The Rake of Hearts by Emily Windsor

1

A rake is not born but shaped…by many hands

London. Summer, 1816.

Poppy-red lips parted in persuasion.

Ebony-tipped lashes drifted shut in invitation.

So Ernest slanted close to ki–

A distant shriek floated across Hyde Park and he paused – three inches afar.

“Ignore it, Lord Ernest,” the poppy-red lips snapped. “You’ve been rusticating in the Cotswolds for an age and I’ve missed…you.” A leather-gloved hand trailed his waistcoat buttons in a southerly direction. “Perhaps we should withdraw further into the shrubbery, hidden from prying eyes.”

A sound idea and he–

Panicked bellows carried through the trees and Ernest paused once more – now two inches afar.

Those poppy-red lips thinned, ebony-tipped lashes forming a slit. “I don’t care if London is falling. Kiss me!”

The disgruntled Lady Conway made for a delectable sight, embosked as she was by the laurel and low-hanging branches of an oak, but another shriek ensued and if London truly were falling, perhaps he should lend a hand in its defence.

Leather-clad fingers, however, captured his twisting cheek. “I’ll die if you don’t kiss me.”

Somewhat melodramatic but never having been one to cause a lady death by frustration, Ernest slanted to–

A crack of whip tore the air and he halted – one inch afar.

Horses screamed and he hauled himself away, ignoring the unladylike growl and stamp of delicate booted foot.

Swivelling, he pushed up his spectacles and peered across the parkland.

Between the trees lining the far path, he caught the flash of a yellow curricle hurtling from the direction of the north-east Cumberland Gate, its two matched bays stampeding with a distinct lack of control.

Hanging along the wooden fence that separated the avenue from the grassed walkway were a row of backsides, urchins whooping and jeering. Afternoon riders skittered to the edges, tots were dragged to their nurses’ skirts, gentlemen ushered their ladies to safety, and not one damn person was doing a thing to halt the horses’ trajectory towards the Serpentine Lake.

The curricle teetered and tipped upon taking a shallow corner before coming into direct view, the damn fool driver lashing his whip in panic once more, propelling the horses to yet greater fright, and even from this distance, Ernest could see the reins being yanked as though attempting to halt a four-score-gun warship from sliding down a slipway.

In five strides, Ernest had leaped the shrubbery fence, stabbed a Hessian boot into his stirrup and flung himself upon Stanley, his grey gelding, who gazed down the avenue in dismay.

“Lord Ernest! If you must abandon me…” He twisted to view a lace pink handkerchief fluttering through the air. “For luck, my knight-errant.”

It settled forlornly to the fence post.

Stanley snickered.

With a kiss to his fingers, Ernest blew his adieu to Lady Conway and snapped the reins to set off for the impending disaster.

He leaned low upon Stanley’s neck, cherished the rush of air and sense of freedom as they garnered speed, the iron-hued mane flicking against his skin. “Now, lad,” he murmured, “you’re not going to like this one bit, but there are oats and a carrot in it for you.”

Stanley’s ears twitched as he set to a canter.

Ahead, all Ernest could see was a mass of terrified expressions – horse, man and a female of indeterminate age. Blue ostrich feathers abruptly took flight from the lady’s hat and the man’s capes attempted the same, but alas, attached as they were to the bacon-brained fool, they could only flap like fledglings left at the nest.

Keeping to one side of the debacle, Ernest galloped full pelt towards the rampaging beasts, but on approach, he noted the reins now hung loose, and that although the horses’ ears were flat back, their eyes were not yet wild, but more…petrified at the lack of guidance.

Still there was naught Ernest could do from this direction, so he galloped on past to tug Stanley into a sharp turn, his faithful steed not flinching but trusting and most likely pondering on those oats.

They sped back up the avenue in pursuit, but the pair of mares, he’d observed on passing, had marginally slowed at the sight of the regal Stanley so they caught the runaway curricle with nary a sweat.

Ignoring the shouts of warning from spectators – as if he couldn’t see the colossal bloody lake ahead – Ernest galloped past the lurching curricle and kept pace with the pair of bays, easing close until a foot or so apart. He switched Stanley’s reins to one hand and reached out, fingers stretched…almost there. “Come on, girl,” he softly intoned. “Nearer. I won’t hurt you.”

The mare’s muzzle shifted towards him, eyes drawn, Ernest’s fingertips mere inches from the bridle and he stret–

A whip of leather lashed overhead and he soundly cursed as the curricle horses shied and even Stanley broke his stride.

“Cease that bloody whip,” Ernest bellowed over his shoulder, heart echoing the rhythmic thunder of the numerous hooves as the slate-grey Serpentine loomed ahead.

He urged Stanley on once more, bark chips scattering from beneath them, aware the avenue was reaching its end. Murmuring reassurance to the mares, Ernest edged near before in desperation, he threw out a hand to the nearest bridle, roaring his relief as soft leather met his clasp.

