The Dutiful Rake

It was said quietly but with finality.

“Will you at least listen to my reasons for offering you the protection of my name?”

“My lord…”

“Marc,” he corrected her softly. “Marriage is the only way I can protect you. In return for my name and protection you will give me your discretion and children.”

“I
cannot
accept!” Meg’s voice wobbled. “You…you are offering certainties in return for something I do not know if I can—” She stopped, very embarrassed. But he had understood.

“You do not know if you can have children? Is that it?” Marc smiled wryly. “My dear
that
would be a problem no matter who I married.”

“But…”

“Marry me, Meg.” His voice was low and persuasive.

She stared up at him. He meant it. He really did wish her to marry him. It would be a bargain between them.

The Dutiful Rake
Harlequin Historical

B
eguiling green eyes glimmered up into cold light grey as Lady Hartleigh circled the crowded floor in the powerful arms of Marcus Langley, Earl of Rutherford. That tall, lithe figure seemed perfectly indifferent to the sylph-like form in its sheath of gold silk. Not the most censorious of Almack’s patronesses could have found anything to cavil at in the way they danced. His lordship kept a proper distance at all times, his thighs did not brush against her ladyship’s skirts, his hand remained just above her waist as was considered decent and they chatted unconcernedly without gazing passionately into each other’s eyes.

For all that, several haughty dames cast outraged glances in their direction, albeit surreptitiously. After all, if the rumours were true and Marcus really was considering marriage at long last, then the last thing anyone wanted to do was offend him. He was one of the richest prizes on the Marriage Mart and it was not only his positively indecent fortune that made him so eligible.

There was the title as well—one of the oldest and most illustrious in the realm. Add to that his lordship’s
undeniable good looks, prowess as a sportsman and his elegance of dress and it was no wonder that so many lures should have been thrown out to him over the years since he’d returned from serving with Wellington’s forces. Lures which had been totally ignored. Until now.

At five and thirty the Earl was marked as a confirmed bachelor. No one could ever remember him showing the slightest interest in any marriageable female. He preferred to live a life of hedonistic pleasure when in the capital, which was only during the spring anyway. The rest of the year he seemed quite happy to spend largely on one or another of his estates, which were scattered around the country.

Tales had drifted back to town about house parties held at those mansions. House parties at which no respectable female was to be seen. For it was not to be thought that his lordship had no interest in women. Quite the opposite. He was a most dangerous and accomplished rake. Husbands might well look to their errant wives when he was around, although, to his credit, it was said that he had no interest in seducing the young and innocent, nor would he pursue any lady whose husband was likely to take a dim view of the matter. Widows, of course, were considered fair game.

Those more cynical, or better acquainted with his lordship, averred that his avoidance of innocent young things sprang not from motives of chivalry, but from a complete lack of interest coupled with a well-developed instinct for self-preservation. He had absolutely no desire to find himself trapped into marriage with one of the fashionable society virgins launched on the Polite World each spring.

Nevertheless, despite his appalling reputation, his title, looks, charm and above all fortune rendered him an
eminently acceptable suitor to the highest of sticklers. So to see him dancing with Lady Hartleigh, a widow of somewhat dubious reputation and scanty jointure but unbounded ambition, was enough to send ripples of conjecture eddying around the assembly rooms.

Lord Rutherford’s elder sister, Lady Diana Carlton, viewed her brother’s interest in the lovely widow with extreme disapprobation.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she said in tones of vexation to Jack Hamilton, who was sitting out the dance with her. ‘What next will he do? Surely he doesn’t intend to marry
her!’

Hamilton held his tongue but Lady Diana knew her brother’s best friend too well to be deflected by his silence.

‘Jack, you must know what he intends!’ said Lady Diana. ‘You even have some influence with him. Which is more than anyone else can boast. Say something!’

Jack Hamilton looked down at her in some amusement and said, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Di. After all, you and Lady Grafton managed to get him as far as thinking of marriage. Quite an achievement, that.’

The grey eyes, so like her brother’s, snapped fire at this innocent-seeming disclaimer. “You know perfectly well that Aunt Regina and I never meant him to consider Althea Hartleigh as his
wife.’

‘Precisely,’ said Hamilton drily. ‘Which is why I have every intention of keeping my mouth shut. Unless, of course, Marc happens to raise the subject with me. If he asks me what I think, then I’ll tell him. Otherwise I shall mind my own business.’

