The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes: How to Disgrace a Lady / How to Ruin a Reputation

Merrick lounged where other men stiffly posed against the mantelpiece. Merrick said what he thought while others searched for careful phrasing.

And it was working. The pretty Widow Whitely tilted her blonde head to one side, giving Merrick a considering look, a coy half-smile on her lips, her eyes dropping to his mouth and then to an unmentionable spot just below his waist.

Oh. Alixe felt a blush start to rise on Mrs Whitely’s behalf. Had Mrs Whitely really done that? It had happened so quickly, Alixe couldn’t be entirely sure of what she’d seen. Merrick was leaning forwards and smiling, a behaviour that sent an unlooked-for surge of jealously through Alixe. He had smiled at her in a similar manner up at the villa today. Jamie had warned her Merrick liked women. But a warning wasn’t quite as effective as seeing the evidence first-hand.

Watching him with Widow Whitely was a gentle reminder that these were the tools of his trade. It was also a reminder that he wasn’t hers to command. He was merely her unconventional and secret tutor at the moment. If he wanted to flirt with Mrs Whitely, she had no right to countermand him.

As if drawn by her thoughts, Merrick looked up from his tête-à-tête with the engaging widow, his eyes discreetly finding hers.

Five minutes later, he materialised at her side. ‘Did you learn anything, ma chère?’

Other than that Mrs Whitely might have a fascination with certain parts of yours? That could absolutely not be said out loud. Alixe elected to say nothing. She shook her head.

‘I did,’ Merrick continued, his voice low at her ear. ‘We were noticed at the picnic today and again in the drawing room. I’ve been approached by no less than three ladies who have commented on it.’

‘In a good way, I hope.’ Alixe could imagine the ways they might have been noticed. She was not used to deliberately drawing attention to herself. ‘The last thing I need before going to London is too much attention.’ She would prefer no one had spied them up at the villa or actually heard what they were laughing over at the picnic.

Merrick gave one of his easy smiles. ‘There is no such thing as too much attention. Don’t be confusing attention with scandal. They are two different animals entirely. One is good and the other is to be avoided at all costs.’

Alixe raised an eyebrow in quizzing disbelief. ‘And you’re a prime example of avoiding scandal?’

‘Scandal is to be avoided at all costs, if you’re a woman,’ Merrick amended.

‘Quite the double standard since it’s pretty hard to fall into scandal without us,’ Alixe said drily.

‘Still, there are ways.’ Merrick laughed, then sobered. Alixe followed his narrowing gaze to the arrival of a newcomer to the drawing room. Archibald Redfield entered with Lady Folkestone on his arm, his golden head bent with a smile to catch a comment.

‘Your mother seems quite taken with our Mr Redfield.’

‘My father, too. They dote on him.’

‘Whatever for? He’s a sly sort. Surely they can see that.’

‘They only see his manners, his standard-bred good looks. He’s solid, not the sort to stir up trouble. He’s exactly what this sleepy part of England is looking for in a landowner. He took over the old Tailsby Manse last year. It was the most exciting thing to happen in Folkestone for ages. Everyone with a daughter under thirty was thrilled.’

‘Do you include your mother in that grouping?’ Merrick’s eyes followed Redfield about the room in a manner reminiscent of a wolf stalking prey.

‘Of course.’ Alixe shrugged, hoping to fob off any further inquisition.

‘But to no avail?’ Merrick probed. This was uncomfortable ground.

‘To no avail on my end. I was not interested in Mr Redfield’s attentions.’

‘But he was?’

‘Yes. Yes, he was interested,’ Alixe replied tersely. She’d retreated from London to avoid men like Archibald Redfield. Merrick looked ready to ask another question. ‘This is not a seemly topic of conversation for a drawing room,’ Alixe said quickly. She had no desire to delve further into just how interested Mr Redfield had been or how naively she’d been taken in for a short time.

‘Then perhaps you’ll do me the honour of continuing the conversation later in the garden after the games. I believe I am to join old Mrs Pottinger and her cronies at whist shortly.’ Merrick was all obliging affability at the thought of an evening spent at cards with old ladies.

‘I hadn’t planned on staying for the games,’ Alixe admitted. ‘I am behind on my manuscript. I’d hoped to sneak off and get some work done tonight.’ She’d lost so much time since the house party had begun and the manuscript was still giving her fits.

