Page 2 of How to Court a Rake
She gave a dry laugh. ‘I assure you, forgoing a dance with you willnotdisappoint me.’
‘What does disappoint you, Lady Mary?’ He couldn’t resist the words any more than his gaze could resist moving over her mouth. What he could do with those lips… He’d not meant to instigate flirting with her. He knew better. She was off limits by his own self-imposed rules. And his curiosity was piqued. Whatdidlay beneath all that collected coolness? Something did—the sharpness of her wit was proof that not all of her was calm and smooth.
Her grey eyes met his, a little flame rising to the challenge, licking in their depths. ‘Starving children in the London streets, oppression of native peoples in Britain’s colonies, the suppression of women here at home who are denied the right to lead their own lives. That is real disappointment, Mr Parkhurst.’ She was testing him with her response.
Really, it was an impressive answer. His grandfather would approve of such an agenda, as did he. ‘And the Duke of Harlow, is he on that list as well?’ Caine ventured boldly.
‘The concept of disappointment assumes that I’ve failed to claim something I wanted. Harlow was my parents’ dream, not mine.’ Despite the casualness with which she dismissed society’s latest speculations, the shadow in her grey eyes said she could not entirely dismiss the sting of Harlow’s choice, however much she’d like to.
No one liked being overlooked. She had his empathy there. He knew a little something about that himself. In his own way, because of a lack of a title or real prospects, he and his brothers were often overlooked after a fashion because they were sons of a third son.
She gave him a cool glance. ‘Make no mistake, I did not want Harlow. If he has found happiness elsewhere, I wish him well.’
A woman who did not want a duke was rare in his experience. Something stirred inside Caine. Intrigue? His innate need to protect? Maybe even a little anger at Harlow on her behalf. Lady Mary Kimber was showing herself to be made of sterner fibre than he’d given her credit for. Beneath the rose silk and lilies-of-the-valley perfume, she possessed the steel of conviction, the strength of self-knowledge. She understood who she was—to herself and to others. ‘Whatdoyou want, then?’
With another sort of woman, this would be the opening move in a seduction because that’s how all his flirtations began and ended: seduction intended, seduction accomplished. He didn’t flirt without a particular end goal in mind. He wasn’t certain why he was bothering now when such an end was out of the question. Lady Mary Kimber was not for seducing, ergo, not his type.
‘Not a duke, no matter what my parents are determined to say.’ The sharp point of her chin jutted up defiantly.
Not just her parents but society. Caine paid enough attention to the gossips to know that, in the span of two Seasons, she’d lost two dukes—one of them to Caine’s own sister. Her father was furious. Society made it out to be her fault she couldn’t captivate a man. Perhaps she just hadn’t met the right man? Which raised the competitive edge in him to prove that Harlow was somehow a lesser man because he’d not appreciated her. But she wasn’t looking for Caine’s type of appreciation.
‘Yet, you are the one who will pay the price,’ Caine probed. By all accounts, her Season was going poorly. She’d lost the Duke of Harlow—she, who had everything to offer such a man. She, who had been bred for such a man. Worse, she’d lost that man to a nobody and quite publicly. All of society had been watching that house party. Just as they were likely watching her now, noting how her group had been asked to dance while she’d been left on the sidelines.
An unusual pin of guilt pricked at Caine. Any censure directed at her now was his fault. But no doubt she’d be the one to pay for that, too. Men could get away with almost anything, but not women. He could imagine what the social columns might make of it in tomorrow’s papers. Beyond them on the dance floor, sets were forming for another dance. His conscience stirred to wakefulness.
‘Lady Mary, I find I’ve changed my mind.’ He offered his arm in a surge of unusual gallantry. ‘Would you care to dance?’
The sharp point of her chin went up and her quicksilver eyes flashed. ‘No, Mr Parkhurst.’ Not ‘no thank you’, or any other gracious refusal. Simply and bluntly: no. Those eyes flashed again and he expected to hear thunder follow. ‘I do not require your pity.’
Caine felt his own temper rise in answer. He didn’t like having his gesture thrown back in his face. ‘Perhaps I’m the one who needsyourpity,’ he cajoled. The competitor in him was wide awake. Now that he’d made the offer, he wasn’t going to tolerate being turned down. Perhaps she didn’t understand the necessity of accepting? They could not stand here much longer. The room was starting to watch. Eyes always followed the Horsemen. And eyes followed Lady Mary Kimber. Put the two together and there was no chance of escaping notice: theton’s most competent young lady with society’s most reckless rake.
He laid a light hand on her glove-covered arm and lowered his voice to a private tone. ‘Please, Lady Mary. People are starting to stare. It does neither of our reputations any good. We are inviting comment.’ Particularly her, although to explicitly remind her of that would likely earn him another lightning bolt from her eyes. He could care less what anyone thought of him outside of his family. She did not have that luxury. After losing Harlow, her reputation was in danger of becoming frayed, her pristine image tarnished.
