Page 22 of How to Court a Rake
‘And prior,’ Caine suggested, earning a stern stare. He was not making friends here.
‘Why would we do that?’ the archivist questioned.
Caine offered a meaningful stare in return. ‘Sometimes accidents are not accidents.’
He managed to shock the starchy slim man. ‘You don’t mean to imply the Duke met with…misadventure?’ The man clearly couldn’t bring himself to say the other ‘M’ word—murder. Or heaven forbid, suicide.
‘The Duke died in an accident. He most certainly met with misadventure.’ Caine chuckled at the man’s ridiculousness. ‘The question is what kind of misadventure, self-inflicted or otherwise.’ There were a hundred things Caine would like to know about that carriage accident. Had it been a race? Had the Duke been driving? Was the Duke a regular racer? A reckless driver in general?
All he found was a short story that mentioned Prince Baklanov of Kuban had pulled the Duke from the water too late to save him. Caine smiled to himself. He knew that name. He made a few notes, tucked them into his coat pocket and said farewell to the archivist, mentally checking off another item from his task list. Next stop, the florist’s, where he’d send a note with the roses:Wear a riding habit. Then, over to Mary’s. Thanks to that one name, he knew how they’d spend their afternoon.
Chapter Twelve
The afternoon with Caine would be her escape and Mary was ready for it. She’d spent the morning tolerating her mother’s lectures on her behaviour last night at the theatre, how she’d treated poor Amesbury, their guest, and the remarked attentions she’d shown ‘the rake’. She’d parried the comments as best she could with reminders that the ‘rake’ was a marquess; surely such attentions were required when one sent floral arrangements of such magnitude and wasn’t she supposed to be on the lookout for a high-ranking suitor?
That last was said in an attempt to provoke a confession from either of her parents that a match with Amesbury wasau fait accompli. But the most she got from her mother was that her father favoured Amesbury and had the highest of hopesthistime and didn’t the two of them look well together? Wasn’t Amesbury a witty conversationalist? To which Mary replied, ‘Only if one thinks it’s funny to joke about locking one’s wife away on a mere whim.’
The newspapers hadn’t helped. She’d expected it, had known her decision to associate with Caine would attract notice. But the notice fuelled her mother’s dislike, which was only marginally mitigated by the arrival that day of another gorgeous display of red roses and a card that had Mary announcing, ‘I need to change.’ He wasn’t just calling; he was going to take her out. Away from here. She didn’t care where. It would be out of this house, beyond her mother’s gaze and her father’s glare.
Mary took a final look in her chamber’s long mirror, smoothing the lines of the plain blue riding habit over her hips and tugging at the jacket. She had fancier habits—the pink habit with its black frogging and decoration, for instance—but such an ensemble was for a quiet ride on the paths of Hyde Park where the goal was to be seen and she did not think that was Caine’s intent. He was taking herriding, real riding. Where or on what horse she had no idea and the mystery only added to her excitement.
She fiddled with the white stock tied at her throat, trying to still the butterflies in her stomach. Caine Parkhurst, one of society’s most notorious gentlemen, had planned an afternoon for them. Forher—proper Lady Mary Kimber, who never put a foot wrong, who never strayed outside the lines. Once again she was reminded about what happened when shedidstep outside those lines…a rake was calling—one her parents could not outright refuse because he was also a marquess. Life was suddenly exciting. The butterflies in her stomach now were far different than the butterflies that trembled at the thought of Amesbury.
Yet what was she stepping outside the lines for? What could or would become of this unlooked-for friendship—if that was even the right word for their relationship—with Caine? What did this gain her? He wasn’t the marrying type. Not even the reward of a hereditary title was enough to entice him. She had to keep reminding herself of that, which was difficult to do when she thought he would make quite good husband material if he chose to apply himself.
Hewasa rake, that was not in argument. However, he was not without compassion, or without heart. She saw how he mourned the loss of his brother, how concerned he’d been for her reputation on numerous occasions, how he’d come to her rescue when she’d called. That spoke of loyalty and honour. Such a man would defend his family. Protect them, care for them, provide for them. Put them first. A woman could not ask for much more than that, except perhaps for love and fidelity.
But weren’t these characteristics a type of love? There would be passion, too, he’d demonstrated his capacity for that as well. A low heat began to burn. Would he demonstrate that capacity again today? She wouldn’t mind if he did, although she ought to know better than to encourage it. They were on a path that led nowhere.