‘Oh, no, that will not do,’ Merrick scolded. ‘You can’t be noticed if you’re not here. You need to stay and you need to enjoy yourself. Go over and join Miss Georgia Downing and the young ladies by the sofa. I promise they’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance. With luck, you can all make plans to call on one another in London.’

It would be fun to spend an evening in the company of people her age—well, roughly her age. She knew she was a bit older. Still, Jane Atwood was in that group and she was twenty-two. ‘But the manuscript...’ Alixe protested weakly.

‘I’ll help you with it in the morning,’ Merrick promised.

That coaxed a smile. Alixe could feel it creeping across her mouth. ‘So you really do understand Old French?’

‘Did you think I didn’t?’ Merrick feigned hurt. He touched a hand to her wrist. ‘You doubted me?’

‘Well, I did suppose rumours of your abilities might have been greatly exaggerated in that regard.’ Alixe found herself flirting in response to the light pressure of his hand at her gloved wrist. It was impossible to hate him; his charm proved irresistible even when she knew precisely what he was.

‘Bravo, that was nicely done, quite the perfect rejoinder—definitely witty and perhaps even a bit of naughty innuendo thrown in. Why, Lady Alixe, I do think you might have the makings of a master yet.’

Alixe let herself be drawn into the fun of conversing with Merrick. She dropped a little curtsy. ‘Thank you, that’s quite a compliment.’

‘Then I shall depart on a good note and take up my chair at the whist table.’

‘Do take care. Mrs Pottinger is sharper than she looks.’

Merrick gave her a short bow. ‘I appreciate your concern. But I assure you, I can hold my own against county champions of Mrs Pottinger’s skill.’

Alixe laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be so certain of that. She counts cards like an inveterate gambler.’

* * *

Damn, but if Alixe wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have played his heart. He’d suspected Mrs Pottinger was out of them and would trump his jack, but he’d lost count. Apparently there were only two hearts left against his jack and not three. From under her lace cap, the elderly dame gave him a smug look of triumph and led her ace of spades.

Merrick gathered his wandering attentions and focused on the game. If he wasn’t careful, he and his partner would lose this rubber. There’d be no living it down in London if word got back he’d lost at cards to a group of old country biddies.

Mrs Pottinger let out a sigh and tossed her last card. ‘You’re a wily fox, after all, St Magnus. For all my finessing I can’t wheedle the eight of spades out of you and it will be my undoing. My poor seven will fall to it and the game is yours.’

‘But your skill is not in doubt, Mrs Pottinger,’ Merrick said gallantly, tossing his eight of spades on to the trick. ‘You are a most impressive player. I was rightfully warned about you.’ Merrick rose from the table and helped each of the ladies rise after their long sit. ‘Thank you for the game, ladies. It’s been a delightful evening.’

He’d done his duty for Lady Folkestone. Now it was time to give his full attention to the interesting situation with Archibald Redfield. He’d meant to confront Redfield about the questionable nature of the wager. ‘Rigging’ a wager was not honourable conduct among those who gambled and Merrick, as one who wagered rather often, knew it. He was not going to let Redfield slip by on this one. Redfield’s attempt at rigging the wager had nearly jeopardised a lady’s reputation. It had most definitely jeopardised the lady’s future.

Not all of his attentions had been diverted to the ‘Redfield situation’. The lady in question had done her share of distracting, too. Many of his thoughts had, in fact, been diverted to the ‘Alixe conundrum’. On more than one occasion, his eye had been drawn to her across the room where she’d taken his advice and joined a group of young ladies. Why had she refused Redfield’s attentions? Her past association with Redfield put an entirely different cast upon the wager, one that suggested the wager hadn’t been about himself, but about Alixe and quite possibly retaliation.

Revenge seemed a long way to go merely because a lady rejected the man’s attentions. But perhaps there was more to it. Alixe had seemed loathe to discuss the situation in detail. Originally, he’d attributed her reticence to their circumstances. A drawing room full of people was hardly conducive to divulging secrets. Now, he was starting to wonder if the reticence didn’t come from something more.

