The Royal Rakes: Waking Up With A Rake Part 2

Except that I'm an attractive-enough-for-ordinary-purposes virgin who just happens to be worth forty thousand pounds per annum danced on her tongue. Remembering her mother crouched at the keyhole, Olivia bit back the words.

"It's wicked to wager," she said primly and wished she hadn't. For heaven's sake, I sound like a Puritan, at war with every conceivable pleasure.

His smile was more potent than a pilfered jigger of whisky. "Gambling is the least of my sins, I a.s.sure you."

She added a dollop of cream to her tea, set down the creamer, and stirred furiously. His frank admission shocked her to her toes. And sent a strange little thrill coursing through her belly. To be wicked and willing to admit it. Now, that was an accomplishment. She burned to ask about his greater failings, but her eavesdropping mother would want her to stick to the main topic of conversation.

"What sort of things would the duke like to know about me?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure," Lord Rhys said. "It's hard to say what such lofty persons might find of interest. You see, like you, I am technically a commoner. The 'Lord' affixed to my name is merely a courtesy. My older brother will inherit my father's marquisate, and I'm left to make my way in the world however I may."

His openness was surprisingly refres.h.i.+ng. "Such as serving as the duke's proxy."

"Exactly."

"Have you always been part of the Royal Court?" She knew the Prince Regent liked to surround himself with pretty women, but she doubted he'd suffer such a remarkable male specimen in his entourage.

"Lord, no. That's for much more exalted folk than I."

Just when Olivia thought he couldn't be more appealing, a devastating dimple appeared on his left cheek. But even more than his charming appearance, she liked his self-deprecating directness. A commoner, he'd said.

Just like her.

"Let me hazard a guess then," she said, surprised to find she'd relaxed enough to enjoy this interview. "As a second son, your options are somewhat limited. You don't seem the sort to go for the church."

"One lump, if you please," he said, though she'd quite forgotten about the tea. "Why do you say that?"

Olivia wished she'd stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth before she allowed such a foolish thing to spill out. She couldn't very well admit he'd lead his female paris.h.i.+oners into sinful thoughts during each Sunday sermon simply by virtue of his handsome face and deep, whisky-tinged voice.

"You don't seem the scholarly sort," she said, grasping at any reason but the real one as she dropped a brown lump into his teacup using her mother's elegantly filigreed tongs.

"Surprisingly enough, I did graduate top of my cla.s.s, but you're right about me and the Church," he admitted. "I have no calling to become a country parson. When all else fails, too many gentlemen in my situation turn to that living without the requisite pa.s.sion for it, and I would not be one of them."

Just hearing him say the word "pa.s.sion" brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. She added two more lumps of sugar before she remembered he'd only asked for one.

"A man of action, then," she guessed, handing the cup and saucer to him and hoping he wouldn't notice the additional sweetness. She wasn't usually so addlepated. What on earth was wrong with her? "You've borne arms for the sake of our king, I'll wager."

A shadow seemed to pa.s.s behind his eyes, but it was gone so quickly Olivia decided she'd imagined it. He leaned forward, elbows balanced on his knees. "I thought you said it was wicked to gamble."

Olivia knotted her fingers together. "A figure of speech. I didn't mean anything by it. There is no true wager unless stakes are agreed upon."

"An important distinction." He nodded. "I'll bear that in mind. But you're right. I was a captain in His Majesty's forces but have since resigned my commission."

"Now that we have settled matters with the French, I suppose there was little to keep you thus engaged," she said, liking him even better for his military service. "And now you meet prospective brides for royal dukes for a living."

"For the moment, though it should please you to know that I am not being compensated for my service. I...volunteered," he said. "I don't wish to shock you, Miss Symon, but I believe honesty is the best foundation for a friends.h.i.+p. Given your abhorrence for gambling, you may despise me for this, but I must admit that I usually do support myself by being lucky at cards."

