filled the air.

Finally, he made a small noise, like a choke.

She turned to face him and reached out to stroke his back. “Boyce?”

He kept his face hidden in the smooth lining of his coat. “How could you do this with Charles Henry? How?” The tone of his voice sounded wounded, confused.

He had proven his love by his actions—or was this a dance solely to persuade her to call off her engagement? He spoke no words of love following their lovemaking and made no proposal of marriage. Her heart seized and a dull pain centered in her chest. She had expressed her heart by fully giving herself, but she remained unsure of his reasons. A single tear fell on her cheek. She faced the inescapable fact that her life would be lived without him. She would try to make a happy life for herself after this little moment of bliss, never to be repeated.

“Make me understand, please.” He kept his face down, away from her view.

She attempted to enlighten him by wrapping her arm over his torso and whispering into his ear, “Duty to my family.”

Silence.

“I think you should leave now.”

She squeezed him in desperation, letting her tears fall onto his back. “For other reasons too, but I gave a promise to keep them secret.”

“To you, I'm just a variable to evaluate, nothing more.” He turned away from her, then stood. “Now I've ruined a favorite coat.” He carefully folded it into a tight square. “I'll wash it myself.”

She rose and put her gown to rights with his assistance. In the fire's glow, she could see evidence of a tearstain on his cheek. Rising her hand to wipe away the tear's trail, he batted it away.

“Leave me. From now on, you do what you must, and I'll flee far away. Maybe Italy where it's warm.” He strode to the door, unlocked it, and held it open.

She followed and stood before him, focusing on his watery eyes.

“Look what you have reduced me too. See my tears; analyze the logic of that, Miss Aeronaut. You leave me like the butterfly, unable to sing.”

Boyce remained foxed for a significant part of the next couple of days. This state of mind calmed him, because when disguised, he forgot everything, even his name. Eventually, when the effects of the wine wore off and painful memories of Eve intruded, he resumed drinking until the brandy blotted his memories into oblivion. In his other infrequent moments of lucidity, he remembered the horrid afternoon at the Royal Institute. He stood before all of London, eager for his chance at redemption. The sight of Eve, sitting quietly close to the table, forced him to confront the fact that, in relation to her, he was a fraud.

She had discovered the sun dogs; she had taken the instrument readings; she had written the speech.

He had no choice but to step aside and watched her rightly achieve her dream. While his heart swelled in pride for her sake, the contemplation of his failure had caused a wayward, unshed tear to interfere with his vision. No gentleman could ever be seen with a tear. So he stepped behind her into the darkness, ready to assist her by any means. Then when she had stopped speaking, he overheard the first words of mockery aimed in his direction.

“So, Hatwell, is the youngest Parker nothing but a cuckold to this female?”

If Boyce hadn't fled, he might have started a row with every man in the room.

Now he existed as the man who fled to Drexel's house, a habitual unwashed lump on the sofa before the fire, waiting for the scandal to erupt in the newspapers. He only moved when Drexel's housekeeper placed the recent edition of London's newspapers in his hands. Carefully searching every page, needing to read each sentence three times, he dreaded finding the article announcing him as a fraud, hoping that when he did, the muted blow wouldn't kill him.

Then one afternoon, his father walked into the Drexel's parlor. The marquess cleared away a stack of papers on an ivory leather tub chair and sat. After a thorough perusal of his son, a grimace lingered on his aquiline features.

Unsure if his father objected to his odious scent, his untidy clothes, or his whisker growth, Boyce lacked the desire to inquire. Since his father routinely teased him over his fastidiousness in regard to his coat, the older man shouldn't have any complaints now.

“Son?”

Boyce gave his father a single nod. “Sir.”

“I see I owe Mr. Drexel for the trouble of your upkeep,” the marquess said, his tone light and with a cursory glance around the room. “Are the Drexels in residence?”

“No, the men have gone to Bristol to examine a potential site for a new bridge.” He sighed. “Father, please leave. I am not fit for company, and I have no intentions of speaking to anyone. I will, of course, pay the Drexels for housing me, but I won't leave here, not just yet. Let me have some peace.”

“To lick your wounds alone?”

“Something like that.” Boyce buttoned the top three buttons of his soiled linen shirt.

His father watched him. “No, it's been too long already. Your exile ends today.”

“I repeat, please leave me alone. I am too old to be given a dressing-down.”

“I have no intention of scolding you, and I don't know why you would think so.”