Merrick strolled towards the wide bay of French doors leading out to the spectacular Folkestone gardens. Games were breaking up and people were starting to mill as they waited for the end-of-evening tea cart. Once he caught Alixe’s eye, it would be easy to slip outside unnoticed and wait for her.

* * *

Waiting was the harder part. He’d been about ready to go inside and detach her from the group when she finally came out. ‘This is dangerous.’ She scolded. ‘What if someone sees us?’

‘I hope they do. There’s nothing to hide. I’d have to be completely foolish to try to steal a kiss with the entire house party looking on.’ Merrick scowled, tossing a hand to indicate the long bank of French doors. ‘I thought you were never coming out.’

‘I didn’t think we had anything urgent to discuss.’

‘I disagree. We aren’t done talking about Redfield.’

He recognised defiance. Her chin went up a slight fraction, just as it had at the villa.

‘I’m starting to think he made the wager on purpose, that perhaps he wanted revenge. The wager was meant to land you in the suds. I was merely a tool.’ Merrick laid out his hypothesis, noticing that she didn’t rush to deny the claim. ‘Is there merit to that? What might have transpired between you that would cause him to take such drastic measures?’

Alixe smoothed her skirts, another gesture he was coming to associate with her when she was not certain what to say. ‘I don’t think it has any bearing on our current circumstances,’ she replied coolly.

‘I do.’ Merrick crossed his arms over his chest, studying her in the light thrown from the drawing room. He wished he could see her eyes more clearly. They would tell him if she was as cool as she sounded. ‘Redfield tried to fix the bet and not for his benefit. He knew you’d be there; if I succeeded, he would lose money, not to mention the money his friends would lose. Have you thought about why a man would set himself up for a likely failure?’

‘Perhaps he thought I’d resist your attempts.’ She squirmed a little at that. ‘For that matter, how do you know he knew I’d be there?’

‘He brought your father, hardly someone who’d be interested in who I was kissing unless it was his own daughter. Your father wouldn’t care two figs if I was in there kissing Widow Whitely. Besides, Ashe told me Redfield was boasting he knew someone would be there.’

‘Oh.’ It came out as a small sigh and her shoulders sagged just the tiniest bit, the only acknowledgement she’d make that he was quite possibly right. ‘I refused him when he put the question to me. Needless to say, he was stunned. He should not have been. The daughter of an earl is quite a reach for a man of his modest antecedents. We did not discuss it, but I had reason to believe his intentions were not as true as he represented them to be.’

Merrick believed that. It was how polite society conducted its business. Redfield would never know the reasons she’d refused him. He would have hidden his disappointment just as she’d hidden her true reasons. It did not take great imagination to envision them sitting properly in the Folkestone receiving rooms, voicing polite platitudes of having been honoured by the other’s attentions and regretful the outcome could not be otherwise. Then they’d gone about the business of being courteous neighbours because there was no other choice. Neighbours must first and foremost always maintain a veneer of politeness, which often precluded being able to speak the truth.

The situation with Archibald Redfield was untidy beneath the placid surface. It made her anxious to speak of it. Even now, her gaze was drawn towards the doors, looking for distraction. She found it in the tea cart’s arrival. ‘We should return inside.’

‘You go in first and I’ll follow after a decent interval.’

He’d wait five minutes before returning and then he’d stay at her side for what was left of the evening. He counted off the minutes, letting his mind wander, mulling over what Alixe had revealed and even what she hadn’t.

Redfield’s former relationship with Alixe put an entirely different cast on his motives for the dangerous wager he’d made. Redfield had been taken aback by her refusal—so stunned, in fact, that he wanted revenge enough to plan a compromising situation, to see Alixe Burke ruined. But to want revenge seemed an uncharacteristically harsh action.

More questions followed. Alixe had hinted she’d discovered something unsavoury about Redfield’s intentions. Did Redfield suspect she’d made such a discovery and did he fear she might expose it? What would Redfield have to hide?

All of it was supposition. But if any of it were true, Alixe Burke might be in danger from more than an unwanted marriage. Whether she realised it or not, she was in need of a champion.

Ashe would be the first to point out the hero did not have to be him. Merrick was not required to champion Alixe Burke against jilted suitors. Yet he could not help but feel a need to champion this woman who had dared to carve out a life contrary to society’s preferences. Her daring had left her alone. Perhaps that was the kinship he felt with her. In spite of his notorious popularity, Merrick St Magnus knew what it meant to be alone.

