Craving the Rake's Touch. Bronwyn Scott
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ramrod-straight in the elegant Louis XV drawing room of the family’s country seat, dressed in the highest of fashion London had to offer and surrounded by the scions of some of England’s best families, many of whom had traveled from London to bask exclusively in her charms as the selected few. She laughed, she smiled, she complimented, until there wasn’t a single man among them who didn’t feel the full force of her blue-eyed charm.
She had never felt more like a fraud. Perhaps the gentlemen assembled did, too. She knew very well they weren’t here to simply bask. There was a job to be done over the course of this short diversion of a house party before rejoining the Season already underway in London. These men had invested in the journey from London, in the hopes of trying their luck at winning her hand, or if that failed, at winning the hand of one of the other lovely young debutantes present, just as those pretty girls were trying their luck at winning that exact proposition from one of the highly eligible men present. Everyone was engaged in an enormous play, only Sarah Dryden wasn’t playing fair.
She was not what they thought. She wasn’t rich and she was not free to choose. In fact, she did not want to choose any of them. They were not funny, although she laughed. Many of them were not attractive, although she told them they were.
If it had been up to her, she would have cleared the room a half hour ago, told them all to save their fathers’ money and invest in a woman who would or could choose them, a woman who might love them for themselves and not their fortunes. But that woman would not be her. She wasn’t free to choose them even if their attributes recommended them to her. She could only choose a wealthy man. That wasn’t even the biggest secret.
The biggest secret was that the Drydens hadn’t a feather to fly with. In short, they were broke. There was nothing left to sell but herself. Her brother Ren, the earl, might have put a stop to it but he was two thousand miles away in the Caribbean salvaging a sugar plantation left to him by a distant cousin. The plantation was to be the saving of the family and it probably would be in the future. Little good it did her in the present, with creditors hounding them and her mother locked in her room refusing to see anyone.
There was only Sarah to deal with the here and now. And, the family solicitors assured her, only marriage to stop the financial hemorrhaging. She would marry as quickly, and as much to her benefit, as possible, although such a practical, cold arrangement went against her nature. She had once hoped for more. But such sentiment had no place here.
Sarah scanned the gathering, wondering whom it might be, which one would she choose? Did it really matter? These men were here because they were the best London had to offer; all of them heirs to titles, all of them rich, all of them looking for the same qualities in a wife. They were essentially the same. By the end of the house party, she’d have the husband picked out. There was relief in that knowledge and there was sadness, too.
In forty-eight hours it would all be over. Not just the frenzy of the hunt, but the possibility of something more...of finding a man who was more than his pedigree, more than a set of boxes ticked off her list of standards. But current circumstances made such a dream a luxury she could no longer afford, a hope she could no longer harbor as she once had. Perhaps that was for the best. Those hopes had brought her great hurt.
“You might as well go ahead and take your dress off.”
A low voice at her ear made her jump, wrecking her perfect posture and nearly causing her to spill her tea as her mind registered the sound. She’d know that voice anywhere, with its laughing, gravelly tones, even if the man wasn’t on the guest list. An unlooked-for frisson of excitement, mixed with trepidation, traveled down her spine. Benedict DeBreed was here.
“I beg your pardon?” Sarah gathered her composure and turned to face this audacious newcomer. Good lord, what was he doing here? He’d not been invited. Even so, he wasn’t the type who came to these high-brow, exclusive affairs. Benedict was one of her brother’s friends from London, the sort of friend sisters knew about but not the sort brothers brought home, at least not often. And for good reason, as it had turned out. Benedict had proven to be an irresistible temptation.
Now it seemed he had slipped past her defenses once again. She’d been so intent on Badgley’s heir she hadn’t kept an eye on the door. “I knew it could only be you with a remark like that,” Sarah said coolly, giving away no sign of the heat his presence raised in her. But it hadn’t been the remark alone that had given him away. She could have been blindfolded in a room with a hundred men and known it was him. She knew the subtle orange spice of his cologne, the sandalwood scent of his soap. Long-suppressed memories began to flicker to life.
“Why not show them the goods, it’s the only thing you haven’t shown them in this travesty of a circus.” Benedict’s voice held a hint of laughter beneath his outrageous words, making it clear he had no use for such ceremony. Benedict DeBreed played games, but not the decent games that could be carried out in drawing rooms. Bedrooms were more his style. Or settees in libraries. That particular memory was alive and well, although she would have preferred to keep it buried.
“What are you doing here? You know Ren is in Barbados.” Sarah hissed her displeasure, keeping one eye on the room, gauging the response to Benedict’s arrival. These men wouldn’t welcome any newcomer who might be another contender for her hand. Marriage was serious competition and Benedict’s reputation wouldn’t enhance hers in any of the right ways. Of course, the women wouldn’t mind, not that they’d admit to it.
Already, people were starting to notice, starting to whisper. Badgley’s shy young heir, whom she’d been coaxing, had retreated in Benedict’s wake. Did Benedict have any idea how long she’d been working on getting the boy to relax? Now it was all for naught. She’d have to start over. She wanted Benedict DeBreed out of her very proper afternoon tea very fast!
“I know where your brother is and that’s exactly why I’m here.” He gave her a meaningful look with those interesting green eyes that were flecked with hints of silver and sin. Wicked eyes. Nearly as wicked as his smile. She knew firsthand how easily they could lead a girl astray.
“I need a word with you, Sarah, privately and right away.” Sarah. He presumed upon the past and his connection to the family to use her first name in public, but the undertones of urgency drew her attention. She gave him an assessing stare, noticing for the first time the windblown state of his dark hair, the dried mud on his boots and the hem of his riding coat, the high ruddy color in his face. Wherever he’d come from, he’d come straight away. Fear clenched her stomach. “It’s not Ren, is it? There’s not been word of bad news?”
He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “No, it’s not Ren. Please, is there somewhere we can talk?”
The last thing she wanted was to be alone with him, but people were beginning to notice the absence of her attention on them now that the novelty of Benedict’s arrival had been absorbed. He was ruining everything.
Sarah made an instant decision, curiosity getting the better of her. “Five minutes, in Ren’s office. You know where it is? I’ll meet you there. But we won’t have much time.” She smiled at the earl of Badgley’s son to reassure the quiet, timid young man. He was nice, if not exciting, after a life lived under the thumb of his puritanical father. She nearly had the poor boy up to scratch along with an earl and a viscount. The last thing she needed was to be caught alone with Benedict DeBreed, a man known for his long line of mistresses and longer line of indiscretions.
“I risk everything by being alone with you. Whatever you have to say, make it fast,” Sarah snapped, the door to the estate office barely closing behind her in time to choke off the hot words from public display. “I have two earls’ heirs and a viscount on the string out there, none of whom have fathers who will want to hear of this little interlude.”
Benedict rested a hip on the polished mahogany desk and chuckled. “I’d forgotten how magnificent you are in full temper, Sarah. Those lovesick swains in your drawing room have no idea, do they?” It was a lie, though.