Date with a Regency Rake: The Wicked Lord Rasenby / The Rake's Rebellious Lady

Wicked LordsThe Honourable Clarissa Warrington despairs when her beautiful, foolish sister becomes the latest female to set her cap at the ton’s most notorious rake. For Amelia’s sake, Clarissa must act fast… The devastatingly attractive Kit, Lord Rasenby, is bored and so is tempted by Clarissa’s unusual offer. If he can provide her with the adventure of a lifetime, she will give him – herself!Rebellious LadiesTomboy Miss Caroline Holbrook can’t imagine settling into a dull, respectable marriage. Undaunted, her aunt’s determined to see Caroline at all the best gatherings in town. Caroline’s zest for life and alluring innocence draw the attention of Sir Frederick Rathbone – who is far from dull! But can this rakish and most sought-after bachelor be trusted?

Date with aRegencyRake The WickedLord Rasenby Marguerite Kaye The Rake’sRebellious Lady Anne Herries

The Wicked Lord Rasenby

About the Author

Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practice—a decision which was a relief both to her and the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first-class honours and a Masters degree along the way.

The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living—a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.

Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.

Prologue

As the clouds cleared, revealing the moon shining high in the night sky, Kit cursed under his breath. He had counted on the cover of darkness until they safely made landfall. Under the relentless beam of the nearly full moon, the Sea Wolf would be in full view as she stole into the remote cove, and that was the last thing he wanted. Surely his luck would hold. After all, it always had until now.

Casting a glance over his shoulder at the two huddled figures on deck, he gestured them to go below. ‘Allez, vite’. Placing a finger over his mouth, indicating silence, he returned his anxious gaze to the shore line. No sign at present of the Revenue cutter, but there was time yet. He knew he was under surveillance.

‘All quiet for the moment, John.’ Kit’s voice was barely a whisper, showing no signs of the tension and mounting excitement he always felt when they neared home with a cargo. He almost wanted to be pursued. Faith, at least it made him feel he was alive.

Even as he spoke though, he caught a glimpse of a sail just off to starboard, approaching fast. ‘I think they’re on to us, John.’ Kit felt the rush of excitement in his blood as the Sea Wolf wheeled hard. ‘We have the wind in our favour, we can still make it.’

John, Kit’s captain, and only companion on these night runs, peered anxiously through his spyglass. ‘They’ve spotted us, Master Kit.’ Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the course, John showed no outward sign of worry—Kit would get them out of it if the worst happened and they were boarded. The greatcoat his master wore did nothing to hide the muscular strength of the man underneath, but it wasn’t just Kit’s height that gave him that air of command. It was the piercing blue-black eyes under those formidable black brows, the thin-lipped determination above that strong jaw that made John fear for any of Kit’s foes. He was not a man to cross, that was for sure. Almost, John could pity the cutter’s crew. ‘They’ll know where we’re headed.’

Kit laughed softly, viciously. ‘Of course they know. But we’ll have time to unload before they reach us. I’ll go and make sure our French friends are ready.’

The revolution in France was over, and the Terror, the mass slaughter of the French aristocracy, which had included King Louis and his queen, Marie Antoinette, was over too. But the émigrés, seeking shelter from the new regime, continued to flee to England.

The killing was not yet finished. It would go on, under one banner or another, for years. War was inevitable, and likely to be waged with England again, as anyone who even half-understood the volatile new French state could see. War would signal an end to these trips.

It took but a brief moment below decks to address the two refugees. The Frenchmen listened with due respect. Kit was well known amongst what was left of the aristocracy as an efficient and courageous rescuer. Well known, also, for taking no payment, accepting no thanks. Addressing the men in flawless, if curt, French, Kit told them to be ready for a quick getaway. The thrill of the chase, the need for speed, the challenge of outwitting the customs men, gave a glow to his hard, handsome countenance.

He was as dismissive of the threat as he was of the men’s attempts to thank him. Kit prided himself on doing this job well, down to the last detail. He had promised them safe passage and no one was going to prevent him keeping that promise. In this secret life, Kit allowed himself a sense of honour that his public persona had no part of.

A post-chaise would be waiting to take the émigrés to London. They would be off his hands, and it was unlikely that he’d ever see them again. The thrill was in the rescue, that was enough. They would have to sink or swim without him once he had safely landed them in England.

