A Rake's Revenge
by Cynthia Breeding
Copyright © 2019 by Cynthia Breeding. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Caroline Nash breathed a sigh of relief as the carriage door closed and allowed herself to slump against the leather squab in a completely unladylike manner. Shylock, the play at Theatre Royal with the popular actor, Edmund Kean, had been entertaining. The company in her theatre box had not. She breathed another sigh as the carriage rolled forward and she let the shawl slide off her shoulders as she savored the warm June air.
At least she was alone, save for the two footmen on the outside rumble seat. Sir Reginald, her father, had decided to visit White’s with several nobles—sycophants she called them—of the prince regent’s set to discuss what he called important business. Caroline suspected such business after midnight would consist mainly of swilling brandy.
Not that I couldn’t use a snifter myself, she thought as she pulled off her long white gloves and tossed them on the seat along with her shawl. The incessant chattering of Lord Compton’s and Lord Linford’s wives had been ongoing, despite some rather loud throat clearing on Caroline’s part. Why spend an evening at the theatre if they weren’t planning on paying attention to the play?
Caroline leaned her head back and closed her eyes, thankful for the silence broken only by the plopping sound of the horses’ hooves on cobblestone as they left the traffic on Drury Lane and headed toward St. James Park. In another thirty minutes or so, she would be home. She could take the pins out of her hair, pull on a comfortable, soft linen night rail, and help herself to her father’s brandy decanter.
The carriage coming to a stop made her eyes snap open. Had she dozed off? Caroline heard muffled voices and then a scuffling sound. She leaned forward, but before she could look out the window, both doors opened. An arm and hand holding a large musket shoved through the left side, and Caroline scuttled to the right, tripping since the step hadn’t been let down, and toppled into the arms of the man outside.
Arms that felt like bands of steel as they encircled her waist. Caroline pressed her hands flat against the man’s chest—it felt like steel, too—and tried to push away. She might as well have been trying to move a stone wall. She looked up and barely managed to suppress a gasp. The man sported a Vandyke and his face was masked, but in the dim light from a lamppost down the street, she could discern the glitter of dark eyes almost as black as his hair and the rest of the clothing he wore, including a black cape. Her knees suddenly jellied. Had his hands not been holding her up, Caroline might have simply slid to the ground, and she wasn’t given to swooning.
But God in heaven, she was looking at the Midnight Marauder.
He certainly didn’t need an introduction, not that being formally introduced was necessary when attempting a robbery. But then, Caroline’s mind wasn’t functioning fully since she was held so close she could feel his body heat.
As if realizing that she recognized him, or at least who his moniker was, a corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“You know why I am here?” he asked, his voice a husky baritone.
Caroline knew. She’d heard of his escapades often enough from twittering debutantes. He controlled a small group of brigands who stopped carriages on the way home from Society events. While his men robbed the gentlemen of coin, the Midnight Marauder offered the ladies a chance to keep their jewels in exchange for a kiss. The debutantes always sounded suitably shocked when they talked about an episode, albeit amidst a fluttering of fans and giggles. Caroline swallowed hard. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry.
“There is no gent in the carriage,” a voice said.
The marauder turned his head in the direction of the sound. Caroline could have sworn he frowned as he turned back to her, although she couldn’t tell with the domino in place.
“You are traveling alone?”
“My father thought I was safe with our driver and two footmen.”
The marauder’s mouth quirked. “Obviously, your father was wrong.”
Caroline looked at her father’s men, encircled by the brigands, and raised her chin, although she realized that was a mistake immediately. It only put her mouth much closer to his. She pushed against his embrace, but he only loosened it slightly to give her an inch or two of space. She took it. “And you obviously stopped the wrong carriage. There is nothing of worth to be taken.”
The quirk turned into a smile. “I would not say that, Mademoiselle.”
Caroline’s breath hitched at the sultry tone. “I do…do not have any jewelry—”
“I can see that.” He tilted his head slightly. “So you are aware of my terms, oui?”
