The Rake and the Rebel
highlight_author
Mary Brendan
highlight_reads
18.3K
highlight_chapters
18
Chapter One
Spring 1821
‘Get dressed and make ready to leave this fleapit.’
The tall, dark-haired gentleman had spoken dispassionately while surveying rumpled sheets and entangled limbs shocked to paralysis. A thin smile barely lifted one corner of his mouth as he turned on his heel with every intention of quitting the bedchamber. The room was housed in a tavern that was situated an annoying distance from London along the Great North Road. The brunette woman had received the brunt of his flint-eyed contempt. Now she extricated herself from the covers, and her blond lover, and flung herself upright in bed.
‘You’re so righteous it makes me sick! You’ve had more women than I could count, yet you would deny me a little fun! How dare you look at me as though I’m less than dirt beneath your shoe?’
The interloper had stopped and was now lounging against the door through which he had moments before inconspicuously entered the room. He raised his eyes from contemplation of his nails and an indolent look lingered on white breasts swelling at him with each ragged, indignant breath she gulped. The woman preened furiously beneath his lazy gaze.
‘I have been greatly inconvenienced by this latest escapade, Theresa. I advise you to curb your tongue. I have far more important things to occupy my time than checking out wretched dives where I might find you fornicating.’ His eyes wandered on, prompting her nervous lover to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Swiftly he snatched at his breeches discarded on the floor and jumped into them.
‘She’s right, you know, Townsend,’ the man ground out as he buttoned himself up. ‘If you weren’t such a blasted hypocrite, I might feel worse about being caught like this.’
‘He’s not meddling because he cares a jot for himself! He’s only concerned for his dear mother’s feelings and to protect the family’s good name. Hah! What a joke! Rockinghams have always been an infamously horny clan and everyone knows it!’
‘It’s true my mother dislikes having a whore as a daughter-in-law and who could blame her? Get back to your wife, Sheldon, before I forget that once we were friends and run you through.’
Tobias Sheldon grabbed at his coat and revealed beneath it a stubby horse pistol that had been resting on the same chair. Unconsciously he tested the weapon’s weight on a palm.
‘If you want to use it…use it,’ Adam Townsend invited softly. ‘But, to protect both our families from scandal, I would suggest a more discreet meeting. I’ll find the misty glade; you may have the choice of weapons.’
Tobias slid a glance at his mistress, who dared and encouraged him with sultry, sparking eyes. With a sheepish look he stuffed the gun in a pocket.
‘Very sensible,’ Adam drawled with a half-smile. ‘She isn’t worth the trouble, is she?’
Within a few moments the man’s escape was audible as he clattered down the timber treads.
His desertion tightened the woman’s mouth into an indignant knot. In frustration she swiped a small, stylish boot from the floor and hurled it. With a lithe sideways step Adam evaded the missile and watched it crash into the door. Proof of her vile temper caused him to elevate one dark brow, and that prompted her to spring from the bed with a feral cry and fly, with curled fingers, straight at him. Strong arms defeated her attempt to scratch his face. The moment her writhing became more sensuous he turned her about, and gave her nude shoulders a little insolent push, so she stumbled towards the bed.
‘Get yourself dressed, Theresa. I’ll wait below for no more than ten minutes.’
‘Ten minutes!’ she stormed, flouncing about and striking a pose with her hands on provocatively jutting hips. A theatrical stare slid to the pile of expensive finery heaped on a rustic stool. ‘You expect I might make myself decent in that time?’
‘Not at all, my dear,’ he rejoined lightly. ‘I expect ten years might not be adequate. Just put on your clothes and save your sulking for the journey south. Sheldon’s gone now, and taken his money with him, so either do as you’re told or settle the shot yourself and make your own way home.’
He closed the door, a mirthless chuckle scratching his throat as a thud followed by a vibration in the wood told him both her shoes had been launched and missed their target. A shrill shriek of annoyance prolonged the din, as did some inventive cursing. Having recently gained his father’s title unchallenged, he deemed some of it slander. The rest he fairly acknowledged to be valid.
Below in the taproom Adam Townsend, Marquess of Rockingham, got himself a brandy and a chair by the window. He stared out into the gloom and, by the meagre light of an oil lamp, watched Tobias Sheldon conversing with an ostler who had brought round his carriage. Soon the vehicle was swaying away and Adam observed his departure with a subdued sadness. Once he had liked Tobias. Now their friendship had soured because of the slut upstairs. But then Theresa Montague, as she had been before marriage, had a persuasive way about her. He had first-hand experience of that. God, how he wished he had never succumbed to her poisonous charm, for it was through him she was now part of the Rockingham family, and relishing tearing it asunder.
He leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, the rough wood slats spiteful on his spine. Idly he wondered whether to bother finding somewhere cosier to while away the time till Theresa deigned to come below. He knew she would be an hour or more. It was probably her intention to tarry so long that he would be drawn back upstairs to chivvy her. He took out his watch, then stared moodily into the tavern courtyard. It was six-thirty, drizzling, and shrouded in premature gloom. It would be sensible to delay their travel till the morning. In a short while it would be pitch black, and he didn’t relish an overnight trip that might necessitate him dealing with desperate highwaymen as well as a nagging harpy. His mouth tightened into a grimace. He had had enough drama for one day and it was a serious temptation to bear the expense of hiring a coach and driver for Theresa’s use so he could travel alone, in blissful solitude, in his curricle.