As he had predicted, the wind was in their favour, and the clouds too, played their part, scudding back across the moon to hide the yacht as she closed in on her berth. By the time the customs cutter came close enough to hail them, the émigrés were dispatched, with haste and brief adieus, to the waiting chaise. A final reminder from Kit that, should they happen to meet again, under no circumstances were they to acknowledge him, and the Frenchmen were gone. Keeping his smuggling life separate from his life in London was more important to Kit than he cared to admit. As Kit, he could be free. In London, he was somewhat more constrained.

The other cargo, a mere half-dozen kegs of French brandy, was safely stowed in the false floor of the boat house. Kit took his time responding to the hails from the Revenue ship.

‘Well, Lieutenant Smith, we meet once more.’ His smile was sardonic. He knew he’d won again, and he knew too, that the Riding Officer would make no move to search the Sea Wolf now. Lieutenant Smith would need more than a suspicion of smuggling before taking action against the Earl of Rasenby, owner of almost all the land in the surrounding area.

‘As you see, Lieutenant.’ Kit indicated the box that John was unloading. ‘May I offer you something to keep out the cold? Or perhaps a share of my catch for your supper?’

Lieutenant Smith bit down a retort. No benefit, he knew, in riling his lordship. It was more than his job was worth. ‘Thank you, my lord, but I have a job to do. No doubt we’ll meet again one fine night.’ Lieutenant Smith consoled himself with the knowledge that at least his informant had been reliable. Next time, mayhap, Lady Luck and the weather would be on his side.

‘No doubt.’ As he turned to give final instructions to John, the sparkle died from Kit’s eyes, and a slight frown marred his handsome countenance. ‘Twas always thus. The thrill of the chase made him glad to be alive, but after, he felt drained of energy, listless, and reluctant to return to the tedium of his other life.

It had been close tonight, perhaps too close. It wasn’t fair to continue to expose John to such danger, and, if he was honest, the excitement was beginning to pall. Kit had been smuggling for years, for the fun of it—brandy usually, silks sometimes. The human cargo had been a more recent addition, but the smell of war was in the air now, and the scent of change for France in the wind. The need for his services was coming to an end.

Nodding absently to John, and slipping him the usual douceur, Kit saddled up his patient horse and headed back across the marshes to his estate. One more run, he promised himself, then he would have to look for distraction elsewhere. One more run, then maybe he would take up his sister Letitia on her offer to find him a suitable bride, and settle down to a life of domesticity.

Lightly touching the sides of the black horse with his heels, Kit laughed out loud.

Chapter One

‘You’re surely not going out in that attire, Amelia?’ The Honourable Clarissa Warrington looked aghast at her younger sister. ‘You’re positively indecent, I swear I can see through your petticoats.’

Amelia, the younger by six years, and at eighteen in full possession of her glowing beauty, simply laughed. ‘Don’t be such a frump. It’s all the rage, dampening your petticoat a little. You’d know that, Clarrie, if you got out once in a while.’

‘I’ve no wish to go out in the company you keep, Amelia. And if you’re not careful, you’ll find that you soon get the sort of reputation that goes with dampened underskirts. To say nothing of the fact that you’ll likely catch cold, too.’

‘Typical Clarrie, ever practical—I never catch cold. Now do stop and fix my hair for me.’ Amelia turned the full force of her huge cornflower-blue eyes on her sister and pouted. ‘No one does it like you, and it’s so important that I look nice tonight.’

With a sigh, Clarissa picked up the brush. She could never stay angry with Amelia for long, even when she felt in the right of it. Amelia was attending yet another party with her friend Chloe and Chloe’s mama, Mrs Barrington. Clarissa received the same invitations, but almost always declined. Aside from the cost, she had no wish to spend the night dancing with dull men who bored her to death with their insipid conversation. Or worse, having to join in with the obligatory female bickering and simpering.

Amelia was different. The latest styles and colours, who was likely to marry whom, were to her of the greatest importance. And it was just as well, thought Clarissa wryly, deftly arranging her sister’s hair, that she found it all so entrancing. Marriage was the only thing Amelia was good for, really. Clarissa loved her sister, but she was not blind to her limitations. How could she be, after all? Amelia was exactly like their mama.