She felt her face warm. She never blushed. She wasn’t some naive ingénue, either. “What I meant was, that I did not choose to wear any tonight. I have some items at home—”
“Are you asking me to accompany you home?” His voice sounded amused.
“Certainly not.” He must be insane if he thought… Of course, he didn’t mean it. Why was she feeling so flustered? Every piece of gossip she’d heard about him didn’t do justice to his animal magnetism. She needed to think. Caroline pushed back against him once more, thankful that he relaxed his grip, although his hands still stayed at her waist. “I…I can arrange to have something dropped off at a location of your choice tomorrow.”
“Umm.” His head tilted in the other direction. “I do not think I am interested.”
Caroline took a deep breath. “Then I will thank you for letting me go.”
“Not just yet.”
Before she could say any more, he pulled her close, his arms encircling her once more as his mouth descended on hers.
Caroline was overcome by sensation. His hands caressed her back in slow, circular movements which caused her breasts to press against his chest, her nipples beading at the friction of the movement. His lips were both soft and firm, warm and gentle as a zephyr breeze as he brushed them across her mouth, lingering at a corner, as if to tease her into wanting more…
And suddenly, she did. She wanted to experience what all those debutante giggles were about. It had been so long since she’d allowed a man to kiss her. After what George had done… Caroline pushed the thought of her former almost-fiancé away. He had never kissed her like this. Almost reverently, yet with the suggestion of passion just seconds away.
Caroline’s hands crept up to circle the marauder’s neck, and she sifted her fingers through his hair, wondering how it could feel so silky. She drew him closer as she parted her lips. She felt an instant of hesitation—or maybe surprise—and then his hands slid down her back to cup her buttocks and bring her fully against the length of him. He deepened the kiss, his mouth hard and demanding now as his tongue stroked in and out of hers, mimicking what other body parts could do. Caroline did battle with his tongue, reveling in hot, potent desire that swept over her and flooded her veins with fire. He tasted slightly of cloves. She felt his manhood harden and swayed her hips to feel more of him.
He broke away abruptly. So quickly that Caroline felt she was grasping only air. It took a moment for her to catch her breath as she stood staring at him.
He stared, too, and then, he gave her a lavish bow. “I have always taken control of this, but I believe that I have just been outmaneuvered, Mademoiselle.” He smiled slowly. “Merci. I thank you very much.”
With those words, he turned and walked away. Caroline stood mute, watching him vault onto his horse and ride away with his brigands. Slowly she put a hand to her swollen lips. Never in her entire life—even when she thought she’d been in love with George—had she ever had such a reaction to a man.
Who in Hades is he?
…
Stephan Stoddard, Marquis of Kendrick, hadn’t planned to attend the Countess of Lockwood’s soiree. He should have been making one last inspection of the sailing sloop. He was planning on taking it out on a trial run tomorrow to make sure the clinkered hull had enough pitch to be waterproof and that the winches were securely riveted to the deck, among other things.
But then, he hadn’t planned on kissing Caroline Nash the evening before last.
When his men had halted the carriage just past St. James Park that night, Stephan had thought he was stopping the spoiled son of a duke, a dandy trendsetter who not only carried large amounts of cash that he liked to brandish about, but who had been seen recently paying court to the younger sister of the Duc de Chartres. Stephan had considered it a stroke of luck that he’d seen them depart the theatre on Drury Lane and head toward the more dimly lit roads past the park. Not only would he obtain a sizable amount of blunt that would be evenly distributed among the farmers and fishermen near his Kent estate, but he would have the further pleasure of making the preening peacock look like a complete fool. Not to mention that French girls seemed to take to being kissed quite readily.
Caroline Nash had definitely taken to kissing quite readily, too. He’d recognized her almost as soon as he realized he’d mistaken the carriage. Tall, with chestnut hair and gray eyes the color of a stormy sea, she’d almost been betrothed to the Duke of Danworth two years ago. That pompous ass had cast her aside for Lady Amelia Stanton. There had been a great deal of scandal, but Caroline had held her head up and not been cowed by the gossips. Stephan admired that kind of spunk. Amid rumors of her lost virtue—which he didn’t think was anyone’s business—a number of randy suitors had been overly eager to escort Caroline around, but she had refused them all.