There were very few people from whom Lady Diana would have taken that. Fortunately for himself, Jack Hamilton was one of the privileged few.

She sighed. ‘I suppose you mean that he is doing this just to vex us. Do you happen to know how far he means to go?’ A delicate hand was laid on Hamilton’s sleeve. ‘You know, Jack, the title must not be allowed to pass to our cousin Aubrey. He is a dear, but quite unsuited to the responsibility. And he doesn’t even desire it. Marc must marry! You know he must.’

Hamilton nodded. ‘He knows it too. But he has no desire to wed for any other reason than to beget an heir. I fancy he hoped Aubrey might prove a suitable heir. Lord knows the lad’s steady enough, but all he wants to do is remain in Oxford with his books and fellowship. Frankly, if I were you, Di, I should leave well alone.’ He hesitated and then went on. ‘The reason I have some influence with Marc is because I…er…don’t beat him over the head with it.’

Lady Diana stared up at him. ‘But…’

He nodded. ‘Leave it alone, Di. He knows he has to marry. He knew that without you and Lady Grafton descending upon him to demand he secure the succession!’

She grimaced. ‘That was Aunt Regina’s notion. She favours the direct method.’

‘Mmm. Rather like a brace of nine-pounders,’ agreed Hamilton.

The grey eyes glared at him unsuccessfully and then twinkled ruefully. ‘Thank you, Jack. Your compliments have always the charm of originality.’

He grinned and said comfortably, ‘Naturally. That’s why I’m still a bachelor.’ He turned his head as a tall, exquisitely garbed gentleman joined them. ‘Hullo, Toby! What the devil are you doing here? Dancing’s a little energetic for you, isn’t it?’

Sir Toby Carlton, Lady Diana’s husband, shuddered
artistically. ‘Perish the thought! Really, Jack—it’s exhausting enough just watching Marc whirling Lady Hartleigh around. Let alone hearing Di cursing about it.’ He cast his wife an affectionate grin. His lazy, effete pose was just that—a pose. One that amused everyone, himself included.

He viewed his brother-in-law and his fair partner critically. ‘Shouldn’t have thought he was any more interested in her than any other female he’s bedded over the years. Less, possibly.’

‘True,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘But if I’m not much mistaken, that is precisely the danger. He doesn’t want to care—doesn’t want anyone that close.’

His gaze went to the tawny head that towered over nearly every other man in the room. The waltz had just ended and Marc was escorting his lovely partner to the refreshment rooms. He frowned slightly. As little as Lady Diana did he wish to see his best friend throw himself away on Althea Hartleigh.

It was not the fact that he knew her to be Marc’s mistress already. If he thought that she and Marc were in love, he would not have given a damn. And he did Lady Diana the credit to know she would have accepted it as well. It was just that he wished Marc could find someone to care for. Someone who could break through that impenetrable wall of reserve with which his lordship held most of the world at bay.

Marriage with a woman who would betray him at the first opportunity was not likely to achieve that. Quite the reverse!

His thoughts were interrupted by Lady Diana. ‘Oh, curse it! Here comes Sally Jersey. No doubt she will have something to say.’

The Countess of Jersey sailed up to them. ‘How
charming! Old friends having a comfortable cose! Good evening, Di. And Toby! How tiring for you! Dear Jack! To what do we owe the pleasure? Are you on the catch as well as Marc? I vow that would be too good to be true…’

Jack Hamilton eyed her thoughtfully and said simply, ‘Sally, bite your tongue.’ Again his position as the head of an old, if untitled, and horrendously wealthy family saved him from annihilation.

Lady Jersey pouted and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, very well! I dare say the last thing needed is for anyone to tell Marc his business!’ She added shrewdly, ‘No doubt it would only encourage him!’

She rustled away and Sir Toby heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God! She’s even more tiring than a waltz!’

Diana giggled and said, ‘Darling, you really are dreadful. What if she’d heard you?’

Sir Toby grinned. ‘My dear, I’d simply tell her that I’m saving my energies. For later.’

Lord Rutherford, having procured a glass of orgeat for Lady Hartleigh, was idly surveying the assembled throng and wondering how soon he could politely take his leave. Having done what he came to do—namely stir up all the tabbies and give his sister a nasty shock—he could see little reason for remaining.

He slanted a considering glance down at Lady Hartleigh who was sipping her orgeat unconcernedly. No, he could hardly escort her home. That would be going too far, even for him.

