Page 618 of From Rakes to Riches

Today was the beginning of his perfect, not-unhappy life.

St. James’s Square, 10 o’clock

Rake shifted on the Duchess of Acaster’s rose-silk drawing-room settee and attempted to make himself comfortable.

But no configuration of crossed or uncrossed legs—or recrossed, for that matter—would do for more than a ten-second stretch.

He simply couldn’t be comfortable.

The Duchess of Acaster was about to make him the happiest—or not unhappiest—man in the world, and he couldn’t settle in his own skin.

No matter.

He didn’t need to be comfortable or settled.

He needed to get the question out of his mouth—and the rest of his life would follow.

The duchess walked into the room dressed in a coral pink of a hue different from the rest of this pink room. The woman certainly liked her pink. But that was beside the point. With her sable hair cascading over her shoulders in artful waves and the dress caressing her many curves in all the right places, shesomehow managed to look both like a duchess and every man’s fantasy of a woman—refined yet voluptuous.

He’d never seen Gemma in a dress.

The thought only struck him now.

She wouldn’t fill out this dress like Celia—all luscious curves.

But she would look no less fetching in it.

He gave himself a mental shake. Gemma had no place in this room—particularly not in light of the question he was about to ask the woman approaching him.

“Rakesley,” said Celia, a flirty smile about her mouth. Her pouty bottom lip glistened, moist as if she’d only just licked it, and her cheeks glowed bright and fresh, as if she’d pinched them the moment before entering the room.

When he took this woman to wife, he would be the envy of every man in England.

“Celia,” he said, rising to his feet and only resuming his seat once she she’d settled onto the settee opposite him.

A not-uncomfortable beat of silence passed. It was the next beat of silence that caused the discomfort.

That made Rake want to begin crossing, uncrossing, and recrossing legs.

Which wouldn’t do.

“Congratulations are in order, I believe,” he said, for something to say.

She gave a satisfied smile. “You’re speaking of Light Skirt, I presume.”

“No small thing to win the One Thousand Guineas.”

“She’ll be up against your Hannibal in the Race of the Century,” she returned, challenge in her eyes.

Here, with talk of horses, they stood on safe ground.

An expression of sympathy entered her luminous amber eyes. “How is Lady Artemis bearing up after the loss of Dido?”

“As well as can be expected.”

Rake supposed platitudes were for acquaintances and strangers, and certainly not for one’s future wife, but he couldn’t find it in him to speak to this woman any other way. Besides, he didn’t want to talk about Artemis. If he talked about Artemis, he would think about Artemis, and then he would find himself on the road, making sure she arrived in Yorkshire safely.

Perhaps Gemma was right.

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