Marriage was in fact becoming a necessity for Amelia. Not, as their mama hoped, because she would make a fabulous match. With such a miniscule marriage portion, that was unlikely in the extreme. No, marriage was a necessity for Amelia because she had neither the skills nor the inclination to earn her own living. On top of which, Clarissa suspected that Amelia was falling into compromising company. If she was to reach the altar unsullied, a wedding must be arranged sooner rather than later.

Amelia giggled. ‘I don’t think I should tell you. You’re so strait-laced, Clarrie, you’d be sure to run to Mama.’

‘That’s not fair!’ Clarissa carefully threaded a ribbon through Amelia’s golden locks. ‘I’m not a sneak, and you know it. I wouldn’t run to Mama.’ No, indeed she wouldn’t, she thought sadly. For Mama would be sure to say that Clarrie was a fusspot, and that Amelia knew her own business. In fact Mama, the widowed Lady Maria Warrington, would probably not even have the energy to say that much.

Lady Maria had been disappointed in life from an early age, and constant disappointment had taken its toll. Married to a younger son, then left a penniless widow not long after Amelia’s birth, Lady Maria drifted through life with as little effort as possible. Only cards, and the thought of the brilliant match her beautiful younger daughter would one day make, brought any animation to her face. At the slightest sign that any sort of effort would be required from her she wilted, and even on occasions took to fainting fits. Lady Maria had relied on her practical, pragmatic elder daughter for as long as either of them could remember.

Traces of Lady Maria’s beauty could still be detected beneath her raddled skin, but the years had not been kind. Amelia took after her, but Clarissa’s own deep auburn hair and vivid green eyes came from her father’s side of the family. Clarissa barely remembered Papa, and the little she knew came from Aunt Constance, his favourite sister. Questioning Mama simply brought on tears.

Aunt Constance, alone of Papa’s family, had never disowned them, and had always taken an interest in Clarissa. It had been Aunt Constance who funded Clarissa’s schooling, and encouraged her reading—histories, politics, and even romances. Aunt Constance could not like Mama, and had little success with Amelia, who refused to study anything beyond the pianoforte, but she doted on Clarissa, and was fond of telling her stories of Papa as a child.

A final twist to her sister’s coiffure ensured that one golden lock fell artfully over her shoulder. Amelia’s thin muslin dress was of palest pink, her little satin evening slippers dyed to match, as was the ribbon in her hair, dressed in the newly fashionable Grecian knot. Perhaps Amelia’s figure was a little too full to look its best in the high-waisted style, which still seemed so strange to people of their mother’s generation, but Clarissa could see that no gentleman would cavil at being faced with such a lush display of curves.

Amelia preened in the mirror, and Clarissa sighed. Really, her sister was displaying all too much of her ample curves, even if the low décolleté was all the rage. ‘You don’t think that perhaps a fichu …’

The scornful look was answer enough. ‘Oh, very well. I hope you won’t get goose bumps!’ Clarissa tried to introduce a lighter note. There would be no getting anything out of Amelia if she was in the least lecturing. ‘At least tell me who your beau is. For you’ve made such an effort, there must be one.’

The coy look that accompanied this challenge told Clarissa that Amelia was actually bursting to tell. Perversely, she decided not to pursue the matter. ‘Of course, Amelia, I respect your confidence.’ She turned to leave.

‘No, no, I’ll tell. Well, a little. Clarrie, you just won’t believe it. I think, I’m certain—well, almost certain—that Kit Rasenby is interested. What do you think of that then?’

‘Kit Rasenby? Amelia, you don’t seriously mean the Earl of Rasenby? Surely you are mistaken?’

‘Well, I’m not, actually.’ Amelia pouted. ‘He is interested. At the Carruthers’ ball last week he danced with me three times. That’s twice more than any other lady. And he sat next to me at tea. And then I met him at the theatre when we went to that boring old play you were so desperate to see. You know, the one with that old woman in it.’

‘You mean Mrs Siddons?’ Clarissa had been keen to attend the theatre that evening. Lady Macbeth was the part for which Mrs Siddons was most famed. But Lady Maria had had one of her turns, and Clarrie had to stay home to burn feathers under her nose and dab lavender water on her temples. Clarissa was used to self-sacrifice, even though she had long ceased to believe that these ‘turns’ of her mama’s were anything more than habit. But missing the great Mrs Siddons had been a trial.