‘Shall I see anything of you in the next week, Marcus?’ Her soft, caressing voice held only idle curiosity, but the green eyes betrayed a whole world of meaning.

He knew perfectly well what she wished to know. When did he mean to take his pleasure with her again? Thoughtfully he gave the question at least half of his attention.

Then, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, he said, ‘I have to go out of town tomorrow, Althea. Estate business in Yorkshire. It will take me about three weeks, I should think. Sorry.’

‘Three weeks?’ She pouted. ‘An eternity! Cannot your agent deal with it? I am sure Hartleigh never concerned himself as you do.’ Her discontent with his conviction that he must take a personal hand in any and every matter pertaining to his large and scattered properties was obvious.

‘Very likely not,’ replied Rutherford coldly. He did not consider the way in which the late Lord Hartleigh had run his property to be an example for his emulation. ‘And in this case I have to see the property. I have only just inherited it and I understand it to be in a disgraceful state.’

‘Then why bother?’ Her ivory brow puckered in genuine puzzlement. ‘Surely you can just sell it and pocket the proceeds.’

‘No, I can’t.’

His chiselled lips closed firmly, and Lady Hartleigh recognised at once that he was decided. No amount of cajolery or teasing on her part would change his mind. She might as well accept the inevitable. Besides, he would come back positively eager for her favours and there was no saying what he might not be inveigled into after three weeks of celibacy.

She did not delude herself that he was attached enough to her personally to eschew other women, but she was tolerably certain that if he were engaged on
business he would have little time to pursue any passing fancy. If, indeed, there were anything to tempt him up in the wilds of Yorkshire. She could imagine nothing more unlikely than Marcus showing any interest in a rustic.

His lordship looked down at her with a faint smile. ‘Just so, my dear. And when I return I think we must have a little discussion about the future.’

‘The future?’ Lady Hartleigh tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice. Could he possibly mean…? Despite her hopes she had not seriously believed he could really be considering marriage. Cold triumph blazed in her lowered eyes. This would be an achievement indeed.

‘The future,’ he repeated blandly. Then a steely note crept into his voice. ‘So do…er…look after yourself, my dear.’

Her eyes flashed up at that and encountered steely cynicism. So he had noticed! She would have to take steps to discourage Sir Blaise Winterbourne! If Marcus were considering marriage, then Sir Blaise would cast out lures in vain. She was not fool enough to play that dangerously. She might have known that Marcus would notice Blaise. After all, the man was reputed to make a habit of bedding all Rutherford’s mistresses. He could wait. Althea Hartleigh was not going to risk a possible marriage for the sake of an illicit tumble. No doubt Blaise Winterbourne would be just as happy, if not more so, to bed the new Countess of Rutherford.

The following morning saw Lord Rutherford leave his mansion in Mount Street at the shockingly early hour of nine o’clock. He was clad in immaculate inexpressibles of palest fawn, which clung to his long legs
in a way which displayed their muscles to admiration. His coat of dark blue superfine was similarly moulded to his broad shoulders. His only jewellery was the heavy gold signet ring which never left his finger and a pearl pin which nestled chastely within the snowy folds of his cravat.

He mused on his situation as he strolled around to Brook Street to call on Jack Hamilton. There was little doubt that word of his intentions had leaked out. He had been positively besieged the previous night. Matrons who had never before bothered to accord him more than a passing interest had been assiduous in presenting their virtuous treasures for his inspection.

A cynical smile curved his lips. Usually they were only too careful to warn those same virtuous fillies against the predatory Earl of Rutherford. Quite apart from his physical inclinations, he had encouraged his reputation to a great extent as protection against that sort of thing. He had no taste for simpering, virginal débutantes without two thoughts to rub together in their heads and no idea of how to please a man.

In that regard Lady Hartleigh would suit him very well as a wife. He had ascertained beyond all possible doubt that her ladyship knew to a nicety how best to satisfy his desires.

He was still meditating on Lady Hartleigh’s voluptuous charms as Hamilton’s elderly valet Fincham ushered him into the snug and extremely untidy chamber that served Hamilton as a dining parlour.

‘Lord Rutherford, Mr Jack,’ said Fincham and closed the door.

Hamilton waved Marcus to a chair and finished his mouthful of sirloin. He washed it down with a draught of ale before saying. ‘Morning, Marc. What brings you
here so early? Can’t that enormous staff of yours manage a decent breakfast?’ His eyes twinkled as he carved a plateful of ham for his lordship and poured him a cup of coffee.