Stephan understood her need to keep her dignity intact. He maintained an aloof air himself, since he’d been a suspect in his older half brother Devin’s drowning in order to inherit the title. The accusations were still whispered about, which meant although no hostess would dare cut him directly, he was pretty much persona non grata in Society circles. That had led to his idea of transferring funds from the pockets of the ton to the hands of the poor as revenge. Stealing kisses from naive debutantes who thought touching an ungloved hand was risqué kept him quite amused as well.
He hadn’t been prepared for Caroline Nash. Hell, he felt himself harden just thinking about how her body had felt pressed to his. Every nuance and curve and mound had melded perfectly. She was soft in all the right places and lush in the rest. Her mouth had tasted sweet with a hint of salt at her lips, telling him her body had heated in reaction to his. Her hands raking through his hair had nearly unmasked him, and he’d even forgotten that he wore a Vandyke disguise. He’d been damn lucky the moustache and beard hadn’t come off when he’d deepened the kiss. It had taken every ounce of his considerable willpower to break away when her hips rocked against his cock. How he’d managed to maintain the accent he used was nothing short of a miracle.
He’d decided to attend the soiree this evening to see if the attraction still lingered or if the surprise of her response had been just that—a pleasant surprise. He glanced around the crowded room of dark-coated men looking like crows amongst the brightly colored plumage and ridiculously large feather plumes in the hair of the tittering ladies. Stephan felt a little foolish when he did not see Caroline. Perhaps she had not come. He should have gone to the shipyard and finished his inspection.
And then he saw her, standing near an open French window, fanning herself rather rapidly. An urge as strong as the call of a sea siren turned his feet in her direction. The loose skirt of the high-waist gown she wore shimmered in shades of blue and green like the ocean on a sunny day, while the chandelier near the window highlighted reddish sun streaks in her upswept hair. She didn’t sport any of the fancy sausage curls that were currently in rage, but a few strands had come loose from the chignon, giving her a tousled just-out-of-bed look. His fingers itched to pull out the rest of the pins and watch that mane tumble down over shoulders that would be bare because he’d slipped the bodice down her arms to expose softly rounded white breasts topped with delicious little pink nipples…
Stephan shook his head slightly to clear it. The bedroom look—let alone removing Caroline’s clothes—was only his imagination moving into high gear, but at least he’d answered his own question. His body felt as tight as a sheeted sail close-hauled to the wind. He couldn’t recall a woman who had piqued his interest to this level. The kisses he stole from the debutantes amused him, but nothing more. Even the skilled courtesans he preferred did not stir his blood like Caroline did, and they were trained to do just that. What was it about Caroline that was so different? The call of the siren sounded louder in his ear, and he sensed he was about to crash on invisible rocks below the surface of whatever madness had come over him, if he were not careful.
Stephan paused halfway across the room as he saw her father and a portly, middle-aged man approach her. With his thoughts in full lecher mode, the last person he needed to speak to was Caroline’s father. Stephan squinted. If he weren’t mistaken, the man with Sir Reginald was the Earl of Tisdale, one of the prince regent’s more pretentious, toffee-nosed cronies. The man fancied himself a yachtsman since he’d recently purchased a new design of sailing sloop, but Devin had said more than once that the earl was more of a dockside captain than one who actually took the helm and steered a straight course.
As Stephan watched, the smile that Caroline had for her father slowly faded and her face paled. When the earl bowed slightly and reached for her hand, it looked to Stephan like she tried to snatch it away, but too late. Stephan narrowed his eyes again. The bloody bastard was practically slobbering over Caroline’s hand, and her face had turned as white as the glove that was probably wet.
The hair prickled at Stephan’s nape. Something was very, very wrong.
…
For at least the tenth time—maybe it was a hundred—Caroline suppressed a yawn and wondered what in the world she was doing at the Lockwoods’ soiree. The heat was stifling in the crowded room, and even the slight breeze at the French window didn’t cool her down. But perhaps her body felt so heated because her thoughts were.
