How To Build The Perfect Rake

How To Build The Perfect Rake

Kate Harper

CopyrightKateHarper@2012

http://www.kate-harper.com

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Chapter One

‘Is she looking at me? I think I saw her looking at me.’

Olympia Grayson stuck her head out to peer at the divine Carisse Houghton. ‘No. She’s talking to Lord Plimpton. And Mr. Shackleton. And Mr. Andover who is wearing the most astonishing shirt. Why, he can barely turn his head, his collar is so high. Do look.’

Lucien St James shook his head. ‘I cannot. She will think I’m looking at her.’

‘Well don’t look at her, look at Mr. Andover. The man considers himself quite the dandy.’

‘Does Miss Houghton appear to be interested in him?’

Olympia eyed Carisse Houghton but, as usual, the girl appeared to be interested in nobody but herself. She was the Season’s Beauty, a hit from the moment she glided forward to meet the Prince of Wales who had goggled at her through his quizzing glass forever and was later heard to ask who that ‘damned fine filly’ was. Really, Olympia reflected, how could the girl be anything but a hit?

‘Not particularly.’

‘Well does she appear to be interested in any of them?’ Lucien demanded.

His companion rolled her eyes. She had known Lucien for sixteen of her eighteen years and, with the familiarity of a childhood friend, felt comfortable about telling him when he was a fool. And as far as Carisse was concerned, that was most of the time since he had come up to London.

‘Honestly Luc, just go and talk to the girl. One more addition to her bevy of admirers isn’t going to make any difference and you’ve as good a chance as any. You’re rolling in green.’

Lucien, momentarily distracted, eyed his childhood companion with disgust. ‘Rolling in green? Where do you get these sayings?’

‘I have four brother’s. What do you expect?’

‘Decorum. You have none.’

Olympia snorted, which rather proved his point. ‘Oh please. I only say such things to you so it hardly matters.’

‘Of course it matters. You are a young lady.’

‘And you are full of fustian. Hovering behind my skirts while you make sheep eyes at the ghastly Carisse. I can’t image what you see in her.’ But she could, of course. The same thing that every male saw in Miss Houghton. An angelic face, hair the color of spun corn silk and the most melting blue eyes imaginable. Carisse was one of those anomalies of nature; a fantastically beautiful creature with the brains of a barnyard hen and an ego that would rival the little emperor Bonaparte.

Not unexpectedly, Lucien fired up at hearing his love vilified. ‘She is not ghastly! She is all that is good and delightful.’

‘Dear Lord.’

‘You are just jealous.’

‘Yes, I probably am.’ It did gall one to know that the Season’s Beauty completely outshone everybody, including the passably pretty girls who might reasonably be expected to make a good match of it under normal circumstances. Of course, they would get Carisse’s leavings but it certainly cast a pall over the proceedings.

Her admission had a mollifying effect on Lucien, who squeezed her arm. ‘You’ll find somebody nice, Ollie. I know you will. Especially if you curb that tongue of yours.’ This last observation was said with humorous resignation for he knew her well enough to know how unlikely that was.

He was, she reflected, a very nice young man. At the age of one and twenty his brown hair flopped rather endearingly across his forehead, stubbornly resisting his efforts to encourage it into a passable Brutus or even the windswept look paraded around by much admired Corinthians. He had pleasant features, amiable blue eyes and was lucky enough to possess a good set of shoulders. No, Olympia reflected, eyeing him thoughtfully. It wasn’t that Luc was at all ill favored. It was just that he was so jolly nice. And obliging. And eager to please. Rather like a puppy, in fact. Add these things to the fact that he lacked self confidence and there you had it. A bumbling young man who had nothing to recommend him to the pickier of women but a seriously impressive income and a name that was far more appealing that its owner. With over twenty thousand a year Lucien St James could be expected to secure himself an excellent match. Unfortunately the idiot’s eye had settled on the Incomparable, Carisse Houghton, as more or less seventy-five percent of most eligible males had done. One way or another, Luc was in for a difficult time of it. If Carisse did actually consider him a suitable suitor – and that was highly unlikely – then she would only be interested in his money. It was equally unlikely she would ever see the truly delightful man beneath. Sometimes Olympia thought that even Luc himself did not see that man.

‘I suppose I might. Carisse cannot marry every eligible man in England so surely there will be some left over for the rest of us.’ Although she could certainly distract a good few of them, Olympia reflected. She noted, with interest, that one of England’s less eligible men was approaching the fair Carisse. Lord Howe, a devilish rake if ever there was one, had arrived. He was tall, he was saturnine and he was handsome in a somewhat sullied way that suggested that his looks had been blurred by an excess of wickedness and that he had enjoyed every moment of it. ‘Oh look,’ she said sweetly, ‘the libertine approaches the lamb. Will there be bloodshed, I wonder? The man has quite the reputation as a hunter.’

‘What are you talking about?’ This comment did have Luc turning around, peering towards the fascinating scene that was unfolding to one side of the dance floor.

Carisse was staring at Lord Howe, an arrested expression on her face. Olympia watched with interest as the paragon gave him a smile, one that she actually seemed to mean.

