Never Trust a Rake

She braced her feet against the footboard as he put his curricle through a gap that was so slender she was almost convinced he would lock wheels with one of the other carriages. When they made it through, with what looked like barely an inch to spare, and he urged his horses to even greater speed, she bit down on her lower lip and the craven urge to beg him to take care. He had already accused her of various defects in her character. She was not going to let him add the feminine one of timidity to the list and give him another excuse to sneer at her.

Besides, men needed a way to work through their feelings, since they would scorn to go away somewhere quiet and weep. She’d seen it often enough with her brothers. They went out and shot something, or got into a fight—or rode their horses at breakneck speed.

‘You can wash your hands of me with a completely clear conscience,’ she declared, surreptitiously taking a tighter hold on the handrail. In the event they did collide with anything, at least she might avoid the ignominy of being pitched on to the grass verge like a sack of grain.

‘I do not consider that you owe me anything.’

‘Well, that is just where you are wrong, Miss Gibson. I owe you more than you can imagine.’ His search for a wife would not have prospered with the scandal Miss Waverley had almost unleashed upon him. Oh, he had no doubt that there would have been women still prepared to overlook what they would perceive as a lack of gentlemanly behaviour, but the encounter with Miss Waverley had taught him he would, indeed, rather shoot himself in the leg than shackle himself to one such. ‘And for that reason, I have decided to help you.’

He smiled. In a way that made him look cruel.

She shivered. And admitted, ‘I am not sure I like the sound of that.’

From the look on his face, whatever form this ‘help’ might take did not stem from any sense of altruism. He’d already told her he did not care what anyone thought of him, or might say of him. So, if he was planning anything, it was not because he wanted to help her, not really, but because in some way it would benefit him.

‘Come, come, wouldn’t you like to win your suitor back from Miss Waverley?’

‘Not particularly.’ She was not about to tell him that Richard had never, technically, been her suitor. But anyway, she was done with trying to get him to notice her. All it had accomplished was her humiliation.

‘Well, even if that were true,’ he said in a derisive tone, not taking his eyes from his team, ‘I think you would enjoy taking the wind out of Miss Waverley’s sails. And I certainly would. I have a strong aversion to letting people think they can manipulate me.’

She knew it! This was nothing to do with protecting her, or helping her. He was trying to use her to take his own revenge upon Miss Waverley.

‘So do I,’ she retorted. She was not going to let him use her, or involve her in any of his schemes.

‘Well, then, let us discuss what is to be done.’

‘No, you don’t understand, I—’

‘To begin with,’ he cut in before she could even start explaining, ‘I do not think the case is as hopeless as you seem to think.’

Amazingly, his dark mood seemed abruptly to have lifted. He’d slowed his horses to a steady trot and he was smiling—although the smile that played about his lips was so cruel that it sent a shiver down her spine. This was not a man to cross. How on earth had Miss Waverley thought she could get away with it? He was downright dangerous.

‘Miss Waverley obviously does not want him herself, or she would not have set her sights on me. Perhaps, once she had snared him, she discovered he is not as wealthy or well connected as she had first supposed.’

Henrietta did not think it had been as calculated as all that. It just seemed to be in Miss Waverley’s nature to want to make a conquest of every good-looking male who crossed her path. And Richard was more than just good looking, he was downright handsome. Far more so than Lord Deben, whose features were marred by being always set in a kind of sneer. Or twisted by whatever inner demons had made him take such risks with his team, and his carriage, not to mention his passenger, by setting such a pace.

It was a shame really, she mused, darting him a swift glance, because if he didn’t look so cross all the time, he might be very attractive. He had the full, sensual lips, and the lazy hooded eyes, that put her in mind of portraits she’d seen of Charles II.