Taming the Rake Read online

  “I may have a thing or two other than beauty in my arsenal,” Cecelia said sourly.

  Gina met her friend’s insulted gaze, but did not back down. “Of course you do. You are very good at getting what you want. I might not always condone your methods, but I recognize that they are effective.”

  In many ways, Gina and Cecelia were complete opposites. It was hard to believe they’d become such good friends. Gina was frank—her new “mama” would say blunt to the point of rudeness—whereas Cecelia tended to be more circumspect. Gina was always quick to point out when she found Cecelia’s manipulations unworthy of her, as eagerly as Cecelia liked to point out when Gina was being too bossy or interfering. Yet, they understood each other. And that understanding had formed the bonds of a very strong friendship.

  Claire’s face fell. “But what about me? What do I have to offer?”

  Gina looked at her friend with her blond curls, milky skin, and big blue eyes. Her angelic beauty a perfect complement to her innocence. What did she have that would entice a sophisticated man like Beaufort? On the face of it, it appeared to be a hopeless cause. But Gina knew better. Gina knew there was more to her friend than met the eye. Sometimes Claire got lost in the shadow of her more flamboyant sister. But there was strength there, just waiting to be unlocked. “You are the best of us. You are sweet and kind and always think of others. What man can resist that?”

  Claire made a face. “I sound rather boring.”

  Gina couldn’t help it. When her eyes met Cecelia’s, they burst out laughing. Claire pretended to pout, but in the end she smiled too.

  Two bottles later, with his pockets considerably lightened, Coventry pushed his chair back from the table and stood. With the arrival of a few of their Hellfire brethren, quinze had given way to faro, and Coventry had lost heavily. He hoped the run of bad luck was not a portent for the rest of the evening.

  He pulled out his watch and glanced at the time. Ten o’clock. He was late, passing the point of fashionable about an hour ago. Reluctant to leave his friends, he couldn’t put off his “duty” any longer. His attempt to delay the inevitable would only lead to further dressing down by his mother. She was bound to be furious that he hadn’t arrived to escort them for the evening as he’d promised. She should be happy that he’d agreed to show his face at all, but nothing he did would ever make her happy.

  He’d given up trying long ago.

  He swayed, reaching for the mahogany-paneled wall to steady himself. Standing up so quickly had worked hell on his equilibrium.

  “Are you sure I can’t convince you to join me?” he asked Beaufort.

  The duke snorted. “I’d sooner spend the evening in the darkest bowels of Newgate.”

  Lord Ashley raised a brow. “Where are you off to?”

  Before Coventry could think of a fabrication, Beaufort answered for him. “It seems our resident rogue has decided to turn respectable. He’s off to St. Albans House for an evening’s ‘entertainment.’”

  This produced a hearty round of laughter. At his expense. His muscles tensed and blood surged through his veins. An automatic reaction. He hated to be laughed at—even by friends.

  “What’s this about, Coventry?” Dashwood asked. “Has some society miss batted her pretty lashes and turned you into a milksop?”

  “Who is it, Coventry?” Ponsonby clamored.

  “Yes, tell us,” Beaufort teased. “Is it the duke’s pretty daughter? Or perhaps it’s the duke’s pretty new wife?”

  Coventry shot Beaufort a glance that promised retribution. “Don’t be an ass.” He liked St. Albans. He wouldn’t make a cuckold of him. As for his daughter… Coventry shivered with distaste. He’d noticed her once a couple of years ago. A real beauty with her thick golden brown hair, delicate features, and big green eyes. But one look at that judgmental, condescending expression and any heat of desire he might have initially felt turned to ice. Disapproving women like her were the reason he generally avoided society misses—except when, like Lady Alice, they proved impossible to refuse.

  He turned from Beaufort to his smirking friends. “My sister Augusta is making her debut this season,” he explained.

  “Ah,” said Ash. “And you’ve been conscripted to act as escort?”

  Coventry jerked his head down in affirmation. A mistake that caused his head to spin. Or perhaps it was the room spinning? He couldn’t tell. True to his word, he’d gotten good and drunk. His mother would expect as much, and he hated to disappoint her.

  “Aren’t they worried that you’ll be denied entry to more places than you’ll be welcomed?” Dashwood joked.

  “I should be so lucky,” Coventry replied. But not even bringing the lovely Simone to Lady Cowper’s ball had managed that feat.

  “You’ll have to explain sometime how the countess convinced you to undertake such a distasteful duty,” Beaufort said.

  Coventry stiffened. His mother couldn’t convince him of anything.

  “Do what you are told. Why must you provoke him? Follow the rules.”

  She’d been trying to run his life since he was in short trousers. After his father’s death it had only gotten worse. He thought that if he fell completely beyond redemption, she might leave him alone. So far it hadn’t worked, but there was always hope.

  He’d agreed to help, not because, but in spite of his mother.

  “Not much to explain. A moment of weakness. And it wasn’t my mother, it was my sister.”

  “I thought you weren’t close to any of your sisters.”

  “I’m not. I barely know them. I left for school when Augusta was five or six.”

  “Then what happened?” Dashwood asked.

  Coventry grimaced. “It appears I’m not completely resistant to the power of feminine tears.”

  Sobered, his friends nodded in shared understanding. Heartless rogues all of them, but not one of them knew how to combat that most destructive of all weapons: the gentle flow of a lady’s tears.

  There was more to it than that, of course, but his friends didn’t need to know everything. An image of Augusta peeking out her bedroom window with an expression that said “Don’t leave me,” as he left for school, flashed in his eyes before he deliberately put it aside.

  “Gentlemen.” He bowed, reluctantly taking his leave. He grabbed his cloak from the footman and made his way out to St. James’s where he’d instructed the coachman to wait hours ago. A blistery wind smacked him in the face, clearing a layer of fuzziness from his head. The newly installed gaslights flickered in the darkness.

  Maybe, if he were lucky… He sighed. His coachman hadn’t been considerate enough to abandon him.

  Muttering, he shook his head in disgust. Coventry was still furious at himself for succumbing to his sister’s ploy. He’d been caught off guard. Though he had to give it to her, there was more to the shy maid than meets the eye. Not that it would happen again. With his other two sisters, he would be prepared.

  The door closed behind him and the coach clattered to a start. He supposed he should be grateful for one thing. Thank God Augusta was a beauty. It would be a simple matter to marry her off to the first fool willing to take her and be done with his “duty.” So that once again he could retreat in peace to his clubs. Far, far away from the dictates and obligations of London’s beau monde.

  Gina knew Claire was anxious to speak with her, but with the dinner preparations and the arrival of the guests at St. Albans House, until now the opportunity had not presented itself.

  Although the party was originally conceived to mark the day of Gina’s birth, the duchess had thought it prudent not to draw attention to Gina’s advanced marriageless age. So instead she’d turned it into her first town dinner party as duchess—though Gina had received a few well-wishes from those who remembered the significance of the date from previous celebrations.

  A rueful smile curved her lips. No doubt there were some who thought it kinder to forget.

  The guests were an odd mix of old (friends fro