Ultimately, they would reach a place where their lives would be incompatible and they would reach it soon. In a few weeks when she would be married to…someone. Hopefully not Amesbury, but someone whom she could tolerate, and Caine would go on searching for his brother. But until then, perhaps she ought to enjoy the journey and not worry over the destination.
Minton quietly opened the door to her chamber and poked her head inside, ready to depart with her. ‘My lady, Lord Barrow is here.’ The butterflies started all over again. She could hardly wait to be off. Mary stuck a final pin in her hat and hurried downstairs. Her father was not home at present, delayed by a late-morning meeting that had run long and she did not wantherouting postponed by his sudden arrival. He could have his conversation with Caine when they returned.
She found Caine in the drawing room with her mother, praising her wallpaper and decor. ‘I must consider your choices when I decorate at my estate outside Newmarket,’ he was saying, ‘Your sense of colour is exquisite, my lady, so very tasteful.’ Then just to add a bit of salt, ‘I see my roses have found pride of place. I am honoured. Perhaps I should send two arrangements next time, one for each end of the mantel, one for each of the beautiful ladies of the house.’
Mary stifled a laugh. He pulled off the line so effortlessly yet he had to know how much it would gall her mother to put two such bouquets on display and know that she could not choose to do differently. He would call and expect to see them. When her mother said nothing, he persisted with easy charm, ‘Perhaps you do not prefer roses. Whatareyour favourite flowers, Lady Carys?’
‘My mother’s favourites are tulips.’ Mary stepped forward into the room and made a small curtsy. ‘Good afternoon, my lord.’ These pleasantries felt as if she were in a play, all of them actors speaking required lines. She and Caine would discard those lines as soon as they left the house.
‘My maid and I are ready, my lord.’ She communicated a sense of urgency with her eyes although Caine seemed unbothered by the need to make a quick exit. Drat him. He was probably looking forward to speaking with her father. Caine felt himself the equal of many men and the superior of most, such was the attraction of his confidence. He was not afraid to meet a man toe to toe. She would love to be the proverbial fly on the wall during that discussion.
‘We are riding today,’ Caine announced his intentions to her mother as if their attire had not confirmed it. He was dressed in tight-fitting buckskin breeches that showcased the muscles of his thighs rather well. Too bad he wore a coat. The tightness of those breeches might showcase some other parts, too, if they were but visible. ‘At Prince Baklanov’s school in Leicester Square.’
Amid her own excitement engendered by Caine’s announcement, she watched her mother’s expression soften further, the dislike of Caine Parkhurst melting under the barrage of decor compliments, personal enquiries, and the casual mention that he knew a foreign prince. It wouldn’t last. Her mother was fickle that way, but for the moment, it would make an impression. ‘How wonderful.’ Her mother fluttered her fan, overwhelmed. ‘Have a good time. Mary misses riding when we’re in town.’
‘I do miss it,’ Mary interjected, wanting to move this along. ‘Thank you for thinking of me with this singular treat, Lord Barrow.’ Mary offered her arm. ‘We should be off. We wouldn’t want to keep Prince Baklanov waiting.’
She didn’t let herself relax until they were in the carriage. Only then did she give herself fully over the excitement of the outing. ‘Are we really going to Prince Baklanov’s?’ she asked as they pulled away from the kerb. He had an extraordinary reputation that had reached legendary proportions among the horse set.
‘Yes, we are and we are really riding there, but we’re also going for some business I have with the Prince. Your business.’ Caine gave her a serious look, the easy charm he’d displayed in the drawing room put away to use another time. ‘Last night you asked me to look into Amesbury. Is that something you still desire?’ His dark eyes held hers and her pulse quickened at being the recipient of such intensity.
‘Yes,’ she breathed, hope blossoming. Had Caine found something that might be her way out? ‘What did you learn?’
‘Not much yet. The former Duke died without a direct heir.’
Mary nodded. ‘Amesbury told me the same last night. He said it had taken a bit of time to locate him.’ Lord, Caine Parkhurst had a beautiful mouth. She ought not stare at it. It was hard to concentrate on his words when all she wanted to do was remember the feel of that mouth on hers. In truth, she wanted more than the memory. She wanted to feel that mouth on hers again.
‘The former Duke died in a carriage accident when his vehicle plunged into the Thames. Prince Baklanov was on hand. He and his friends tried to save him, but were unsuccessful.’