Amelia had no further interest in Mrs Siddons. ‘Yes, well, Rasenby came to our box particularly to see me. And he spoke to no one else. Chloe said he had eyes only for me all night.’

‘You mean he was eyeing you from the pit?’ Clarissa’s tone was dry. Gentlemen did not eye respectable ladies from the pit. The type of ladies eyed from the pit were not likely to be those offered matrimony.

‘And then, today,’ Amelia continued blithely, ‘when he stopped to talk with us in the park, he asked most particularly if I would be at the Jessops’ ball tonight. So, of course, I know he has intentions.’

‘Amelia, you know what those intentions are likely to be? You do know of the Earl of Rasenby’s reputation?’

‘Amelia, I’m serious.’ Clarissa might have spurned most of the invitations she received, but no one could be unaware of the reputation of the Earl of Rasenby. He was a hardened gamester and an incurable womaniser. He was enormously rich and famously handsome, although Clarissa was sceptical about this—in her view, the rich were invariably good looking. Lord Rasenby’s mistresses were notoriously beautiful and expensive, and, despite endless lures and traps, he remained determinedly unattached. Quite the perfect Gothic villain, now she thought of it.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Clarrie, do you think I’m stupid? Of course I know of his reputation. Better than you, I expect, since you’re such a prude no one would dare tell you the plain truth. But I know he likes me. A lot! I just know!’

Nothing more could be gained from Amelia, and Clarissa went to bed extremely worried. Her sister was both young and naïve, and could all too easily fall victim to the likes of Rasenby. The company Amelia was keeping, never mind her lack of dowry, was likely to ensure that any offer would be strictly dishonourable.

And if Amelia was offered a carte blanche by someone as rich as Rasenby, she would take it. Clarissa turned restlessly in her bed. It was so hard to be genteelly poor, she could understand the temptation. To a girl like Amelia, the choice between a brief career swathed in furs and silks and showered in diamonds, or a safe marriage with a no more than adequate income was an all too easy one. But life as Kit Rasenby’s mistress would be very short-lived. Amelia’s charms were those of novelty and freshness, not likely to entertain so jaded a palate as Rasenby’s for long. And who would have Amelia then? There was only one way to go, and that was down. Amelia must marry soon, preferably to someone who would take her firmly in hand. But such a person was likely to be too staid and too poor for Amelia. Even supposing she did meet this paragon, would she even look at him, when dazzled by Rasenby’s wealth?

If Amelia was ruined, Clarissa would be ruined by association. Even finding a post as governess, something to which she was daily trying to resign herself, would be difficult. At twenty-four, Clarissa had set her sights on self-sufficiency as the only way to give her some element of the freedom she craved. Aunt Constance’s offer of a home was tempting, but Clarissa knew in her heart that it would mean tying herself to another obligation, even assuming Mama was settled with Amelia.

Clarissa had always been the sensible one. Beside her sister’s vivaciousness and dazzling looks, which had been apparent from a very early age, she felt plain. Her green eyes and dark auburn curls were no match for Amelia’s milkmaid perfection. She had settled compliantly into the role of carer. When Amelia tore her dress, Clarrie stitched it. When Amelia fought with her friends, Clarrie played the peacemaker. And as she grew older, when Amelia wanted to attend parties and make her début, Clarrie scrimped and saved to provide her with the dresses and hats and all the other bits and pieces that she needed.

For years now, Lady Maria’s hopes had been pinned on Amelia making a match that would save them from poverty. Having no wish to become a burden on Amelia’s future household, and having no desire to find herself a suitable match, Clarissa had started, discreetly, looking around for a genteel position. Surrendering her own chance of matrimony was no sacrifice, for she had never met a man who had caused her heart to flutter. In fact, she had never met a man she had found interesting enough to want to get to know better in any way.

Clarissa’s pragmatic front concealed a deep romanticism that the practical side of her despised, but which she was unable to ignore. She longed for passion, love, ardour—despite trying to convince herself that they didn’t really exist! She dreamed of someone who would love her for herself, value her for what she was, not for her looks or her lineage—which was good, even if Papa’s family did refuse to own them—or even her dowry. Someone to pledge himself to her for always. Happy ever after was hardly in vogue though. Clarrie’s dreams were out of kilter with the ways of the real world. Marriage vows were taken very lightly these days—once an heir had been delivered—with affection provided by a lover rather than a husband. Clarissa couldn’t help but find such attitudes abhorrent, even if it did mean being mocked for her prudishness.

