Marguerite Kaye - Rake with a Frozen Heart

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that question? You are, after all, a guest, albeit an uninvited one, in my home.’

‘Your home?’

‘Precisely. My home. My bedchamber. My bed.’ Rafe waited, but to his surprise the young lady seemed to have done, for the moment, with acting the shrinking violet. ‘You are in Woodfield Manor,’ he conceded.

‘Woodfield Manor!’ It was the large estate that bordered her employer’s. The large estate owned by—’Good grief, are you the earl?’

‘Indeed. Rafe St Alban, the Earl of Pentland, at your service.’ Rafe made a sketchy bow.

The earl! She was in a bedchamber with the notorious earl, and she could quite see, could see very, very clearly, just exactly why his reputation was so scandalous. Henrietta clung to the bedclothes like a raft, fighting the impulse to pull them completely over her head and burrow deep down in the luxurious softness of the feather bed. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. I am Henrietta Markham.’ The absurdity of the situation struck her suddenly. She felt an inappropriate desire to laugh. ‘Are you sure you’re the earl, only—no, of course if you say you are, you must be.’

Rafe’s mouth twitched. ‘I’m fairly sure who I am. What makes you think I might not be?’

‘Nothing. Only—well, I did not expect—your reputation, you know …’ Henrietta felt her face colouring.

‘What reputation would that be?’ He knew perfectly well, of course, but it would be amusing to see just how, exactly, she would phrase it. There was something about her that made him want to shock. To disconcert. Perhaps it was her eyes, wide-spaced and clear-gazing, the colour of cinnamon. Or was it coffee? No, that wasn’t right, either—chocolate, perhaps?

Rafe settled himself casually on the edge of the bed. Henrietta Markham’s eyes widened, but she didn’t shrink away as he’d expected. There was just enough space between them to seem at the same time too much and not enough. He could see her breasts rising and falling more rapidly beneath the sheet.

She wasn’t what received wisdom would call beautiful. She lacked inches, for one thing, and could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as willowy. Though her skin was flawless, her mouth was too generous, her eyebrows too straight and her nose not straight enough. Yet now that some colour had returned to her cheeks and she no longer resembled a marble effigy, she was—no, definitely not beautiful, but rather disturbingly attractive. ‘What, Miss Markham, at a loss for words?’

Henrietta licked her lips. She felt like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. No, not a cat. Something much more dangerous. He crossed one leg over the other. Long legs. If she were sitting where he was on the edge of the bed, her feet would not touch the ground. She was not used to sitting so close to a man. Had not ever—in bed—on bed—whatever! She had not. It was—She couldn’t breathe. She was not frightened exactly, but she was intimidated. Was that his intention? Henrietta sat up straighter, resisting the impulse to scuttle over to the other side of the bed, confused by the contrary impulse to shuffle closer. Dangerously close. She decided she would not allow him the upper hand. ‘You must know perfectly well that you are notorious,’ she said, her voice sounding near enough steady for her to be quite pleased.

‘Notorious for what, precisely?’

‘Well, they say that—’ Henrietta broke off, rather unusually at a loss for words. There were grass stains on the knees of his breeches. She caught herself staring at them, wondering precisely how they had come to be there and whether they were anything to do with her. Realising he had noted her blatant gaze, she blushed yet again, pressing on. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, they say that you are—only I am sure it is nonsense, because you can’t possibly be as bad as—and in any case, you don’t look at all like I imagined one would look like,’ she said, becoming quite flustered.

‘I don’t look like what one what would look like?’ Rafe said, fighting the urge to laugh.

Henrietta swallowed. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. As if he might smile. As if he might not. Appraising, that was the word. If it was a word. Once again, she worried about being found lacking. Once again, she chided herself for such a pathetic response, but he was so overwhelmingly male, sitting far too close to her on the bed, so close that her skin tingled with awareness of his presence, forcing her to fight the urge to push him away. Or was that just an excuse to be able to touch him? That crop of raven-black hair. It looked like it would be silky-soft to the touch. Unlike the stubble on his cheek, which would be rough. ‘A rake,’ she blurted out, now thoroughly confused by her own reactions.

The word jarred. Rafe got to his feet. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Henrietta blinked up, missing the warmth of his presence, at the same time relieved that he had moved, for his expression had altered subtly. Colder. More distant, as if he had placed a wall between them. Too late, she realised that calling someone a rake to their face, even if they were a rake, wasn’t perhaps the most tactful thing to say. She squirmed.

‘Pray enlighten me, Miss Markham—what exactly does a rake look like?’

‘Well, I don’t know exactly , though I would say someone not nearly so good-looking for a start,’ Henrietta replied, saying the first thing that popped into her head in her anxiety to make up for her lapse of manners. ‘Older, too,’ she continued, unable to bear the resultant silence, ‘and probably more immoral looking. Debauched. Though to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what debauchery looks like, save that you don’t. Look debauched, I mean,’ she concluded, her voice trailing off as she realised that, far from appeasing him, the earl was looking decidedly affronted. Both his brows were drawn together now, giving him a really rather formidable expression.

‘You seem quite the expert, Miss Markham,’ Rafe said sardonically. ‘Do you speak from personal experience?’

He had propped his shoulders up against the bedpost. They were very broad. Powerful. She wondered if perhaps he boxed. If he did, he must be good, for his face showed no marks. Her face was level with his chest now. Which also looked powerful, under his shirt. He had a very flat stomach. She hadn’t really thought about it before, but men were built so very differently from women. Solid. Hard-edged. At least this man was.

Henrietta chewed on her bottom lip and tried hard not to be daunted. She wouldn’t talk to his chest, but she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Slate-grey now, not blue. She swallowed again, trying to remember what it was he’d asked her. Rakes. ‘Personal experience. Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t previously met any rakes personally, at least not to my knowledge, but Mama said—my mother told me that …’ Once again, Henrietta trailed into silence, realising that Mama would prefer not to have her past held up for inspection. ‘I have seen the evidence of their activities for myself,’ she said instead. Her voice sounded horribly defensive, but little wonder, given the way he was standing over her like an avenging angel. Henrietta bristled. ‘In the Parish Poor House.’

The earl’s expression was transformed in an instant, more devil than angel. ‘If you are implying that I have littered the countryside with my illegitimate brats, then you are mightily misinformed,’ he said icily.

Henrietta quailed. The truth was, she had heard no such thing of this particular rake, though, of course, just because she had not heard did not mean—but really, he looked far too angry to be lying. ‘If you say so,’ she said deprecatingly. ‘I did not mean to imply …’