Her mother would have had to whip out her smelling salts at such an admission, but Olivia was more struck by his suggestion that they might become friends.

Was it possible that a man and woman could form such an unusual bond? She'd never heard of the like. Men befriended men at their clubs. Women exchanged social visits in their homes. The s.e.xes rarely interacted except for courts.h.i.+p, and then once the wedding took place, it was an extraordinary marriage that could also count itself friendly. Even her mother and father addressed each other as Mr. or Mrs. Symon instead of by their Christian names.

"I've heard plenty of cautionary tales about people who've squandered their living at cards, but never of anyone who kept body and soul together with it," she said, anxious to keep this unusual conversation going. "Surely gambling isn't your sole occupation?"

"Not at all. I also drink and carouse and engage in any number of questionable pursuits," he said with a crooked grin. Then he took a sip of his over-sweetened tea and the grin became a grimace. "I am, in fact, an incurable rake. A dedicated libertine. You may ask anyone."

"Since you've been so forthright, there's no need for me to ask, is there?" She ought to have been scandalized, but instead, she was intrigued by his confession. "It's one thing to be wicked. Another to be unabashedly so. I shall consider myself duly warned of you, sir."

"Good. You should be." Something flashed in the depths of his dark eyes that she couldn't decipher, then it dissolved when another winning smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Now it's my turn to guess about you."

"Very well, though I warn you there's nothing in my life remotely as interesting as being an incurable rake and dedicated libertine."

As soon as the words were out, she clamped a hand over her mouth. They were unladylike in the extreme. She expected to hear a dull thump on the other side of the door at any moment. If her mother truly was listening at the keyhole, she'd undoubtedly faint dead away.

Lord Rhys merely laughed. "You've made my task too easy. I perceive that you, Miss Symon, are a woman of strong opinions and do not hesitate to express them."

"Guilty as charged." She buried her nose in her teacup.

"You also have a consuming interest in something that takes you outdoors, even on bl.u.s.tery January days."

"How could you know that?"

"A charming smattering of freckles on your cheeks," he said. "Plus, there's a smudge of dirt on your right sleeve near the elbow. Potting soil?"

"Yes." She set down her teacup and rubbed vigorously at the offending smudge. So he had looked at more of her than her face, though she hadn't caught him at it.

"An excellent gardener then," he said, leaning back and c.o.c.king his head at her quizzically. "But I sense your interest runs even deeper than most."

Did this man have a way to tap into her private thoughts? "Again, you are correct. I love green growing things, but I also study them. I'm fascinated by the way they flourish and by the mult.i.tudinous variety of them."

"What are your favorite types?"

"Orchids," she said quickly.

"Aren't they parasitic? You don't strike me as the type who'd champion an organism that survives by taking from others."

"While it's true some orchids thrive anch.o.r.ed to the bark of trees, most merely cling to their host without taking nourishment from it. Rather like a sparrow alighting on a twig, actually," she said. "There are a few species that are parasitic, but they grow below ground. And I've read that they smell like something rotten. Not at all the type I'd choose to cultivate."

His mouth twitched, and the smile she'd found so engaging no longer reached his eyes. "Very wise of you not to cultivate types who prey on others."

Olivia had heard that conversations at court were often laced with double meaning, but she couldn't imagine what cryptic message he might be trying to send with this one.

"Nevertheless, I find raising orchids most agreeable," she said, taking up her cup and saucer again. It was a very small s.h.i.+eld, but she sheltered behind the fine Limoges. Until she figured this man out, it seemed safer.

"I'd imagine so, all that pollinating and germinating and whatnot. And I find it most agreeable that a young lady such as yourself isn't put off by such close acquaintance with reproduction." A hint of sin returned to his smile. "Is it true that orchids take their name from the Greek word for a certain part of male anatomy?"

Olivia choked on her surprise.

And her tea.