Reconciling these two sides of her nature, the practical and romantic, was difficult. Even when embroiled in reading one of the Gothic romances she adored, Clarissa found herself thinking that her own good sense would be of a lot more use in assisting the hero than the tears and fainting fits of the heroines. But resourcefulness was not a quality valued in a female, real or imaginary, nor was it much sought after in a wife. Since it seemed unlikely, in any event, that she would ever be given the opportunity to play the heroine, Clarissa had resigned herself to becoming a governess, a role which would certainly require all her resourcefulness. On that determined note, she finally fell asleep.

At breakfast the next morning, Amelia was all yawns and coy giggles. ‘Oh, Mama, we had such fun, and my new dress was much admired.’ This, with a sly look at Clarissa.

Clarissa was in no mood for Amelia’s games, having woken this morning resolved to remove her sister from the clutches of the Earl of Rasenby. By force, if necessary. ‘I can well imagine that you were admired in that dress, Amelia, for it left little to the imagination.’ Her jibe was, however, low enough to avoid being heard by Lady Maria, now deep in this morning’s post.

‘Can you doubt it? He can’t keep away, I told you. He didn’t leave my side all night, and everyone noticed.’

‘Amelia, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Everyone will be talking about you being so singled out. In fact, it seems to me that by making you so conspicuous, it is less likely that the Earl of Rasenby’s intentions are honourable. What can Mrs Barrington have been thinking, to allow it? She cannot be a suitable escort. I must speak to Mama.’

‘Clarissa, if you do any such thing, I swear, I will make you pay.’ Cornflower-blue eyes bright with intent locked on to emerald-green. ‘I don’t care what you think of Mrs Barrington, she’s all I’ve got, since you and your precious, snooty Aunt Constance are so determined not to escort me. And our dear mama won’t move beyond her drawing room, unless there’s a card table to tempt her.’

Seeing her sister’s stricken look, Amelia relented. No sense in getting Clarissa all worked up and on her high horse. ‘You know I wouldn’t do anything silly. Mrs Barrington is perfectly respectable, I promise you. And besides, for the next couple of days, I won’t be seeing Rasenby. You’re right, it won’t do to grant him too much attention, I have to keep him keen.’ And in any case, Clarrie didn’t need to know that a certain Edward was really a far more attractive companion than Kit Rasenby. Kit Rasenby was rich and powerful, but he didn’t cause her heart to flutter the way Edward did. In fact, Amelia was finding herself quite distracted by Edward, whose youthful good looks appealed so much more to her than Rasenby’s striking countenance, which could be rather intimidating. Rasenby’s wealth was losing a little of its attraction—but she was determined to give it every chance to succeed. Edward would always be there, of that she was already sure.

‘Amelia, you must know that the Earl of Rasenby won’t offer marriage. His reputation, his feelings about the state of matrimony, they are all against you. And even if he did intend to marry, it wouldn’t be to the penniless daughter of a cast-out younger son. It would be to someone with influence and money. Amelia, are you listening at all?’

‘Lord, Clarrie, you know nothing.’ Abandoning her attempt to soft-soap her sister, Amelia’s voice hardened. ‘You’re right—perhaps Rasenby’s intentions aren’t marriage.’ Well, in fact Amelia knew they weren’t, for he had already intimated his offer of a carte blanche. She had put him off, unwilling to take so irrevocable a step just yet. ‘But he’s wild about me, I know. And with a bit of luck, marriage it will be, whether he wants to or nay.’

‘Why nothing, sister dear, as yet. I don’t have to. I merely have to click my fingers and he comes running. And if I click and he runs into a—well, shall we say, compromising situation?—then that’s his misfortune. And best for me, too.’

‘Amelia! The Earl of Rasenby is highly unlikely to fall for that. Why there must have been countless such traps set for him over the years, and never a whiff of him anywhere near wed. Please, I beg of you, stay away from him.’

‘Well, I won’t. At least, yes, I will, for a couple of days. Just to keep him on tenterhooks.’ Amelia slanted another glance at Clarrie’s face. Her sister really was such a prude.