Caroline hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the…incident…from two nights past. She could hardly call it being accosted, given her reaction to the stranger. Even now, she could remember the taste of him and the pressure of his mouth, as though he’d just removed it mere seconds ago. Her body tingled, too, recalling the feel of his strong arms pressing her against that big, hard body, especially one particularly hard part. Caroline fanned herself to no avail. Heat rose in her, and she felt ready to combust.
Who was the Midnight Marauder? She knew he had dark hair and eyes. He’d also worn facial hair not currently in vogue with the ton, which would make him easy to spot. Had she come to the soiree with the silly idea of seeing him here? Maybe she had since he’d spoken with a cultivated French accent. But then, what would an aristocrat, especially a foreign one, be doing playing the part of a highwayman? She wished she’d paid more attention to the silly, giggling girls who whispered behind their fans about the totally scandalous liberties the marauder had taken. Whenever such a situation occurred, Caroline had assumed the intent was robbing the men of their coin and that the young ladies were exaggerating whatever the Midnight Marauder had actually done.
Not anymore. God in heaven. The man had awakened sensations she hadn’t even known she had. Desire, which Caroline thought she’d buried after George’s betrayal, had risen in her like steam from a tea kettle.
The Midnight Marauder had been bold, but he hadn’t used force. She had the strange feeling that if she hadn’t responded to him like she did, he wouldn’t have pressed the issue. A gentleman robber? The idea seemed incongruous, but something about it was also appealing. He’d acted like a chivalrous knight of old, stealing a kiss from a damsel as his reward. Caroline almost laughed out loud. When had she developed such a creative imagination? She wasn’t given to romantic ideas, and she certainly was no naive damsel. Regardless of the excitement the man had stirred in her, stopping carriages to steal money—and kisses—wasn’t exactly proper behavior. Which was precisely why she had liked it.
“My dear, I have been looking for you.”
Caroline turned, pushing her errant, wayward thoughts away, and looked at her father. The Earl Tisdale, a man who was as much a pompous ass as George had turned out to be, stood beside her father. She didn’t like his ogling look. It made her feel like a mare being sized up for potential breeding at a horse auction. Caroline forced a smile.
“My lord.”
The earl waved a rather pudgy hand. “You may call me Alfred.”
Keeping her smile in place, she demurred. “Addressing a peer by his Christian name is not proper, my lord.”
“We may dispense with the formality, I think,” her father said.
Something in his voice made Caroline wary. After the scandal over George, her father had made it very clear she was always to practice protocol in order to put rumors of her lost virtue to rest. Not that they had been rumors exactly. She had allowed George to take her virginity after she thought he’d offer to make her his wife. Not that her father had an inkling about that. He thought her refusal to allow other suitors had been part of reestablishing her respectability and not her loss of trust in the male species. So why was her father suddenly willing to allow such a liberty? Unless…
Caroline felt the blood drain from her face. This past spring her father had made several comments that it was time she should marry. That two years was long enough to mourn—she wasn’t mourning, for the love of heaven!—and that she was about to be put on the shelf at her age. Caroline had managed to make excuses, the strongest one being that she preferred simply to run their household since her mother had died. She thought he’d accepted her decision not to marry.
The earl reached for her hand. Lost in her jumbled thoughts, she wasn’t quick enough to thwart him. The next thing Caroline knew, he’d bowed and planted a sloppy kiss over her knuckles. She tried to extract her hand, but his grip was too tight. She cringed inwardly as the wetness soaked through her glove. She looked to her father for help, but he was nodding in approval. Whatever little blood had remained in her head left, and she stared wordlessly at her father. He’d said he’d had important business to discuss at White’s the night her carriage was stopped by the Midnight Marauder…
Obviously mistaking her silence for complacency, her father beamed. “Lord Tisdale and I have talked. He thinks the two of you would suit very well.”
Caroline managed to find her voice. “But I—”
“No need to say anything,” her father said before she could finish. “Lord Tisdale has made an offer for you, and I have accepted.”
The earl straightened and leered at her. “Meet your betrothed, my dear.”
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