“Routine.” Boyce sat straight, now keenly aware of his father's presence.

The marquess paused, holding a strange bit of iron in his hands. “I suppose I deserve that.”

Boyce waved his hand. “It's not important. What have you heard about Miss Mountfloy's speech? Was it mentioned in the newspapers? Was I…” His throat tightened. “Perhaps I missed the description in the papers, since I haven't seen it yet.”

The marquess stood, put down the iron, and called the housekeeper. When she appeared at the door, his father requested the good lady to order a bath, as his son wished to bathe. He then returned to the tub chair. “For several days, I worried some scandal might erupt from her speech, but either her friends, her father, or even perhaps the members of the Royal Institute squashed any news of an unusual event that day. In my anxiety, I even asked the secretary about it, but he just smiled and informed me that three subscribers expressed private complaints, but none of them canceled their memberships. As far as that day is concerned, you remain on the official record for presenting the afternoon lecture.”

Undecided if he should be pleased or angry, Boyce realized he had been waiting for news of a scandal that would never come. Perhaps it was time for him to sober up.

“It is in regard to Miss Mountfloy's speech that I called upon you today.”

The mention of Eve's name caught his full attention. “I don't understand. Let me guess. Despite the lack of scandal, you're blaming me for stepping down and making a mockery of our good name?”

His father paused; a sad, sympathetic expression entered his eyes. “I should've known you'd feel that way.”

Boyce shook his head dismissively and focused on buttoning his brandy-stained waistcoat.

The marquess spoke softly, staring into the fire. “All of my sons possess extraordinary courage. By stepping aside to let Miss Mountfloy speak, you exhibited the courage natural to the males of the Parker line. But your sacrifice revealed something else too. You showed a good heart, one filled with empathy for others. Moreover, you also revealed a keen sense of justice. Those qualities are rare in most gentlemen, believe me.”

Boyce stared in wonderment at his father. He had never heard words like these spoken to him or to any of his brothers.

“I can rightly say,” the marquess continued, addressing him directly, “your sacrifice impressed me. I consider your selfless act of courage similar to that of Richard's, standing before the guns of those concealed Americans in New Orleans. You have always been a favorite of mine, in all probability because your temperament resembles your mother's in so many ways. As a favorite son, I had great hopes of your success, so I reacted badly when your behavior did not credit the man you truly are. My temporary disappointment, however, did not justify a public cut. Forgive me.”

Boyce's ears rang. Some affliction of the nerves must have overwhelmed him, because unshed tears welled up. He nodded. “I suppose all parents tell a child they are a favorite, but it really can't be true. When I was young, you did your best to avoid me on account of my foolishness. At least to me, you seemed always to show preference for the company of my older brothers.”

The marquess gently shook his head. “Some lack of attention on my behalf may be due to you being the youngest, of course. But then again, whenever I went to look for you, I found you hidden in your mother's skirts, embracing her knees.”

“It was always warmer there.” His throat closed. In a home filled with obstreperous brothers, his loving, nonjudgmental mother was like a fire that warmed every member of the family equally.

“Why don't you start your own household, Son? Settle down and marry that nice lady aeronaut.”

“She essentially referred to me as an unfeeling aristocrat,” he said in a low tone. “Not a person who contributes to society. I'm not a gentleman with a profession, like politics, the law, science, or engineering. In her eyes, I'm of no value.” If tears began to fall on his cheeks in front of his father, he planned to run from the room.

The marquess nodded. “Her sentiment is becoming more common. People admire gentlemen who make achievements. The heir has responsibilities to the estate, of course, but now you understand why I have always pushed my younger sons into respectable professions. You, without recognizing it, have much to offer a serious woman.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Your brother has defended you and tells me you are a gifted editor who quickly became a vital member of his publishing house. Perhaps she can use your assistance in that field. Or maybe something will come of that rotary press you and Drexel are working on. I understand one of your models has shown limited success. With a little thought, I firmly believe you will come up with an idea where your services could be invaluable to her. Explain what interests you, and she will understand that you contribute in your own way. Trust me, you will be surprised.”

“I don't believe you.”

The marquess chuckled. “I have my reasons for you to wed Miss Mountfloy. I have become very attached to the young lady, and I do not want to see her hurt. Blame it on the sentimentality of old age, if you must.”

Boyce's heartbeat began to race. “What do you mean by the word
hurt
? What do you know of her feelings?”