‘Do you love him? Is that it?’ Clarissa was struggling to come to terms with this new, hard Amelia. She had always been determined to have her own way, but she had never before been so openly scheming. If Clarissa had known that her sister was trying desperately to suppress her feelings for Edward Brompton, she would have been less concerned.

‘Life isn’t one of your romances, you know. Love is such an outmoded emotion when it comes to marriage. I can stomach him well enough to bed him, if that’s what you mean. And, of course, his money makes him more attractive than he would be under other circumstances. After all, he’s quite old.’

‘Old? You talk about him as if he’s in his dotage. Why, he can’t be more than five and thirty. And if you loved him, his age would mean nothing. Now tell me straight, do you love him?’

‘Clarrie, I tell you straight, I do not.’ Amelia was enjoying shocking her sister. ‘Love, I will save for my beaux after we are wed. It’s what everyone does. Rasenby will no doubt carry on with his lightskirts, so why should I not do the same? I shall take great pleasure, though, in ousting that supercilious Charlotte du Pres from her position as his mistress. And I suppose I’ll need to provide an heir first.’ Realising she’d gone a bit too far, Amelia patted Clarrie’s hand in a conciliatory way. ‘I’m not a little girl any more. I can look after myself. And I know what I’m doing, I promise.’ No need to let Clarrie know that the carte blanche would still be considered if her other plan failed. One way or another, she’d get her hands on a large part of Rasenby’s wealth. But for now, she wanted to think only of the thrill of meeting Edward again. ‘Let us find out what Mama has found so distracting that she has paid no heed at all to our conversation.’

Lady Maria was certainly absorbed in her post, one letter in particular holding her attention. There were plenty of others, but they were all bills. Bills that she had no means of paying. Those relating to the house and to Amelia’s dresses she would hand over to Clarissa to deal with. But they were insignificant compared to her mounting gambling debts—and of these, Clarissa must be allowed no inkling. She returned again to the note from the owner of the discreet gaming house she had been frequenting of late. The sum that she owed frightened her. The letter was subtly threatening.

‘Mama, what is it that you find so interesting in that letter? Clarrie and I have been plotting away, and you haven’t even looked up.’

At this, Lady Maria gave a nervous start. ‘What? Oh, nothing, nothing. No indeed, nothing for you girls to worry about.’ Her slightly protuberant blue eyes blinked out at her daughters. Nervously, she licked her lips, and produced a somewhat ragged smile. ‘Now, dears, what is it you were plotting?’

‘Silly Mama, only what I would wear to the theatre tonight. For I’m going out with Chloe you know, and her mama, to the new farce. Chloe’s brother and that nice Mr Brompton are escorting us.’

‘Will they be calling for you here, dearest?’ Lady Maria had just remembered a hint from Mrs Barrington, that there were means of paying a lady’s debts that she could help—discreetly—with. ‘Then I’d like a word with her myself. Just to thank her for her attentions to you, Amelia dear. She’s been so good taking you out to parties when my health won’t hold up.’

Lady Maria gathered together her post. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I have one of my heads. Clarrie, do give my regards to your Aunt Constance, I know you’ll do all that is right.’ And with that, she left for the sanctity of her bedchamber with its carefully drawn blinds, and the ministering of her dear, faithful maid.

‘Are you going to see Aunt Constance, then? Rather you than me, I can’t abide her sermonising. I’m off for a walk in the park with Chloe.’ Looking back at her sister, still seated at the table, Amelia laughed once more. ‘Clarrie do stop looking so serious. I know what I’m doing, and that should be enough for you. You should get out more yourself, you know. Even at your age, your looks are more than passable, as long as you don’t stand too close to me. I could find you someone suitable.’

‘Thank you, Amelia,’ Clarissa responded drily, ‘but I’m quite content as I am.’

The visit to her aunt only confirmed Clarissa’s worst fears. Lady Constance Denby lived semi-retired from society, but this didn’t stop her keeping close tabs on the latest on dits, and today one of them concerned Amelia.

‘Well, my dear, I am sorry to have to tell you that your sister is raising a few eyebrows.’

They were settled in Lady Constance’s breakfast room, taking morning coffee. Clarissa loved this room, with its beautifully polished rosewood tables, the cabinets crammed with her aunt’s collection of delicate porcelain. The loud ticking of the clock on the mantel, and the scent from the apple wood burning in the hearth were deeply comforting.