She would be tearful and argumentative at the proposal, but he had a desperate need to be private while his guilt again ravaged his mind. On a sigh he gazed again into the dusk. The brandy tot was on its way to his mouth, but it hovered in space short of its target. A look of profound astonishment cleared the cynicism from his features and fully parted long lashes that had been low over his weary eyes. He turned his head and peered while several long elegant fingers actually cleared a circle on grey, gritty glass through which he might peer. He threw himself back in the chair with a dazed look on his face. Within a moment he was again staring, frowning, striving to convince himself that the young woman to whom he had once proposed was actually outside in the pouring rain, her shimmering hair slicked flat against her scalp. The brandy was emptied into his throat as he stood up.
Silver ran a finger over the glossy coachwork and the dent between her brows deepened. It was the sort of vehicle that once had impressed her very much. She couldn’t be sure the coachwork was black…it might have been a dark shade of green or blue. The light was poor and it was hard to tell, but the impeccably behaved pair in harness seemed familiar. It was the sort of flashy conveyance favoured by gentlemen of the ton who liked to appear soigné whilst travelling at full pelt.
Once she had begged to be taken out in a curricle just like this one. The gentleman who owned it had ignored her request, and sometimes that still needled…but rarely, of course, for she never dwelled on the memory…
‘Do you still want a ride in it?’
Silver whirled about, jumping a little as though the offer had been bellowed instead of drawled in a seductively soft baritone.
She tilted her head back, while belatedly scrabbling for her bonnet hanging on its strings down her back. Too late she jammed it on her slippery silver-blonde hair as though to conceal her identity. A pair of dark eyes, glinting with warmth and amusement, met her startled wide-eyed stare.
‘Lord Malvern…I…er…what are you doing here?’ Silver blurted breathlessly, darting an agitated look about.
The mingling of annoyance and accusation in her tone was not lost on Adam. He looked mock-af-fronted and said, ‘I was about to ask you the very same thing, Miss Meredith.’ Following her example, he looked around as though to discover with whom she was travelling, for she could not be alone at such an establishment. ‘I suppose I should be flattered that you recognised me at all. It has been a while; more than two years, is it not, since…?’ The reminiscence remained unfinished and he gave her a long look. ‘I think the last conversation we had closed with your wish never to see or speak to me ever again. Must I apologise for putting myself in your way?’
Silver coloured hotly at the soft irony and was glad of the cool mist on her skin and the muted light that camouflaged her high colour. ‘I was a deal younger then, sir and…unwisely outspoken at times…’
‘And now you are not?’ Adam’s rueful grin strengthened.
Silver’s chin tilted immediately at his mockery. She had been, at sixteen, undeniably naïve and impetuous. She also recalled being rude rather than diplomatic when declining this man’s proposal of marriage.
Adam’s eyes roved the delicately beautiful face turned to his. A definite belligerence had skewed her sweet mouth. For all her protestations that her youth had been to blame for her lack of manners two years ago, he rather thought he might get another tongue lashing.
‘Are you here with your mother, or one of your sisters?’
Silver swallowed and after a tiny hesitation prevaricated quickly, ‘When last we spoke, I was not alone in being unkind. As I recall, you were rude too. You called me an infuriating brat.’
‘Ah, well…I, too, was a lot younger then—and unwisely outspoken. Had I not been, I would never have proposed to you at all.’
Silver stared up at him, feeling unaccountably miffed at that. ‘I don’t believe you. You did want to marry me—’ She broke off at his expression and felt herself warming beneath his low-lidded regard. ‘I fear you are laughing at me, sir. I’m afraid my temper is always roused when I am mocked. Best that we part this time without rancour. Good evening.’ Quickly she made to slip past, heading for the tavern entrance.
‘Who are you travelling with? Where are you bound?’ The hand on her arm was light, but there was no amusement now in his tone and the query demanded an answer.
A pool of golden light spilling into the dusk made Silver glance nervously at the tavern door. A low oath escaped her as she saw who emerged into the night.
‘I fear, Miss Meredith, that you have not changed much at all,’ remarked the man closest to her on hearing her muttered expletive.
Silver was barely aware of that wry observation, for her gaze was concentrated on John Vance as he strode the cobbles towards them. She tried to communicate her instructions to him with her wide, expressive eyes. But distance and darkness defeated her and he hastened dutifully on.
‘They have a chamber and will prepare us a meal. Who is this?’ John burst out in his plain way. He looked at Silver and then at Adam.
Adam regarded the strapping young fellow who seemed to be standing far too close to Miss Meredith for propriety. Perhaps he was a trusted family servant…or perhaps he wasn’t, he thought acidly as the fellow took Silver’s hand and threaded it through his arm.
‘Are we to be introduced?’ Adam asked mildly as his eyes narrowed on the handsome newcomer who was holding Silver’s hand on his sleeve in a most proprietary fashion.
Silver glared at the ground as though demanding it open up and swallow her. Why had they not travelled further and broken their journey at a less conspicuous place? Of all the posting houses and taverns situated along the Great North Road, why did this man, of all people, have to be at this very one?
There was nothing for it now but to take the bull by the horns and reveal why she and John were travelling together. A wary glance flicked up at the distinguished gentleman watching her and, for a moment, their eyes tangled in a way that stirred oddly poignant memories.
When last Adam Townsend had stared at her like that she had felt flustered, and that had irritated her. So she had told him so. She had rebuffed Hugo Robinson in much the same way and he had snorted a coarse laugh and said he would show her why he stared. And, to her utter disgust, he had.
Just as she was about to break the expectant quiet with a careful explanation, her travelling companion blurted nervously, ‘I am John Vance and this lady is my wife.’