* * *

Archibald Redfield considered himself a man who was rarely surprised. Human nature held little mystery for him. Yet St Magnus had managed to surprise him. He had not expected to see the devil-may-care libertine that morning. St Magnus had stayed. Not only had he stayed, he’d played his role to the hilt at the picnic, never once leaving Alixe Burke’s side. It was not what he had expected and that made him nervous.

What made him even more nervous was the sight of Alixe Burke slipping back in to the party, trying hard not to be noticed. No doubt she’d been sneaking out to see St Magnus. He didn’t like that in the least. The last thing he needed was for Alixe to decide she actually liked the rogue or for St Magnus to do the deciding for her. It would be death to his plans if anyone caught St Magnus and Alixe being indiscreet.

Redfield knew rogues. He feared that the reason St Magnus hadn’t left was that St Magnus wanted to woo Alixe for himself, compromise her if need be and the dratted man was now perfectly positioned to do that, having been given carte blanche to act the role of an interested suitor. This was a most unlooked-for complication. Redfield would have to keep his eye on the situation most carefully.

Fortunately for the present, no one else had noticed Alixe’s return. She wasn’t the ‘noticeable’ type, not dressed like that anyway, in a beige gown that matched the wallpaper. He was astute enough to know the Earl of Folkestone’s well-dowered daughter could afford better, but he simply didn’t care what she wore or why. He didn’t care if she’d rather live in the country with her books. He only cared that she came with a great deal of money. Plain women, ugly women, beautiful women—he’d had them all when it served his purposes. In the dark they were all the same. Except that Alixe Burke was the richest prize he’d ever gone after. She’d be the last, too, if he was successful.

Scratch that. There could be no ‘ifs’ about it. He had to win her. He’d sunk his funds into the Tailsby Manse, the first step in his bid to be a respectable gentleman. The manor was definitely a gentleman’s home, but that also meant it was in a certain state of disrepair. The roof leaked, the chimneys smoked and it took servants to run the place. All those things required money. Alixe Burke had money and prestige. Marriage to her would solidify his claim to a genteel life.

But she had turned him down. He had not expected it. A woman on the shelf didn’t turn down offers of marriage, earl’s daughter or not. It was a setback he could not easily afford. She would find she could not afford it either. He would push the choosy Miss Burke into a corner until she had no choice but to accept his twelfth-hour offer and this time she’d be all too glad to accept.

As long as St Magnus played by the rules and did not compromise her for himself, all would be well. Not even St Magnus could turn her into an interesting woman, the kind of woman who could be labelled a Toast. Yes, there’d be fortune hunters like himself who wouldn’t care what she looked like, but she was to be made a Toast precisely to avoid those men and draw the right kind of man to her side. Folkestone would know the difference. Redfield was confident the right man would not emerge.

He was even more confident Folkestone would not want to see his daughter married to St Magnus, a man with his own social ghosts and demons to contend with. That would be when he made his generous offer to marry Alixe, saving the family from the scandal of attaching themselves permanently to St Magnus. It would all be wrapped up neatly by Season’s end and there’d be time to have his roof patched before winter set in.

Chapter Nine

Alixe was dressed hideously again in a shapeless work dress when she met Merrick in the library the following morning, her hair left to hang loose in her hurry to make up for oversleeping. There was no one to notice this grooming oversight on her part. The house party had taken themselves off to the village for a day of shopping and touring the local church. But one would have thought the king was coming to call the way St Magnus was turned out in sartorial perfection for the simple and isolated task of working in the library with her.

He was waiting for her, attired in fawn breeches, crisp white linen shirt and a sky-blue waistcoat in a paisley pattern that managed to deepen the hue of his already impossibly blue eyes. He’d been freshly shaved and his hair was brushed to the pale sheen of cream. His morning elan was perhaps a not-so-subtle commentary about her own choice of clothing. But if she’d meant to get a more obvious rise out of Merrick over her clothes, she was to be disappointed.

His comment extended merely to a raised eyebrow. Instead, he turned his attentions to the project at hand and after a few minutes of study to familiarise himself with the text, he said ‘I think you’re taking the translation too literally again. The sentence makes more sense if profiter means taking advantage of. You’re using it to mean making money, the way one would use the word today.’

