Regina Scott - The Rake's Redemption

Though he was the heir to the Earl of Kendrick, Lord Wentworth was a toad, his only purpose in life to curry favor with those more rich and powerful. Vaughn supposed he was handsome enough with his sandy hair pomaded back from a chiseled face and a cleft in his chin, but the fellow had no opinions save an extreme overestimate of his own worth. Because his family estate lay next to Samantha’s home in Cumberland, he seemed to think he ought to be good friends with the Everards.

But by far his worse fault, in Vaughn’s mind, was the affectation in his speech, recently acquired, according to Samantha. Lord Wentworth tended to clip off his sentences, as if his life and deeds were too grand for mere words to describe. Vaughn had little use for anyone with such a lack of appreciation for the beauty of language.

“Evening, Everard,” he had greeted Vaughn last night, strolling up to him through the clusters of gentlemen already crowding the club. His ingratiating smile set Vaughn’s back up even further. “Lost the marquess, eh?”

“If he is lost, he can be found,” Vaughn assured him, turning for the door.

Lord Wentworth angled himself to block Vaughn’s path, his shoulders too broad in his evening coat of navy superfine. “Heard as much. Might know where.”

Vaughn eyed him. “Then pray share your knowledge.”

Lord Wentworth glanced both ways as if to be sure the other members of the club were engrossed in their various pursuits, then leaned closer, eyes lighting. “I’ll learn more about the marquess’s plans. You put in a good word for me. Agreed?”

Vaughn very much doubted the marquess would accept his recommendation. But much as he disliked the fellow before him now, he was in no position to refuse help. “I’d be delighted to receive any information you care to pass along,” he’d said with a bow. He hadn’t been surprised to hear nothing more from the man this morning.

And so it would have to be Imogene. The lilt of her voice last night had betrayed her eagerness to have him call, to pursue their acquaintance. He felt the same eagerness, but he buried it deep. She was attracted to nothing more than the idea of him—a poet, a swordsman. Reading more into it was dangerous to them both.

He reached for the knocker on the purple lacquered door and noticed the tremor in his hand. Nervous? Him? He flexed his fingers and gripped the brass, bringing the rod down once with finality.

A footman opened the door immediately, head high in his white-powdered wig, iron gaze out over the shoulder of Vaughn’s crimson coat. Only a twitch of his lips suggested he remembered seeing Vaughn there before.

“Mr. Vaughn Everard to see Lady Imogene Devary,” Vaughn said, squaring his shoulders.

The footman did not move from his place blocking the doorway, his black coat and breeches making him a dark shadow clinging to the wood. “I regret that her ladyship is not at home to visitors.”

“I think you will find you are mistaken,” Vaughn said.

The footman didn’t even blink. “The lady is unavailable, sir. Good day.”

He started to swing shut the door. Not this time. Vaughn stuck his shoulder in the gap, crowding the fellow backward. “I suggest you speak to your mistress. She will not thank you for turning away a caller she specifically requested.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed the footman’s face, but he held his ground. “Very well, sir. If you would wait a moment, I will see if I can locate Lady Imogene.”

Vaughn waited. On the stoop. Like a penitent, not worthy to breathe the rarified air of the marquesses of Widmore. He took a step back and eyed the stone decorations around the door and windows. Easy enough to put his hands there, his toes there. How would Lady Imogene react if he climbed through her withdrawing room window and plopped himself down on her sofa?

Before he could find out, the door swung open again. “Lady Imogene will see you now,” the footman said to the air over Vaughn’s head, and he stepped out of the way to allow him entrance.

* * *

He was here! Imogene had recognized that husky purr, equal parts elegance and danger, at the bottom of the stairs. She’d been waiting, listening for it, using any excuse to loiter near the door. And she’d been highly tempted to seize the vase of lilies her mother had arranged on the table at the top of the stairs and throw it at Jenkins’s back if he’d kept Mr. Everard waiting another second.

But Mr. Everard mustn’t know she was eager to see him. After confirming to Jenkins that Mr. Everard was expected, she flew from the landing to the withdrawing room and perched on the settee before the footman opened the door the second time. The room was a perfect frame for her new apricot-colored day dress for the walls were a pale green and peaches blossomed in the pattern of the carpet at her feet. On the ceiling, cherubs floated on clouds above a sunset sky. Even the furniture, done in satinwood with white-on-white upholstery, favored the reddish tones that always made her chestnut curls gleam.

She arranged her silk skirts carefully, picked up a book (not of his poetry—that would be far too obvious) and pretended to be absorbed. She counted each tread as the footman approached and found herself holding her breath when Jenkins paused in the doorway.

“Mr. Vaughn Everard to see you, Lady Imogene. Your mother will join you shortly.”

Despite her best efforts, the book tumbled into her lap and her breath left her chest in a rush. As if he knew it, Vaughn Everard sauntered into the room and swept her a bow. Oh, but he knew how to use the moment to effect. His lean arm was wide, the lace at his cuffs fluttering in his crimson sleeve; his head was bowed, allowing the sunlight from the window behind her to anoint his pale hair with gold. When he straightened, his dark gaze sought hers, as if every moment apart had been an agony. Imogene was highly tempted to applaud his performance.

“Mr. Everard,” she said instead. “How delightful of you to call. Won’t you have a seat?”

He settled himself on one of the white-on-white chairs. Goodness, but his legs were long. From his polished black leather boots up his tan chamois breeches, they stretched nearly to the tips of her apricot-colored slippers. She clasped the book closer.

“Thank you for receiving me,” he said. It was the expected response, but the depth of his voice told her he meant it.

Imogene smiled at him. “Well, I did promise. I knew I could get Jenkins to let you in.”

His lips turned up just the slightest bit, as if reluctantly, but something inside her rose with them. “To what heights have I risen that the fairest of the fair should do battle for me?”

Imogene shook her head. “Hardly a battle. I heard you at the door.”

His smile lifted. “Listening for me, were you?”

She mustn’t give him that impression. She waved a hand. “Voices carry all too easily in this house. It was built to humor my French grandmother, who loved her music.” She glanced at the door but heard nothing of the swish of her mother’s skirts approaching. “We only have a few moments. Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you’re so intent on calling on my father?”

His pale brows went up. “Very well. I believe he may know more about my uncle’s last moments.”

Of course! She’d read in the paper that Lord Everard had passed away, and that’s why his daughter had come to London. But why would her father refuse to see his nephew? Perhaps he did not realize that this was Mr. Everard’s purpose in calling? Did her father not know of the relationship between this man and Lord Everard? “You were close to your uncle?”

“He was father and mother to me. At times it seemed he was the very air I breathed.”

She could hear the emotion in his voice, though she thought he meant to hide it behind his fanciful words. She tried to imagine losing both her mother and father, and her spirit quailed. It had been bad enough losing little Charles.