Lord Rhys was on his feet in a trice, thumping her back and lifting her arms over her head. She sputtered for a good half-minute, then finally caught her breath. Olivia pulled her hands away from him and bent to retrieve the cup and saucer that had landed in a damp puddle on her mother's Aubusson carpet.

"Thank you, my lord." Her cheeks flamed with embarra.s.sment. "I'm quite recovered."

"I can see I've shocked you," he said as he returned to the settee. "Forgive me. I naturally a.s.sumed your familiarity with plants and their procreation would cause you to take a liberal view of what const.i.tutes acceptable topics to be discussed between friends."

"That presupposes that we are friends."

"Do you think we're not?" he said, leaning back and hooking an ankle over his knee, clearly at ease. He spread his arms across the back of the settee, filling the s.p.a.ce and the room so completely Olivia had difficulty drawing breath. And not just from choking on the tea. "I'd hate for that to be true. I can't tell you the last time I enjoyed a conversation with a young lady quite so much. Do you find me irksome?"

Despite his inappropriate comments, she couldn't find him so. She almost wished she did. In addition to the fluttering in her chest, the hair on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kled. If she'd been a wild creature, she didn't know whether she'd be drawn to him like a moth to flame or run like a hind that catches wind of hunting dogs.

"No, my lord," she said. "I doubt any lady of your acquaintance finds you irksome."

"I'm gratified to hear it. In that case, would you do me a favor?"

"If I can."

"Oh, you can. The question is whether or not you will."

She s.h.i.+fted on her seat, wis.h.i.+ng she could rise, but then he'd have to stand as well. He dominated the room while merely sitting. How much more commanding would he be if she had to crane her neck to peer up at his handsome face? "You've made this favor sound rather wicked, my lord."

"Not at all. It's just that when you call me 'my lord' it seems so stuffy, especially since I don't truly deserve it," he said. "I was wondering if you'd consider calling me Rhys instead."

Olivia couldn't remain seated after that. She rose and wandered toward the window to put a bit more distance between them. "That's a rather unusual request."

The sharp clack of his boots on marble announced that he had followed her. She plopped down in the center of the window seat, trying to claim all the s.p.a.ce.

"And here I thought you were a rather unusual girl." His knowing look dared her to flout convention.

Agreeing to such familiarity was the sort of thing that would turn her mother's complexion an unhealthy shade of puce.

Of course, that only made the notion harder to resist.

"We would have to make a pact. It could only be when we are alone, you understand," she said, considering the idea so seriously she wasn't immediately aware of when he sat down beside her. "And I suppose to be fair I would have to give you leave to call me Olivia as well. But there could be no slips in public."

"Perhaps we should wager on it in order to insure that we keep the pact," Lord Rhys said. He wasn't touching her at all. There was a good inch separating them, but his heat radiated toward her, sending a tingle up her thigh. "The one who uses a Christian name in public owes the other...what?"

"Not money," she said, forgetting for the moment that she held wagers of any kind to be morally wrong. Besides, she wasn't likely to call him Rhys unless she was absolutely certain no one was about. If she couldn't lose, surely it wasn't really gambling. "My family has buckets of it, and you support yourself by the turn of a card, so wagering money doesn't seem particularly fair."

"Very well, let us leave it that the offending party would owe one as yet undetermined favor, which we would be honor-bound to fulfill, whatever it is." He c.o.c.ked his head slightly. "Do we have an accord?"

"We do." She nodded, wondering what an undetermined favor from a confessed libertine and incurable rake might entail. If the roiling in her belly was any indication, it promised to be wildly diverting and probably more than a little sinful.

A secret part of her burned with curiosity.

"Well, this has been most enjoyable, Olivia," he said, caressing her name with his silky baritone. Then he consulted his pocket watch. "I fear I've monopolized far too much of your time this afternoon, and a friend shouldn't impose. I must be going now, but I wonder if I might return on the morrow to continue our discussion." He closed the pocket watch face with a snap and stowed it away. "Perhaps at that time you might show me your orchids."