“I'm not aware of her feelings in the least. I only know my own.” The marquess pulled a rolled up newspaper from his coat pocket. “Turn to page six and read the article on the bottom of the page.”

Boyce snatched the paper from his father's grasp and read voraciously. The story described a ballooning accident and the death of the aeronaut. One sentence in particular stopped his heartbeat. He mumbled and read the words again aloud. “The aeronaut landed in a flower garden, his body driven into the earth.” His wild mind raced to the thought of Eve meeting a similar fate. He became light-headed before blinding panic seized him. He stared at his father, holding his arms out. “Ah!”

“I don't understand.” The marquess tilted his head.

“That's it! The very second. When the mere allusion to a person's death is unbearable, that's the moment you realize you are in love.”

The marquess did not answer. Instead, he sat in the tub chair, holding his watch fob, and gazing tenderly at the rock crystal containing a finely crafted latticework of his wife's auburn hair.

Only now did Boyce understand the pain his father must have felt over his mother's death. If his heart broke with just the thought of Eve's death, how could his father summon the fortitude to continue his existence? How could a person remain alive with a heart broken by the death of a beloved spouse?

“Yes,” the marquess whispered, “that is an unfortunate way to realize the full extent of your affections.” He dropped the fob, brushed his trousers with one hand, and faced Boyce. “Of course, I knew you were in love with Miss Mountfloy the first minute I saw you together at the priory. For all the teasing you receive from others, you really don't sing that often. Only when you are truly happy.”

“So the reason I felt like singing all of the time at the priory was because of love?”

“You sang almost every time I witnessed you in Miss Mountfloy's presence. And if my knowledge of the fair sex has not failed me yet, she feels the same about you. I believe the two of you were besotted with each other without knowing it, or at least, you were unaware. Still, your obvious admiration made conversation in the presence of the two of you a little awkward, what?”

“I acknowledge my love for the lady, but I do not believe she returns my regard.” He paused, remembering the warmth in her eyes on the floor in front of the fire. “How can she be in love with me if she refuses to cancel her engagement? I mean how can she even considering marrying that inconsequential, niffy-naffy, oafish toothpick?”

“I do not have the wisdom of Lord Chesterfield, but I do understand that you can never know a person's motivations for their actions. The lady is intelligent, so she must have her reasons. You must be generous and allow her to keep her purpose behind marrying Mr. Henry private.”

Boyce rubbed his itchy whisker growth, struggling to understand how he was going to persuade her to marry him instead.

“Have you told her that you love her?”

A bout of coughing overtook him. “How could I tell her if I didn't know the full extent of my love until a second ago?” He stilled. While he didn't recognize it at the time, in hindsight, the moment stared him straight in the face. It was the moment he had called her beautiful.
Beautiful
—not pretty.
Pretty
was the word he used for all women. But he called Eve beautiful. “What do I…how do I…when do I…demonstrate my love?”

His father laughed. “Oh no, you must tell her yourself, but not in a letter”—he smiled—“not by singing, but by honest, sincere words. And because you are the gentleman, you must reveal your feelings first and risk the consequences that she might not feel the same. And whether or not she reciprocates your affections, you must grant her the privacy of her decision.”

Boyce suspected Eve loved him. She had said the words to him in front of the fire during a moment of passion. But how she would respond to his earnest declaration of love, he had no idea—no idea because he didn't fully understand her meaning behind the word
duty
. With a groan, he rose to pace in front of the mantel. “I never realized females had so many variables. Ha! Did you hear me say that? I used the word
variable
, just like Eve, funny that.”

“I can well imagine it. Because of your natural good looks, not inherited from me, unfortunately, you've had too easy a time with the fairer sex. As a consequence, you are spoiled. Therefore, you must summon the fortitude of your ancestors, men known for their bravery in battle and showing the courage to stand tall, even when outnumbered in front of a rushing horde. I've said it many times before, but that is the type of men we Parkers are and why our family motto is
Stand
fast
.”

Boyce rolled his eyes. “You're being gothic.”

His father burst out laughing, a rare moment for the marquess. “When you grow older, you will be gothic too. It's part of being an English gentleman of a certain age, no doubt.”

Boyce looked down at the newspaper again. “I may never get the chance to tell her that I love her. Something horrible—I cannot bear the thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday, the papers said her father planned a balloon ascension for today. I assume Eve will join him. It's the first flight since the crash, and it will be carried out using their newly repaired balloon. I mean what if it was not repaired properly? What if the silk tears during the ascent? What—”