Merrick slid the document back across the long library table to let her look at the section in question, the understated scent of his morning toilette teasing her nostrils as he leaned forwards slightly to push the document towards her. He smelled clean, the very idea of freshness personified. Then he pulled his arm back and the delightful scent retreated. She wanted more. Alixe wondered what he would do if she acted on the impulse to lean across the table and sniff him, a great big healthy sniff. A giggle escaped her at the very thought of acting on the notion.

‘Is there something humorous?’ Merrick was all stern seriousness.

‘Um, no.’ Alixe blushed and feigned a throat-clearing cough. ‘A tickle in my throat, I think.’ I was just thinking about sniffing you. Alixe hastily shifted her gaze to the manuscript and pretended to read, using the pretence to gather her scattered thoughts. She’d worked on this manuscript for weeks without distraction until St Magnus’s arrival. Now, her focus fled at the smallest provocation from him. The isolation of the country must be getting to her. She took a deep breath.

‘Better?’ St Magnus enquired, needing only a pair of eye glasses to look the consummate college professor, albeit a very handsome one.

‘Yes, much better, thank you.’ What was wrong with her? She did not usually think in such terms. Then again, she wasn’t in the habit of taking kissing lessons from men she hardly knew either.

Alixe scanned the document. It didn’t take long to see his interpretation was correct. ‘It seems so obvious now that you’ve pointed it out. The rest of the document should translate easily from this point.’ His translation made perfect sense. Really, it was a marvel she’d missed it.

Too bad swallowing her pride wasn’t as simple. She was a historian, even if she had been self-trained. She’d had the benefit of tutors and a fine education up until Jamie had left for Oxford. How was it that a well-educated person like herself had not seen what Merrick had noted immediately? She scribbled some notes on a tablet and then looked up, considering. Morning sunlight streamed through the long windows of the library, turning his buttermilk hair to the pale flax of corn silk. ‘How is it that you know so much about French?’ It seemed patently unfair this gorgeous male should also be in possession of an intellect. He’d demonstrated on two separate occasions that intellect was quite well developed.

‘It’s the language of love, ma chère.’ Merrick flashed her one of his teasing grins. ‘I didn’t have to be a genius to see all the uses I could find for it.’

Alixe wasn’t satisfied. He knew far more than a passing phrase for impressing the ladies. ‘Don’t trivialise your skill.’ The vehemence of her defence startled them both. ‘You don’t have to pretend you don’t have a brain. Not with me anyway.’

An awkward silence followed in the wake of her outburst. It was one of those moments when they stepped outside their prescribed roles of rake and blue stocking and the revelation that had followed was nothing short of surprising. It was difficult to think of her and Merrick having something so significant in common.

‘You studied French at Oxford. I hardly think the curriculum there was limited to a few bon mots.’ Alixe cast about for a way to restore equilibrium to the conversation, not entirely comfortable with what she’d learned.

‘Have you ever considered that Oxford might be overrated?’ Merrick leaned back in his chair, propping it up on its hind legs, his hands tucked behind his head, an entirely masculine habit. He tried for evasion. ‘Rich men send their sons to Oxford to get an education when they know full well we spend most of our days and nights carousing in the taverns and getting up to all nature of mischief. It’s a different sort of education than the ones the dons intend for us. Our fathers don’t care as long as we don’t get sent down in disgrace.’ There was a bitterness that underlay the levity of his tone.

‘Jamie mentioned there was time for a few larks.’ Alixe got up from the table and absently strode to one of the long windows to take in the morning sun. ‘But I don’t believe you picked languages entirely on whim.’ She wouldn’t let him get away with skirting the question. Evasion was an unexpected strategy from a man who’d stood on the edge of the pond unabashedly naked.

‘I like to talk and languages are another way to talk. At the time it seemed like a kind of rebellion. I liked the idea of being able to say something that can’t quite be said in English.’

‘Such as...?’ Alixe faced him, her back to the window. She’d not have guessed a discussion of his personal life would send this extroverted man into full retreat, discreet as the retreat was. It touched her in dangerous ways that he would be vulnerable. It made him far more human than she’d like.