‘Well, when you put it in such practical terms, I can hardly refuse, can I?’ she quipped drily and reluctantly took his arm, the scent of lilies undercut with vanilla wafting past his nose—the smell of trouble. But how much trouble could one dance with Lady Mary Kimber, theton’s most dutiful daughter, actually be?
CHAPTER TWO
How much trouble could one dance be? Mary argued with herself, especially when that dance was designed to mend her reputation, not rend it. Yet, when she took Caine Parkhurst’s arm and felt the firmness of the muscles beneath her gloved hand, she had the unmistakable impression that this was very much a case of a wolf in sheep’s clothing and she was most certainly a red riding hood led astray by her own curiosity and a pair of dark eyes with mysterious depths.
Worst of all, she knew these things and she’d not put a stop to it. Instead, she’d followed this particular wolf on to the dance floor just to see where it led, although her conscience did make one last bid for retraction as they drew closer to his cousin’s set. The logic that had propelled her on to the dance floor had been flawed. What had she been thinking to accept? In what world did dancing with Caine Parkhurst, rake extraordinaire, a man who’d turned his town house drawing room into a gambling hell, a man who seduced women for entertainment, make anything right?
She wasn’t mitigating trouble; she was courting an obscene amount of it. She ought to have stood her ground and refused him. In fact, she shouldn’t havestoodanywhere near him. She would have been better off walking away once it was apparent everyone else in her group was dancing. Decent, unmarried women didn’t stand on the sidelines conversing with one of the Four Horsemen and they definitely didn’t take to the dance floor with one of them. In a matter of minutes she’d managed to do both. She had no excuse. She was not newly come to town, a gullible young miss in the throes of her first Season. Sheknewbetter.
And she did not want todobetter. It had been her choice from the start. She’d convinced herself there was no harm in idle small talk. After all, she made small talk with viscounts and dukes all the time. But that had been her mistake. Caine Parkhurst was nothing like the Duke of Harlow. The Duke was a gentleman to the bone. Harlow dressed like one, he looked like one. He acted like one.
Caine was something else entirely. He was something wild and untamed, from the messy, ebony waves of his hair to the unorthodox all-black evening clothes relieved only by a single diamond stickpin winking in the folds of a black silk cravat. He looked like the devil incarnate—wicked, sensual, a walking invitation to sin and, to her surprise, it was an invitation something in her was tempted to accept.
Curiosity spurred her hard. Like Eve in the garden, she wanted a taste of what the devil offered, perhaps because he was the antithesis of all she’d come to know since entering society’s lists. Tonight, on the sidelines, they’d not made small talk. They’djoustedwith words for spears, cool glances and arched brows for shields. And it had been far more invigorating than discussing the weather in Hampshire with a viscount. Then again, she was coming to believe that everything about Caine Parkhurst was designed to be invigorating to the feminine mind.
And she was definitely invigorated. At two inches over six feet and sporting the shoulders of Atlas, he was larger than life. She could go toe to toe with him, but not nose to nose. She was used to looking many men in the eye. Even at her stature of five foot seven inches, rather tall for a woman, she was aware that Caine Parkhurst towered over her, the breadth of him an obvious contrast to the slenderness of her own frame. Beside him, she did not feel too tall, too overpowering. She did not need to cultivate a stoop to accommodate a shorter man. She did not need to worry about daunting a gentleman with her mere presence simply by standing next to him and making him feel less the man.
Caine Parkhurst was breathtakingly impressive, intimidating, intoxicating even and, from the unexpected rush of her pulse as they took to the dance floor, it was absolutely clear why mothers steered their daughters in the opposite direction when he was in the room. Just as it was clear why women of all ages were drawn to him against their better judgement. He smelled deliciously, like the call to adventure all sharp citrus, exotic sandalwood, and rugged masculinity—two things in short supply for a well-bred English woman, which only added to the intrigue of him.
She did not think she was the only woman who wanted to solve that riddle. The complex scent complemented what rumour spoke of him: that here was a man who cared not a fig for rules and propriety, a man who did as he pleased and took what he wanted. A man who had nothing to lose. In that moment, she understood the pull he had over her. He was all she was not. She must always give a care for propriety and it was wearying. Such care eroded one’s soul and she was on the brink of losing hers. The small part of her that society had not yet claimed wanted him for herself and all that he represented: freedom. If only for the length of a dance, these moments would be for her.
Then it would be back to reality. Unlike him, she had something to lose—a reputation that had taken a battering recently. She was acutely aware of the consequences of being overlooked by two dukes in two years; first Creighton and now Harlow. It had raised the question: if she was indeed the impeccable example of propriety, why had two dukes passed on her? This evening, if she’d continue to stand there, that question would have extended to asking why a man not as grand as a duke had not taken to the floor with her? People would begin to ask, ‘What is wrong with her?’ She was in danger of being demoted from a diamond of the first water to wallflower.
Truly, she’d really not had a choice. Refusing Parkhurst’s invitation to dance would simply draw more attention than what they were already receiving. Accepting was the lesser of two evils. It wouldn’t stop all the talk, though. There would just be different talk. Talk she hoped her mother wouldn’t hear about. But it was too late to change her mind now.