Now he just had to hold on.

Of course most onlookers would expect him to attempt an intrepid leap onto one of the horses’ bare backs, but these weren’t of his stable and besides, being carriage prads, they’d most likely buck a man to the pink azaleas.

Instead, he stayed alongside, guiding them, arm wrenching, the statuesque Stanley – who held no affection for water – also steering the mares with a deft nudge.

With howls of relief from the onlookers – or disappointment, one could never quite tell with the English – they curved past the Serpentine bank, the gallop slackening to a canter, the pair then calming to a trot with both the presence of Stanley at their side and Ernest’s hushed words. No doubt exhaustion and the lack of whip also aided matters.

Even so, he let the mares decide when to halt, their heavy exhalation and lathered withers attesting to their fear.

At length they slowed – to a walk, then to a stop, a smattering of applause from the onlookers greeting them. After straightening his glasses, Ernest threw a leg over to dismount, offered Stanley a pat and with deliberate nonchalance, approached the snorting matched pair.

With eyes averted and his back to the trembling creatures, he gathered their reins and chatted softly till their pants eased and a muzzle nudged his shoulder, then began to nibble his hair.

The spectators gradually dispersed, returning to promenade or picnic now the afternoon’s entertainment was at an end.

“You there,” he called to a lad who’d arm muscles like a bag of nuts. “Hold the reins, would you? And of Stanley here.”

The lad plodded over with a grubby frown. “They safe?”

“Don’t stare them in the eye, just give a scratch behind the ears and talk to them quietly, if need be.”

The lad gawped. “Wot about?”

“Well, what’s this afternoon’s gossip? The Royal squabbles? Byron’s latest affair? How the lunar eclipse last month might be responsible for this cold July weather? It matters not for ’tis the sound not the prose.”

“I’ll tell ’em about some barmy nob I seen in Hyde Park then,” he mumbled before gathering the reins. “Or my Sally in the alley yesternight.”

Not entirely sure Stanley would relish such a salacious tale, being a gelding and all, Ernest nevertheless tendered his thanks and turned to the curricle occupants. The dishevelled driver was assisting a lady down from the high seat, her concealing and featherless hat now skew-whiff and resembling a plucked chicken.

Ernest stroked a hand down the nearest horse’s rump. “Did a dog scare them?”

The driver twisted, shielding the lady from view as he straightened his greatcoat. “You have my utmost thanks, sir.” His nose held the redness of too much liquor, eyes a beetle brown. “And no, the damn witless creatures just took off.”

Ernest nodded, but his palm encountered welts along their flanks and ribs, the cut of whip, and his brow rippled, teeth gritted. “How long have you had them in Town?”

“Well, I…”

“They are new to London.” In a dress and pelisse the hue of dusk, the gentleman’s beauteous companion stepped forth, her cheeks flushed and blond curls tousled. “Mr Maddock here assured me they had been conditioned to town life.” She cast the gentleman in question a stare that could freeze the ballocks off an ox. “But apparently not.”

Ernest’s pulse ignited as she turned that same gaze upon himself.

She perused his Hessian boots and thinned her lips.

She scrutinised his yellow-buff breeches and sniffed.

She inspected his hideously expensive striped waistcoat and raised a brow.

She peered at his perfectly crooked cravat and crinkled her nose.

“What a coincidence, Mrs Locke,” he drawled with a deep bow.

“My sincere gratitude for our rescue…sir.” Her expression was of a soldier thanking the surgeon who’d just amputated his leg, accompanied by the briefest of curtseys. “But I’m quite sure we are not acquainted.”

“You pain me, Mrs Locke, for I remember as though yesterday. The Plymtrees’ ball in May. My brother introduced us, and you…straightened my fashionably crooked cravat.”

“Ah.” She tapped her silken forehead. “Vaguely.”

“And inferred that I should wander in hellish unabated anguish forever.” Would a ravishing kiss sweeten such tartness?

She folded her arms, fingers rapping on her pelisse as though performing Beethoven. “Well, perhaps you should have taken my advice.”

Placing palm to wounded…ego, Ernest could not withhold his smile.

The gauntlet of her wintry dismissal had been thrown.

Mrs Locke was magnificent.

And oh, how he adored a challenge.

Hebe Locke closedher eyes and breathed deep of Hyde Park in late July – chill air and verdant growth.

Why did the heroic gentleman who’d saved herself and Mr Maddock from certain death, or at the very least a drenching, have to be Lord Ernest Brook, brother to the Duke of Rothwell?

Having been so valiant in his actions, good manners would dictate she display her true gratitude with a coy glance or mayhap invite him to take tea, but this lord’s reputation amongst the Ton for debauched and rakish behaviour put paid to any thoughts of offering him her best biscuits.

Such rakes, she knew all too well, were not to be trusted, his impeccable waistcoat doubtless concealing a rotten core, its mouldy tendrils spreading with impunity, that tanned skin masking base metal – the sort which tinged one’s own skin green.

