Page 569 of From Rakes to Riches

Guilt was a distraction. It was imperative she regather her focus and intention.

If life had taught her nothing else, it was that one must ever maintain vigilance—or one could lose everything.

All it took was the blinking of an eye for a future to go from bright to bleak.

And she was finished with bleak.

She’d been presented a different future—one that was nearly hers for the taking. All she had to do was hold her nerve and her focus.

It was no small irony that the very man upon whom she was spying was the distraction.

A dangerous, tempting distraction.

For he’d presented a different future.

One with him.

As his mistress.

The future her mother had with the earl.

But, her mind countered,Rake is a different sort of man.

A better man.

No.

It mattered not.

To embrace that sort of future would be letting her brother down.

But, most of all, it would be letting herself down.

17

THREE DAYS LATER

Rake made his way inside Somerton’s small dining room—the one used for family and friends—not the one used for large supper parties and royal visits.

That dining room had more in common with a sumptuously decorated cavern, all echoes and cold drafts.

This room was more akin to a small, sparkling jewel, all done in amethyst silk on the walls and chairs. Rich mahogany graced the floor, its shine reflecting the white coffered ceiling, while in the center stood a large round dining table constructed from walnut with inlays of various exotic woods. A two-tiered crystal chandelier hung above the center and threw sparkling, prismatic light onto every surface.

Rake had taken his evening meal here when in residence at Somerton since he’d become the duke. Mother had wanted him to dine at the more formal table, but his insistence on dining here had been one of his first dukely demands—at age eight. Mother could’ve overridden him but hadn’t. This was around the time she’d started calling him Rake, and of course, that was no coincidence.

He was the duke; he would have his way.

Now, he strode into the room, the table’s four occupants engaged in smiling conversation. Julian, the Duchess of Acaster, Artemis, and her bosom friend, Lady Beatrix, who had only arrived this afternoon. As Rake took his seat, he found his sister and Lady Beatrix teasing Julian about the name of the colt he planned to run in the Derby.

“But, Julian,” said Artemis. “Filthy Habit?”

Julian spread his hands wide. “I didn’t name him. You know how it goes with these racehorse names. Everyone tries to outdo everyone else to see what they can get away with.”

“Sir Peter Teazle is a particular favorite of mine,” said the Duchess of Acaster—Celia, she kept insisting.

And Rake kept trying.

“My filly is called Light Skirt.”

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