Never Trust a Rake

‘You have only seen me act impulsively the once,’ she retorted. ‘And believe me, I regret interfering...’ She faltered. ‘No, no, actually...’ she lifted her chin and looked at him defiantly ‘...no, I don’t regret it. I cannot like Miss Waverley and I don’t suppose I ever shall. But I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if you really had ruined her, not knowing that I’d witnessed the whole thing and could have stopped it if I’d acted.’

‘What?’

‘I think you heard me. But to make it even clearer for you, I admit I may have acted in a way you think was naïve and foolhardy, but at least my actions that night ended in good.’

‘Ye gods, you sound like some kind of...Puritan. As though you were brought up to believe in some antiquated code of fair play that went out with the restoration of the monarchy.’

‘I was brought up to tell the truth, and value honour and decency,’ she said. ‘There is nothing unusual in that.’

He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Now that just goes to prove how naïve you really are. And how much you stand in need of a protector. I have lived far longer than you and moved in wider circles, and so far I have not met anyone else who would put such values above their own self-interest. If it wasn’t for the fact you allowed your feelings about Miss Waverley to show enough to call her a cat, I would wash my hands of you entirely. For if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is a sanctimonious hypocrite.’

‘I am not sanctimonious! Nor a hypocrite. I—’

‘Very well,’ he bit out. ‘I absolve you of that sin. Sin,’ he laughed bitterly. ‘Who am I to absolve anyone of sin? Since, according to one who considers himself an authority on the subject, I am the most blackened sinner of this generation.’

‘Are you?’ She flushed guiltily at having the temerity to say such a thing, and hastily attempted to cover her blunder. ‘I mean...I wonder that anyone dared to say it.’

‘A vicar tends to think his pulpit gives him a certain measure of authority,’ he said. ‘And since the vicar in question also happened to be my brother, he felt no compunction in haranguing me in public for a change.’

For a change? She frowned. ‘If he is in the habit of, um, haranguing you, what on earth made you go and sit in a church where he was preaching?’

‘An idiotic notion that my presence at his first appearance in the parish where he went to take up his living might go some way to mending the breach between us.’ Instead, he’d learned that the seeds of hatred his father had sown during their childhood had taken such deep root not even his brother’s so-called Christianity was sufficient to make him forgive and forget. Will’s face had been contorted with spite as he’d moralised about the sins of fornication and adultery, culminating with a look of total malice as he’d rounded off by proclaiming that the meek would inherit the earth.

Well, that was as may be, but one thing Will would not be inheriting—no, not even though he’d already managed to get his wife with child—was one inch of his father’s property. His father’s property. He’d always known he would have to marry and produce an heir, but reluctance to end up tied to a woman like his mother, in a relationship like the one his parents had endured, had made him drag his feet.

That woman! He might have had real siblings if she’d had any sense of decency at all. If she’d even bothered to defend any of her brood from his father’s malice, they might now be able to tolerate one another. Instead of which, the olive branch he’d extended to Will, by going to support him in his new parish, had been taken out of his hands and used as a weapon to beat him with.

Well, if it was war Will wanted, war he should have. He’d decided there and then that he must put aside his aversion to women in general, and wives in particular, and set up his nursery. One legitimate son, that was all he needed. One male child, sired indisputably by him.

The look on Lord Deben’s face made Henrietta’s heart go out to him, even as her hand went out to clutch at the handrail. His brother had evidently hurt him by denouncing his morals from the pulpit. Not that men ever admitted to being hurt. But it certainly explained why he’d whipped up his horses and was suddenly driving them at such a demonic pace.