‘Well now,’ she murmured, ‘it appears that the girl has a weakness for rakes.’

‘Nonsense1’ Lucien snapped. But even he could see that Miss Houghton’s behavior had changed with the arrival of the rake. She was suddenly preening, offering her hand and fluttering her eyelashes. Lord Howe bowed over it, smiling in return although there was something a little bit risqué in that twist of the lips. They were not close enough to hear what was said but Howe bent his head and Miss Houghton blushed, a pretty flush of pink that looked most becoming of her.

‘It won’t last,’ Olympia predicted. ‘Her mama will be along in a flash.’

Sure enough, Mrs. Houghton, who guarded her lamb with the ferocity of a lioness, appeared on the scene within moments and managed to whisk her beloved child off to safety, thus sparing her any danger of being sullied by a man of the world.

‘She cannot really like him,’ Lucien said doubtfully. ‘I mean, everybody knows the man’s reputation.’

‘A shocking flirt, a ruiner of reputations, a wastrel and a bounder?’ Olympia enquired.

‘Exactly.’

‘Or you could go with the version that is bandied about the ladies boudoirs. A shocking flirt, an excellent dancer, a delightful lover -’

‘Olympia!’

She shrugged. ‘I am merely telling you what the females think. Carisse is a female, even if she is a peculiar one. And clearly, she has a preference for naughty men. Which you,’ she added, tapping her friend on the chest, ‘will never be.’

‘I could be naughty. That is to say… well, a man can change. If Carisse wants somebody who is an out and out cad then I’m sure I could satisfy,’ he said, voice lofty.

Olympia gave a peel of laughter, which earned her quite a few glances. Some were disapproving but most were tolerantly amused for Miss Grayson was very well liked. With a sizeable dowry of her own, she was considered very likely to make an excellent match of it for all that she did not have a blonde hair (fair haired beauties being popular this Season). Olympia managed to endear herself with her cheerful disposition and a contagious smile and the general consensus was that she was a very pleasant young lady. More than a few scheming mama’s had quietly suggested to their sons that they could do worse than look in Miss Grayson’s direction.

‘Dearest Luc, you could no more be naughty than prance down Bond Street in a ball gown! That is one of the nicest things about you; your sweet disposition.’

‘Sweet does not get me the attention of Miss Houghton,’ Lucien replied glumly. ‘Honestly, Ollie, I’ll never understand females. Why in the world do they want some reckless fool when they could have a perfectly nice chap who is devoted to them?’

‘It’s the challenge. They know they can have the nice men but they are not nearly so sure about the wicked ones. If they can take a rake and reclaim him, or even have him pine for her, then they have performed a kind of modern miracle. All girls secretly want a man who makes their heart pound because he’s a knave. They just want him to come home to dinner every night.’

‘How ridiculous. What about you?’ he demanded. ‘Do you want a rake?’

Olympia thought about this, small nose wrinkling up a little as it often did when she was considering something. ‘I don’t believe I do. The thing is, they seem to be jolly hard work. Frankly I don’t know what I want in a man. A bit of spice is always appealing, but not so much that you have to be worried about him constantly chasing after other petticoats.’

Lucien looked down at the candid face of what was probably his best friend. They had come from similar situations, even if they were reversed. Olympia had four older brothers and was the only daughter. He had three older sisters and was the only son. And of course, practically living in each other’s laps as they were growing up had certainly forged a bond between them. But sometimes he despaired of her.

‘Petticoats? Really?’

She grinned. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Unfortunately, I do.’

‘Four brothers.’

‘Who should have taken you in hand years ago.’

She gave a snort. ‘They could try, I suppose but only Thad was ever silly enough to attempt it and we all know about Thaddeus. But honestly, pay your address to the Houghton if you are so smitten. She might not be too keen but I daresay her mama and papa will be in raptures.’

‘I don’t want to impress her parents!’

‘It couldn’t hurt.’

‘I want to impress Miss Houghton. I want to make her notice me. I want her to… to want me.’ He looked at Olympia, half expecting her to mock him but she merely shook her head.

‘What a fool you are. You could have a perfectly nice girl yet you dangle after the silliest one of the Season. Do you really want the harebrained creature? What on earth would you talk about?’

‘I’m sure we have a great deal in common. And she is not harebrained!’

‘I suppose that’s a yes, then. Well all I can suggest is that you convince her that rumors about your pleasant nature are vastly exaggerated.’

‘What do you mean?’ Lucien demanded, bewildered.

‘I mean, you sap, that you need to convince the fair Carisse that you are not as wet behind the ears as you look. That you’re a man of the world,’ she looked at the incomprehension on her friend’s face and sighed impatiently. ‘That you, too, are a bit of a rake, you fool! Change your spots, Lucien St James. I’ll bet you a monkey that she’ll look at you differently then.’

