The Rake. Mary Jo Putney
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out before the left one. “Perhaps I don’t like cats because they’re too much like me,” he said with a grin.
Laughing, she took the cat to the door and dumped him, protesting, on the other side. “Go down to the kitchen, Attila. There must be something there to interest you.” Closing the door before her pet could whisk back in, she turned to her guest. “So you’re sneaky, unreliable, and selfish?”
“Oh, indubitably,” he said, sipping at his sherry. “And I have many other fine qualities as well.”
This time both dimples showed as she sat gracefully in one of the brocade-covered chairs. “What are your other fine qualities?” Then she paused, a stricken expression on her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“Because it’s too personal a question, or because you’re afraid of what I might consider a fine quality?” Reggie asked as he took a seat opposite his steward.
“The latter reason, of course,” she said sweetly, then looked even more stricken at her unruly tongue.
Taking pity on her embarrassment, Reggie said, “Since you are not on duty, nothing you say can be held against you. Although I must say, I prefer your insults to having you frown me down.”
“Lord,” she said with a guilty start. “Is that what I was doing all day?”
“Yes,” he replied succinctly.
“It’s because of my eyebrows, you know,” she said earnestly. “Even when I’m in a good mood, people often think I’m about to bite them.”
“And when you’re in a bad mood?”
“Oh, then they fly in all directions.”
“I suppose that looking fearsome is a useful trait, given the work you do,” he said thoughtfully. “It can’t have been easy to get the Strickland tenants and workers to accept your authority.”
“There have been problems,” Alys admitted. “It is not a simple matter where one victory wins the war. They would take orders more easily if I owned the estate, but they don’t quite approve of a female steward. Still, after four years the tenants and I understand each other tolerably well.”
“I can understand their feelings. I don’t approve of you myself.” As she bridled, he raised one hand. “Nothing personal, but it’s a confounded nuisance that the ‘A’ in A. E. Weston doesn’t stand for Albert or Angus.” He studied her gravely. “If you value your reputation, you would be wise to look for another position.”
Alys froze, her sherry glass poised in midair halfway to her mouth. Then she lowered the glass, her face pale. “Are you discharging me?”
“No,” he said, feeling as guilty as if he’d struck her physically. “Just giving you some good advice.”
Relaxing fractionally, she said in a freezing tone, “In that case, just as you prefer to worry about your own dignity, leave me to worry about my reputation.”
“As long as you work for me, your reputation will be affected by mine, no matter how blameless your behavior,” he said bluntly. “When people hear that I have a female steward, they will chuckle knowingly and assume you’re my mistress, especially when it’s discovered that you are young and attractive.”
Alys’s face colored with embarrassment, and her gaze dropped. He wondered whether she was upset by the possibility that she might be taken for his mistress, or by his compliment. The latter, he suspected. Any suggestion that she was attractive seemed to throw her off balance.
She raised her head, her expression set. “I am no green girl who must always be above the merest hint of suspicion, and I am well-known in the neighborhood. It’s unlikely the local people will assume I have suddenly become lost to all propriety.”
“You might not be concerned about your reputation, but I am about mine,” he retorted. “Believe it or not, I have every intention of behaving circumspectly. Strickland is my home now. It always has been, really.” He studied his nearly empty glass as if fascinated by the remaining sherry. “I have no desire to offend everyone in Dorsetshire.”
“So you’ll save your outrageousness for London?”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps I will give it up entirely. Being outrageous all the time is a confounded amount of work.”
Reggie’s tone was light, but as he spoke he realized that his vague thoughts of the last few days had crystallized into a decision. It was time to put down the roots he had always yearned for, to stop filling his idle hours with gambling and drinking and wenching. In short, it was time to grow up—before it was too late.
He looked up to see that his steward was scrutinizing him closely, as if she sensed that his words were not casual and wondered what they implied for her. Both the brown and the gray-green eyes were bright and individually attractive. Though the contrast between them was startling, it exactly suited her. As a bonus, she had the longest eyelashes he had ever seen. Whoever had nicknamed her Lady Alys was perceptive. Miss Weston was not at all like the common run of females.
While honor had compelled him to warn her off, he was glad that she showed no desire to leave Strickland. It was true that her sex was a complication, but he admired her competence and integrity, and enjoyed her occasional flashes of barbed wit.
Besides, she was the best-looking steward he had ever seen.
She broke the lengthening silence, saying thoughtfully, “I suppose that outrageousness is boring once it has been mastered. Trying to be respectable should present all kinds of interesting new challenges.”
“It will certainly have the charm of novelty.” His mouth quirked into a half smile. “It does seem a pity to deprive high-sticklers of the pleasure of condemning me, but there are always new young rascals coming along to create scandal-broth.”
She tilted her head to one side consideringly. “You mean that you became a rake as a sort of public service?”
“Exactly so. Virtue needs vice for contrast.” He smiled wickedly, wondering if he could ruffle her feathers. She was very attractive when she forgot her dignity. “Good and evil are completely dependent on each other. Even God Himself needs Lucifer more than he needs his bands of well-behaved angels who never put one wing astray.”
She gazed wide-eyed into space, her expression arrested rather than shocked. “I’m not sure whether that is heresy or philosophy.”
“What’s the difference? Heresy is just philosophy that the establishment doesn’t approve of,” he said provocatively, thinking that Miss Weston had a much more flexible mind than his first impression of her had led him to expect.
Before the theological waters could grow any murkier, the door opened and Meredith floated into the room. Reggie rose at her entrance. The girl really was very lovely, not least because of the impression she gave of not taking herself and her beauty too seriously. He bowed over her hand, wondering what Julian Markham would think of her. He’d have to invite his young friend down for a visit.
Lady Alys gave Meredith a glass of sherry and refilled Reggie’s, and they exchanged commonplaces for a few minutes until the two Spenser boys entered, dressed in company best and bursting with curiosity. Reggie rose to meet them. The degree of excitement on their well-scrubbed faces was a reminder of how quiet life in the country was, and how seldom new people arrived to provide diversion. If he really intended to make his primary residence at Strickland, it would be an enormous change from the ceaseless variety of London. But then, it had been a long time since mere variety had afforded much pleasure.
Peter was an attractive stripling, his brown hair a contrast to his blond siblings. The height and starch of his shirt points and the complicated folds of his cravat showed aspirations to dandyism, but humor and intelligence showed in his blue-gray eyes. Shaking Reggie’s hand, he said politely, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Davenport. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
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