Deb Marlowe - How To Marry a Rake

Spinning on his heel, Stephen stalked from the room. Wrong place, wrong time, he told his protesting body parts.

And definitely the wrong woman.

Mae chewed her bottom lip as she watched Stephen stalk away. Two long years, she marvelled. Thousands of miles travelled. Countless new people met, more than a few flirtations engaged in and two sincere marriage proposals received. None of which she was to be given credit for. Stephen had treated her as if she were still the same over-eager, love-struck girl.

Well, she was not that girl any longer—she smiled at her mother and at Lady Toswick, assured them that, yes, she was fine and, no, she ought not dance any more this evening—and she set out to prove it.

It turned out not to be as difficult as she feared, thanks in large part to Addy and her husband. Mae returned to the ballroom and was enthroned upon a comfortable chair in the corner, with a padded ottoman upon which to prop her foot—decently covered with an embroidered shawl, of course. She suffered a moment’s panic after settling in, envisioning herself an island of misery and loneliness in the midst of all the gaiety, but within moments Lord Corbet’s friends were obligingly clustering about her.

At first they were all a bit stiff and formal in their enquiries, but Mae was so grateful she did not hesitate to turn the sharp edge of her wit onto her own clumsiness. She thought she showed remarkable restraint in only sacrificing Stephen upon a pointed barb or two, and soon enough the gentlemen were relaxed and chuckling and vying for the right to sit out a set at her side.

Mae relaxed, too, as the evening went on and she concluded that, despite the inauspicious beginning, this evening was proving to be a grand start to her campaign. She was meeting eligible gentlemen, gathering vital information and making excellent connections.

She slipped only once. A Mr Fatch had taken the seat beside her. An earnest young gentleman, he was thrilled with the opportunity to tell her—extensively—about his ancestral acres and the minerals that had recently been discovered there.

The whole thing was Stephen’s fault, really. Mr Fatch rambled comfortably on about the canal he wished to build to transport his ores to market and Mae found she could not quite keep her gaze from straying in Stephen’s direction.

She could hardly be blamed. It had ever been thus—Stephen was invariably and always the most alive person in the room. It was impossible not to sneak glances at him, and impossible not to feel lighter for doing so.

He had a thousand mercurial moods—and the gift of always donning the correct one for the occasion. Tonight he was polished, convivial and full of dry wit, judging from the outbursts of laughter from the group of gentlemen he’d joined.

And Mae was distracted, despite her intent not to be. And intensely annoyed with herself, too. Mr Fatch might be a perfectly lovely gentleman, might he not? She turned her attention firmly back to him and took up his chosen subject with interest and fervour.

Except that wasn’t the right course either. Mae knew quite a bit about canals. Over the next few minutes she recalled her lessons on how the ancients had made use of them, talked of what she had learned in Paris, where Napoleon had attempted to use the idea to bring water to the city, and speculated that the use of steam-powered engines in boats was going to bring about an expansion of canal systems all over Europe.

She realised her mistake too late. Mr Fatch’s expression transformed from content to bemused and on to faintly horrified.

She stopped talking and stifled a groan.

‘Or so my papa believes,’ she finished with a weak smile. And threw in a flutter of her eyelashes for good measure.

But there was no salvaging the situation.

‘Indeed? Well, then, I thank you for sharing his views. And so thoroughly, too.’ Mr Fatch stood and sketched a hasty bow. ‘Do enjoy the rest of your evening.’

And he was gone. Mae bit back an eloquent curse she’d learned from her French maid.

She had not a moment to dwell on the setback, however, for her papa dropped into the empty seat with a grateful sigh. He glanced longingly at her stool, as if he’d like nothing better than to lean back and prop up his feet, as well.

‘You promised me a dance,’ he complained. ‘And now I cannot collect.’ He chucked her on the chin as if she was an infant. ‘You know how I hate an unpaid debt. I shall have to charge you interest.’

‘Then I shall be sure to dance with you twice at the next opportunity.’ Despite herself, she grinned.

His mouth curled up at the edges, but he didn’t say anything more. He just watched her with a brow raised and a patient look on his face, as though he had all the time in the world to wait for the answer to his unspoken question.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

He only continued to look at her.

‘Papa?’ Mae doubted this was about the hapless Mr Fatch. She raised a brow right back at him. ‘I’ll have you know that despite my inability to stun everyone with my graceful dancing, I am still counting this evening as a success.’

‘Are you?’ His tone was mild.

‘Indeed. For I’ve kept my smile fixed and my conversation light.’ No need to confess to sins he hadn’t discovered. ‘I did not speak to Lady Toswick about her grossly inefficient dinner seating. I also showed great restraint in not reorganising her servants, even though the savoury tarts were served cold and the champagne warm.’

That made him laugh. ‘A success, indeed.’

‘I’ve also made the acquaintance of several eligible gentlemen,’ she said loftily.

‘And become reacquainted with a certain one, or so I hear.’

She grimaced. ‘To the detriment of my ankle,’ she said wryly.

‘As long as the damage is contained to your ankle …’ He allowed the thought to trail away, but there was no need to continue. A wealth of warning conveyed in so few words.

Mae’s mouth compressed. ‘You are not being fair,’ she accused.

Her father merely snorted.

Her chin lifted. ‘You are as annoying as he is. All of that was a long time ago. It’s time for you both to realise that I am not the same person.’ She folded her arms and glared. ‘That young and inexperienced girl is in my past. And so is Lord Stephen Manning.’

Silent again, he searched her face. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him. He nodded and kissed her forehead. ‘Look at your mother,’ he said. ‘Lady Toswick must be inordinately skilled. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her enjoy herself at an event like this.’ He glanced back down at her. ‘But she’s drifted too far away. I’ll send her back to you.’

Mae watched him go and step up behind her mother. She saw the hand he slipped across the small of her back and the pleasure, spiced with just a hint of heat, in the smile she cast up at him.

And her gaze slid right back to Stephen.

Curse him, he shone in this milieu. Dark evening clothes only emphasised the width of his shoulders and outlined the splendid leanness of his physique. Candlelight glowed in his short, golden hair and flashed from strong, white teeth. But it was his eyes—always his eyes—that captivated Mae.

Stephen Manning lived in the centre of attention, as the focus of every group he’d ever entered. He spent his life enticing the world to look at him, daring them not to—and denying them even a glimpse of his true self.

And Mae was the only one who had ever realised it.

The ton, even his family and friends, had always been content to watch him in fascination and accept the reflection that he cast back at them. Everyone believed in the shallow image he projected to the world.