Her aunt had been widowed very young—before Clarissa ever remembered an uncle—and, despite numerous offers, had never married again. Her beloved husband had been a rising star in the House of Lords, and Constance had remained faithful to his memory in retaining her widowed status, as well as her avid interest in current affairs. Lady Constance was a beautiful woman, with a little of Clarissa’s colouring, although the vivid auburn of her hair had faded now, and was confined beneath her habitual widow’s cap. She had been formidable, too, in her brief time as a political hostess, although that, also, had been given up upon the occasion of her husband’s death. Having shared something so special, she had told Clarissa once, even for so brief a time, had been enough.

Tact, and a natural reticence, prevented Lady Constance, over the years, from being too critical of Clarissa’s mother and sister. She was all too aware of how badly her own family had treated them when James, her dear brother, had died. She found Maria tedious, and Amelia wilful, but she was very fond of Clarissa, and hated not being able to do more for her than provide this sanctuary whenever her niece paid her a call.

And today the talk would be upsetting—but that couldn’t be helped. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Letitia Marlborough, Kit Rasenby’s sister, is one of my friends. A flighty thing before she was married and produced that brood of hers, but still, I’ve known her for ever, and keep on good terms with her.’ Lady Constance waited, but Clarissa had no comment to make.

‘Well, Letitia has it on the best of authority that your sister is Kit Rasenby’s latest flirt. In fact, she believes he intends to set her up as his mistress.’

Lady Constance sipped her coffee, and considered Clarissa’s reaction. No surprise there, only worry. So, there was truth in it. Well, she needed to warn Clarissa in plain language. Amelia was heading for a fall, and Lady Constance could only do her best to ensure that Clarissa was not to be tainted by association. Amelia would go to the bad, she was sure of it. But Clarissa deserved better.

‘I take it that this comes as no surprise to you, Clarissa dear? Has Amelia mentioned Lord Rasenby then?’

Lady Constance gave a bark of laughter at this. ‘Is that what she called him? Your sister, my dear, seems determined to take the road to ruin. And if you don’t take me up on my offer to come and live here, she’ll take you with her.’

‘Aunt, please, let us not discuss this again at present. I am overwhelmed at the generosity of your offer, indeed I am. But until Amelia is settled, and my mama with her, I can’t desert them.’ Green eyes pleaded for sympathy. ‘Aunt Constance, you do understand, don’t you?’

Clarissa was so very much like her papa when she looked up, that Lady Constance caught her breath for a second. Those huge eyes set in her heart-shaped face were all feminine, but the appeal, and the colouring, they were so like James. If only he had been of a stronger constitution—and a stronger character—then perhaps they wouldn’t be in this mess. But to have eloped with Maria, a mere nobody, when he should have made a good match! Well, it was done now, and James long dead. All she could do was protect his child from some of the harshness of the world.

But to do that, she had to save her from her sister and her mama. Lady Constance patted Clarissa’s hand reassuringly. She was four and twenty, but had seen so little of the world. ‘Of course I understand, my dear, you must know that you will always find a home here, no matter what.’

‘But to return to the subject of Amelia, as unfortunately we must, I have to tell you, Clarissa, that I am very concerned.’ Lady Constance was brisk now. Straight talking was required, although she was loath to do it. ‘The Earl of Rasenby’s reputation is extremely bad, you know.’

‘I am aware of Lord Rasenby’s reputation, ma’am, but surely he cannot be as bad as they say?’

‘Child, I know not what you have heard, but believe me, whatever it is, Kit’s behaviour is worse. He has been one of the ton for nigh on fifteen years, and master of a huge fortune for longer, his papa having unfortunately died when he was still at school. His papa, such a very dreadful man, broke his neck when he was thrown from his horse riding to the hounds. He was a bruising rider by all accounts, but they say he was in his cups at the time. Mind you, there was rarely a day when he was ever anything else. Hardly a role model for his only son. Although, to be fair, Kit seems to be rather more sober and certainly more discriminating than his father. But there is no getting away from it Clarissa, his tastes are still very, very low!’

With pursed lips, Lady Constance poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘I will not sully your ears with the details, there is no need for that. But this I will say. It is not just the usual, opera dancers and mistresses. He is wild. Too quick to quarrel and too slow to make up. If you ask me, he has too little to occupy him. I have often thought he could make a most excellent politician.’