Lucien thought about what Olympia had said a great deal over the next twelve hours. It seemed like a mad scheme – as so many of her schemes did – but it might very well have some merit. So Carisse Houghton didn’t want a nice fellow. Well, there was no reason why he had to be a nice fellow, was there? He thought about Lord Howe and Baron Rotherington, both rakes with dreadful reputations. They weren’t exactly invited everywhere but they certainly weren’t ostracized. They were the masters of the cutting comment, the raised eyebrow, the supercilious quizzing glass. They knew how to be suggestive without actually saying anything particularly risqué. Lucien tried to imagine a conversation where he uttered something similar but he couldn’t think of anything that was not utterly absurd.

He was still thinking about it the next morning as he sat over breakfast. He was in residence in the family town house, which was actually his town house as he had come into the title eighteen months ago when his father had died, but he still thought of as belonging to his parents. It was an impressive house at an impressive address but Lucien had always found its grand rooms rather daunting. And it was damned hard to get warm in winter.

Jacobs, the butler opened the door of the breakfast parlor and eyed him severely. Or possibly not. Like the house, the old butler was hard to warm up and possessed an air of haughty superiority Lucien would have given much for.

‘Mr. Featherstone, sir.’

‘Send him in.’

‘Already am in,’ Freddy Featherstone announced, breezing past Jacobs. ‘Oh good. Breakfast.’

Lucien eyed his friend without much surprise. ‘That’s because it’s breakfast time. Care for some?’

‘Damned right I do. I’m famished.’ Mr. Featherstone collected a plate and helped himself liberally from the sideboard. A footman poured coffee. Freddy was a regular in Charles Street, his tastes well known. ‘How did it go last night?’ he inquired, taking a seat.

‘How did what go?’

‘Like that, hey?’ Freddy shook his head sympathetically. ‘I told you, old thing. Shooting high when you aim for the Houghton. She’s a diamond of the first water.’

‘I know that, thank you very much.’

‘All I’m saying is that you’ve got half the males in London sniffing around her. Competition is stiff. You should have come to Marchants. The cards ran deep.’

Lucien raised an eyebrow. ‘And you got fleeced?’

‘No such thing. I had a lucky run. Walked away flush, let me tell you.’

Which would be a change, Lucien reflected. More often than not, Freddy landed on Queer Street. The man was not a master at cards, no matter what the game. ‘Good for you,’ he hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Freddy?’

‘Hmm?’ Mr. Featherstone’s attention was momentarily distracted by a recalcitrant kidney, which he chased around his plate.

‘What do you think of rakes?’

‘What do you mean, what do I think of them? I don’t think of them at all.’ He speared the kidney and popped it into his mouth.

‘Miss Houghton seems to have a definite preference for Lord Howe.’

‘Does she now? Silly girl. The man’s a rum ‘un.’

‘Yes, well… Olympia suggested that if I were to secure Carisse Houghton’s interest, I should become more like a rake.’

‘Olympia said that? She was funning you. Damn good sort is Miss Grayson. Pretty as a picture as well. And she has dimples.’

‘Never mind Olympia! What do you think of her suggestion?’

Freddy was silent for a moment, contemplating the question. ‘So… what? How the devil do you mean, become more like a rake? You’re only one and twenty, old man. You haven’t sinned nearly enough to qualify.’

‘I do believe there are young rakes. Look at Mr. Castle.’

‘Didn’t he have to leave the country because he shot a fellow in a duel?’

‘Yes, but he is only three and twenty. That is my point.’

‘He was born bad. Got sent down from Oxford for stealing. Caused quite a dust up. There was a rumor that he got a serving maid in the family way when he was sixteen and numerous girls followed on. I don’t believe you’ve done any of those things, have you?’

‘You know damn well I have not. That’s not the point. I was thinking of taking lessons.’

‘In…?’

‘Becoming a rake.’

Freddie paused, fork half raised to his mouth. ‘Do you mean… pay somebody to teach you the tricks of the trade, so to speak? You can do that?’

‘I don’t see why not. If people want to learn to play an instrument they get lessons, don’t they? Or… or paint a picture? Why shouldn’t I get lessons in being a rake?’

For a moment the fork, along with the kidney, remained poised in the air as Mr. Featherstone considered this. Then he stuck it in his mouth and shook his head. ‘Sounds like a hum to me. Not necessary. Just apply to the parents. You’re rolling so they’ll like as not snap you up.’

‘The Duke of Branson is sniffing after her. He has money and a whopping great title. Can’t compete with that.’

‘He’s forty if he’s a day. With a lisp. She won’t want to marry a man who spits when he gets excited. No sane female would.’

She might not want Branson, thought Lucien, but she’s keen on a man like Lord Howe who was all of three and thirty himself. Age, he sensed, didn’t actually come into it. It was more something to do with how a fellow presented himself. And he presented himself like a green fool who tended to stutter in the presence of his love’s divine beauty.

‘I’m going to do it,’ he decided. ‘I’m going to learn to become a rake.’

‘’You’re a fool,’ Freddie shrugged, ‘but it’s your money. Who are you going to get to teach you?’

‘Lord Howe. I know for a fact that he is in dun territory. He could do with some ready in those pockets of his.’

‘Yes, but would he teach you? Rather too keen on himself, if you ask me. Will probably look down that thin snout of his and tell you to go to the devil.’

‘Perhaps.’ But Lucien didn’t think so. Howe was in dire straights and Luc had the means of making the