Bronwyn Scott - The Regency Season - Wicked Rakes - How to Disgrace a Lady / How to Ruin a Reputation

Alixe had never seen her father so angry. No one else would guess the depths of his anger. He was one of those men whose voice became more controlled when angered. Then he spared a glance for her, taking in her completely inappropriate attire. There was more than anger in his gaze. There was disappointment, which was worse. She’d seen it before when he looked at her. It seemed she’d spent an inordinate amount of her life disappointing him. But this time would be the last time. She could see in his face he’d decided it would be so and that frightened her very much.

Her father jerked his head at her with a dismissing nod. ‘Go to your room and stay there. We’ll speak in the morning. As for you, St Magnus, I’ll settle with you right now. Put your jacket on and make yourself presentable.’

Alixe shot a parting glance at St Magnus, although what help she thought she’d find there she didn’t know. He’d never been truly interested in her or her work. She’d merely been his most convenient target. He would have kissed whoever walked into the library. He had no reason to help her and, right now, he’d be more worried about trying to help himself.

St Magnus had risen, arms folded, eyes narrowed and burning like hot blue coals. He was a formidable sight, but he spared not a glance for her departing form, she noted. All his attention was directed at

Archibald Redfield.

Chapter Five

Who would have thought the road to nowhere in particular led straight to the Earl of Folkestone’s library? Granted the journey had taken the better part of ten years, but right now that only served to make matters worse.

Merrick shifted ever so slightly in his chair. It was one thing to be called on the proverbial carpet by a stuffy peer when one was a young buck about town. It was another when one was nearly thirty and an established rogue. Rogues didn’t get caught engaged in minor infractions. One could be caught in flagrante delicto with a lovely widow and live it down. But one could absolutely not be caught stealing kisses from an earl’s daughter. Yet it seemed he had been and it seemed he was going to pay. The terrible irony was that he hadn’t done anything. This time, everything was innocent. Admittedly it looked bad: her apparel, his shirt sleeves, the time of night, their close proximity at the table. Most of all the looming reality of the damning wager with Redfield. All the signs pointed to disaster. In another five minutes it might even have escalated to a real disaster; he might actually have claimed the kiss he was accused of stealing.

‘You were attempting to kiss my daughter,’ Folkestone spoke, his face a mask of icy contemplation.

‘Yes, the key word here is attempting. I had not yet achieved that goal.’ Merrick pointed out. Folkestone frowned, not appreciating the clarification.

‘I do not care if you were attempting to turn metal into gold. It does not change the fact that you were alone with her at midnight.’

‘In the library, sir,’ Merrick protested. He’d been about to say the library was the least amorous room in a house, but then he remembered what he’d got up to in the library at the Rowlands’ ball a few weeks ago with the lovely Mrs Dennable and thought better of it.

‘Thank goodness Redfield is the soul of discretion,’ Folkestone commented.

Assuming he has a soul. Merrick let a raised eyebrow convey his question of the assumption. Redfield had set it up, he was sure of that, if not the man’s motives. But saying as much would appear petty and it hardly sounded better to say ‘any girl would have done as well; it just so happened your daughter walked in first’.

‘You’ve compromised my daughter, but that does not make her an innocent in this. She could have walked out of the room once you made your presence known,’ Folkestone mused. His sharp dark eyes, the colour of Alixe’s, never left Merrick’s face.

‘Alixe has always been unconventional. A husband and family would go far, I suspect, in settling her and giving her life some stability.’ Merrick sensed Alixe would disagree with her father’s assessment, but discreetly kept it to himself.

Folkestone continued. ‘Alixe needs a husband.’

It took all of Merrick’s willpower to not cringe. He waited for the inevitable. After this evening, Folkestone would expect him to do the right thing and offer for her, a girl he hardly knew.

Folkestone leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘I am sure you are aware that in most situations of this nature, the gentleman would be expected to marry the lady in question. However, to be blunt, you are not precisely “husband material”, no matter who your father is. You have a reputation ten miles’ long for licentiousness and general mayhem. Here’s what I propose: make my daughter the Toast of the Season.’

Merrick sat a little straighter in his chair, not certain he’d heard correctly or that he’d been reprieved. This option might be worse. ‘Sir, it’s already June. There will only be six weeks left. I hardly think...’

‘Or marry her yourself at Season’s end as penance for your failure,’ Folkestone cut in. ‘You’re not the only gambling man in the room, St Magnus. I know all about your reputation. You have no desire to be leg-shackled. I’m willing to bet you love your freedom enough to see the job done. Goodness knows I’d prefer almost anyone else than you as a son-in-law. I think that’s one thing you and I just might agree upon. You no more want to be my son-in-law than I want to have you, no matter what Jamie thinks of you as a friend.’

Valiantly ignoring the insult, Merrick tried a different approach. ‘Sir, the people I know are not the best, I’m not sure...’

This too was easily dismissed. ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ Yes, dammit, he hadn’t meant to insult the earl’s sterling reputation.

‘You do have connections when you choose to exert them, St Magnus. Exert them now or accept the consequences.’ Folkestone rose, signalling the end of the interview. ‘There’s really nothing else to discuss. This is not your decision to make. You made your choice when you engaged my daughter in the library for your silly wager. You have a little under two weeks here in the country to get her up to snuff and the rest of the Season to make her attractive to gentlemen or else align yourself with the fact that you will be taking a September bride.’

The study door opened, admitting Lady Folkestone, hastily dressed and followed by Redfield. ‘I’ve brought your wife,’ he said with a tragic flourish. ‘Sometimes a woman’s view can soften these things.’ Yes, definitely a tragic flourish. Surely a man as astute as Folkestone could see through Redfield’s façade of helpfulness.

Lady Folkestone was no shrinking violet. She sailed to her husband’s side and demanded an explanation, which Folkestone promptly gave. Afterwards, Lady Folkestone turned her thoughtful gaze in Merrick’s direction. ‘So, you’re to marry our daughter?’

‘Not necessarily, my lady.’ Merrick replied smoothly. ‘I hope to help her find a more suitable match.’

Lady Folkestone laughed. ‘There is no such thing as a suitable match for Alixe. We’ve tried for years now. When I say “we”, I mean London society collectively, not just her family. She’ll have none of the young men on offer.’ The bitterness surprised him. It wasn’t the attitude he expected a mother to have.

Lady Folkestone waved a dismissive hand. ‘She has no regard for the family’s wishes. After the last business with Viscount Mandley, all she wants is her manuscripts and her peace.’

Then why don’t you let her have it? Was that so much to ask? Folkestone had enough money to support one spinster daughter. The vehemence of his thoughts shocked Merrick.