Lady Constance paused to sip her coffee, gazing into the fireplace. It was her one regret, not having a son. Not for an instant would she have wished a Kit Rasenby on herself, but a child in the image of her dear husband would have been a precious gift. Still, it had not happened. And here was Clarissa, someone who did need her help and protection. Lady Constance brought her attention firmly back to the matter in hand. ‘I beg your pardon, Clarissa, we were talking of Kit Rasenby. Despite all I have said, he is still seen as a good catch by some. Yet he has avoided matrimony until now, and is like to continue to do so. Letitia tells me he is happy for Jeremy, her son, to inherit, and cares naught for the line continuing from him. It is perhaps as well.’

Lady Constance paused, once again assessing the effect on her niece. Clarissa was looking thoughtful rather than shocked.

‘Aunt, I am aware of much of what you have told me, although I do truly find it hard to believe that anyone could be all bad.’ She held up her hand and gave her aunt a small smile to forestall any intervention. ‘I know, you think I’m naïve, but I do like to think there is some good in everyone. However, that is not the point, since I have never met Lord Rasenby.’

Clarissa thought over her next words carefully. ‘There is some truth in the rumours, I’m afraid. Amelia has been much in Lord Rasenby’s company, and I fear his intentions cannot be honourable, no matter what Amelia may believe. She has no love for him, but I think she is deeply flattered, and is fooling herself into thinking he may offer matrimony. I think that she must come to accept that it cannot be so.’

‘My dear Clarissa, you underrate your sister. She is, I have no doubt at all, fully aware that Kit Rasenby can intend only a carte blanche. Which she will accept, should no other more honourable offer come her way. Your sister, whether you want to believe it or not, is avaricious before anything else. There, plain speaking indeed, but you must be made to realise it.’

‘Aunt, I know you think no good of Amelia.’ Clarissa blinked, trying to quieten the little voice in her head that told her Lady Constance was articulating Clarissa’s own fears. Lady Constance had said only what she already knew. ‘Perhaps what you say is true. But I am certain that I can prevent her ruining herself with Lord Rasenby. She is a child, she is simply beguiled by his charm and his wealth.’

‘No, no. No, of course I won’t be foolish.’ The slight laugh with which she attempted to carry off the denial fell rather flat, and Clarissa bit her lip. She could never lie. She had the makings of a plan which Aunt Constance would certainly call foolish, but she needed to think it through.

‘Enough of my imprudent sister, I have to tell you that I am not at all impressed with Udolpho.’ Clarissa rushed into a dissection of Mrs Radcliffe’s novel in an effort to distract her aunt from further enquiries. Lady Constance was, rather to her shame, an avid fan of Mrs Radcliffe, and allowed herself to be diverted into a spirited defence. The two parted on excellent terms.

Mulling over her aunt’s words later, however, confirmed Clarissa in her resolution. She must separate Amelia from Lord Rasenby, and that would require desperate action, for Amelia must not know that she was being thwarted. Amelia would accept a carte blanche from Lord Rasenby, Clarissa no longer doubted it. And she knew, in her heart, that whatever plan Amelia had to trap him into marriage would fail. Aunt Constance would not have been so blunt with Clarissa had she been less sure. So she had to prevent both Amelia’s plot and Lord Rasenby’s offer.

A flicker of excitement rippled through her at the thought of taking action. It was as if she was waking from sleep, preparing for the challenge to come. Telling herself that it was the thrill of rescuing her sister, and nothing to do with meeting so notorious a man, Clarissa started to formulate her plan. The first requirement was to meet with Lord Rasenby in order to determine for herself just how much danger Amelia was in. And Clarrie knew just how to effect that meeting.

With a fast-beating heart, she flicked through the pile of invitations on the desk in the morning room. Yes, there it was, discarded at the bottom of the pile. Lady Teasborough was a friend of Aunt Constance, and had no doubt sent the invite at her request. A masked ball. Clarrie would go—incognito, and on her own.

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Date with a Regency Rake: The Wicked Lord Rasenby / The Rake's Rebellious Lady - Carol Townend - Date with aRegencyRake The WickedLord Rasenby Marguerite Kaye The Rake’sRebellious Lady Anne Herries Читать онлайн любовный роман

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