Mr Maddock interrupted her reverie with a cough. “And your name, sir? So that I might show my appreciation.”

“Lord Ernest Brook,” he declared, slinking a palm down the horse’s hip joint. “And you can show your appreciation by selling me this pair for my brother’s stable. Name your price.”

Mr Maddock stuttered. “You can’t just…”

“My brother is the Duke of Rothwell.” He hiked a brow that Hebe recognised from the duke himself’s own coterie of expressions as that duke also happened to be her art patron. “Are you refusing a highest peer of the realm?”

Hebe placed hand to mouth. How shameless of his lordship to flaunt his ducal connection so. And why would he want the mares? They’d most probably need to be retired after Maddock’s abhorrent use of the whip. She’d solely agreed to this curricle excursion because of his expressed wish to commission an oil painting of his stallion and such a rare opportunity for a female artist like herself could not be refused.

Perhaps she’d return to painting pug dogs.

A card was produced from the rake’s emerald jacket. “My details. I’ll expect your terms within the next two days.”

His bespectacled gaze then came to rest upon her and Hebe chilled her eyes to winter.

Dipping his head, he peered over the gold rims of those spectacles. “And I would ask to call upon you, Mrs Locke, to ascertain whether you have suffered any ill-effects, but…” His gaze flicked to Mr Maddock in speculation. “Well, I would not want to scald my lips on another man’s pottage, so to speak.”

Pottage!He’d called her pottage!

An outrage.

Which was closely followed by the odious notion that anyone could consider her in some way attached to the ugsome Mr Maddock who was now spluttering in what she hoped was outrage also.

Hebe fisted her gloved hands so tight the leather squeaked. “I am no man’s pottage, Lord Ernest, and do not feel any compunction to call upon me.” She raked his personage with scathing eye. “For rarely do I find the time to accommodate every ass who likes to hear himself bray.”

Mr Maddock winced and the horses snickered, but with a distinct twitch to his lip, Lord Ernest merely tugged his cravat further awry and leaned forw–

“Oh, Lord Ernest,” a breathy voice lamented from somewhere behind Hebe’s shoulder. “Oh, how truly heroic. Oh, my knight! Oh!”

Oh, good grief, and Hebe spun to survey a velvet-clad goddess with rouged pout, a gentleman’s beaver hat in one hand, a gold-finialled cane in the other.

“Lady Conway,” the rake drawled before his head tilted to one side. “And ladies?”

For behind the goddess swarmed a gaggle of handmaidens, a wave of coloured silks and fine feathers jogging in their direction.

Hebe stood her ground, Mr Maddock hid behind his curricle wheel and even this rake of hearts raised a startled eyebrow.

Their panting and pink-cheeked leader batted poor Lady Conway aside with a flick of yellow kid glove and then nigh dropped at his lordship’s Hessian boots in supplication.

“Oh, Lord Ernest, us ladies of Portman Square were picnicking across the park when we spied your most courageous act.” She clasped hands to prodigious bosom. “You must let me assist you to my home in order to recover your strength… With some champagne, perhaps?”

A lady in olive green thrust her aside. “Mine is nearer. Number fifteen. And I have brandy.”

“I have a soft couch…” another called from the back. “For you to rest upon.”

Their voices rose with invites of liqueur, sustenance and to bathe his weary body, squabbles ensuing as to the exact distance to their homes.

Hebe glanced to Lord Ernest, who seemed almost alarmed, and she stifled a laugh, studying his flushed profile to determine what all the flap was about.

No idea.

Perchance, unlike the other ladies, Hebe knew what such handsome looks and seductive prose could conceal.

Deceit and betrayal.

“Er, ladies,” he pleaded, swinging his arms wide. “How welcoming of you all but pray do not ask a man to choose between such delightful temptations. Therefore…why do we not all attend the theatre together this night?”

A murmur of assent swelled.

“And of course,” he enthused, swivelling to herself. “You also, Mrs Locke. I do so hope you will join us?”

Hebe blinked.

The dissolute coxcomb.

Stepping forward, she straightened that irritating skew-whiff cravat. “I’m afraid I must decline, Lord Ernest, for I am curling my hair in papers tonight.”

Gasps abounded.

And she turned to her erstwhile driver. “I believe I’ll walk from here, Mr Maddock.”

At that moment, the usurped Lady Conway stomped her way through the Portman Square ladies and thrust the smart beaver hat and cane to his lordship. “You left these in the shrubbery.”

Hebe hoisted a brow as the lady turned on her heel in a swish of lavender skirts and marched off. “It appears, my lord,” she murmured, “that your own pottage has alas gone cold.”

She tensed as he claimed her hand and raised it to his lips.

“Every once in a while, Mrs Locke, I enjoy the bite of cold.” His expression was indefinable. “If you change your mind about the theatre…” He bowed, low and lingering. “I remain forever your devoted servant.”

And the insufferable rake winked.