Unlike the duke's previous representative, this man had made Olivia sorry to see him go, even if he had made her choke on her tea and was sitting too close for her comfort. "Of course, my lo-I mean, Rhys. But my plants aren't much to see at present, it being wintertime. My work now amounts to merely laying the groundwork for blossoms in the spring."

"I understand. I'm undertaking a project of a similar nature. One that requires careful planning and strategy so the going may seem slow at first. But one must walk before one runs." He stood. "Then perhaps instead you might show me over the grounds. The estate here at Barrowdell has many lovely features, I'm told. Do you ride?"

Olivia nodded and rose to her feet. She felt far more at home on the back of a horse than in a parlor exchanging niceties. Especially slightly wicked niceties with a man who didn't realize the window seat should have only accommodated one.

"Good," he said. "We can get some fresh air, some exercise, and it will give me a chance to call you by your Christian name without fear of slipping in public."

"You don't want to lose the wager."

"No, I'm counting on you to do that," he said with a laugh. "Let's make it early, shall we? Say, eight o'clock?"

"Good. I'm a bit of a lark. An early ride suits me." She extended a hand to him, palm correctly down. She hadn't done so at their meeting, but it seemed right now. After all, they were going to be friends. "It would be my honor to show you over Barrowdell."

"No, the honor is mine." Rhys Warrington took her hand and instead of bowing over it, he brought it to his lips. He planted a soft kiss at the juncture between her fore and middle fingers. A little thrill zinged up her arm and warmed her belly. His breath feathered over the back of her bare hand, setting every nerve dancing.

It had been a huge mistake not letting her mother dress her after all, she realized. Beatrice Symon never would have forgotten to make sure she donned a pair of gloves. Then she wouldn't have found herself teetering on a precipice, about to tumble into a pair of brown eyes.

Lord Rhys looked down at Olivia over her knuckles.

"There's one more thing I'd like to guess about you, if I may," he said, his voice a rumbling purr.

"What's that?" she whispered, grateful her voice even worked. A strange warmth pooled between her legs.

"You have no idea how lovely you really are." He kissed her hand once more and held her with an intense gaze. "Until tomorrow then, my dear Olivia."

Chapter 4.

Rhys strode out the ma.s.sive double doors of Barrowdell Manor and into the frosty air. He narrowly resisted the urge to swear as he mounted the deep-chested bay while his servant, Mr. Clyde, held the horse's head for him.

"I'm going to h.e.l.l," he muttered.

"a.s.suredly, my lord," Clyde said agreeably as he hauled his wiry frame up onto his piebald cob and fell into a jolting trot beside Rhys. "If I may make so bold as to ask, why are you bound for perdition this time?"

"I warned her," Rhys said with frustration. Why did she have to smell like alyssums? His mother lined every walkway in her garden with the sweet-smelling flower. The scent always took him home. The home that was now closed as tightly against him as the gates of Heaven. "I told the chit straight out what I was-gambler, drinker, rake, libertine-and she didn't turn a hair."

"Perhaps the lady is...well, less ladylike than the duke's advisors believe."

"No, she's the genuine article," Rhys said. "No one can feign a blush. Olivia Symon turned pink as a dandy's waistcoat pretty d.a.m.ned convincingly several times. She's exactly what she seems-a total innocent."

I'm the one who's a fraud. He'd thought he despised himself when he woke in a brothel one day with no recollection of the previous fortnight. His self-loathing then was nothing compared to the weight of guilt pressing on him now.

She'd melted when he kissed her hand, like frost sizzling away in suns.h.i.+ne. If he'd pressed the issue, he could have kissed her rosebud of a mouth as well. Judging from the tremble he detected in her fingers, she was ripe for it. Rhys had an almost sixth sense when it came to feminine arousal. When the time came, he doubted Olivia Symon would put up much of a protest.

"If it not be impertinent to ask, milord, why did the Duke of Clarence choose you to court the lady for him?"