Page 3 of The Tantalizing of a Scandalous Rake

“You did not say it had to be a leisurely one.”

He chuckled. “You are right. I did not. Next time I shall have to be more careful with my words.”

Rising from the chair, she shook her head. “There will not be a next time.”

He lifted his hands. “I vowed I would stop and stop I shall, but I will have a proper drink with you, Beauty of Buttermere.”

“Not a chance.”

“You will,” he said as she turned away and pushed through the crowd of gawping customers to get back to work. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. Oh to have the confidence of a rich man.

Or more accurately, an exceedingly handsome, rich man.

Chapter Two

Rosie smothered a yawn with the back of a hand and tried to ignore the painful throb of her feet. The sooner Simon’s wife gave birth, the better. Whilst she had been running the inn alone for nearly five years now, she missed having someone strong around to lift the barrels and control the more inebriated of their patrons.

Ensuring groups of drunken folk did not get too deep into their cups or break out into a brawl took diplomacy and tact—an exhausting juggling act. Simon’s absence combined with this ridiculous reputation she now had as one of the most beautiful women in England—or at least the lakes—meant her days felt longer and more grueling than ever.

Still, she’d made a healthy profit and would continue to do so until the excitement over her supposed beauty dwindled. She pushed in a chair and wiped down the last table then put hands to her hips and peered around.

With any luck, tomorrow would bring continued profits and no more visits from rich, entitled men who, as promised, ceased playing cards but had made her feel all strange inside every time she glanced his way. And every time she glanced his way, she scolded herself. The man needed no attention from her, and she just knew he would take it as a sign of her interest.

Which, of course, was wrong. She merely wanted to check he was abiding by her rules. Handsome men frequented the inn more than ever now, and often made various offers. If she had not taken up any of those wealthy, handsome men on their offers of being a mistress or even a wife, she certainly was not going to find herself preoccupied bythatman.

Besides, she doubted he would return. A gambler like himself would move on to somewhere else, where he could find more unsuspecting opponents.

Which was good. She never wanted to lay her eyes on him again. Never. Never, ever, ever.

As she slid the bolt across the door, she paused and frowned. A faint groan hung on the air before vanishing. The inn sat on the winding road opposite the top end of Buttermere Lake. Sheltered from the worst of the weather by the hills surrounding it and the lake being much smaller than say Langmere, they rarely suffered the ravages of the weather. Besides, it was only edging into Autumn. So that strange noise could not have been the wind.

Drawing up her shoulders, she debated retrieving the pistol from her bedroom. Her father taught her to shoot, knowing full well his daughter would end up running the inn, and would need to defend herself, but she had never needed to use it. What if the noise was some trick—a ruse to lure her from the inn and raid her coffers?

She waited a moment and heard it again—a faint moan.

“Oh for goodness’ sake.” She threw open the bolt, flung open the door and stepped outside. “Whoever is playing silly games, needs to cease,” she commanded, her arms folded.

The darkness offered no answers, the lake motionless and black in front of her, the mountains tall, impassive outlines against a moonlight night. To the right, a few lamps burned in the windows of the few houses that made up Buttermere village. To the left, more gloom as the road vanished between the mountains.

And no sign of whoever made that noise.

Rosie swallowed and shook her head at the feel of her dry throat. She had not spent years running an inn alone only to be scared by a mere groan. She inched around the building and peered into the shadowy corners. Why had she not at least brought a lamp? She could blame fatigue she supposed. Far better than blaming a preoccupation with a certain gentleman.

Her heart gave a little, sickening leap as an unworldly moan rose from nearby. She tiptoed toward the source of the sound, not far from the stables. It could be a horse, she supposed, but she had never heard horses make such noises and she only had one horse stabled at present.

“Oh.”

When she came upon the splayed figure of a man, tucked against the wall of the stables, she could not decide whether to be grateful her flights of imagination had been wrong or not. Especially considering he looked dead.

Perfect. Just what she needed. The inn had never thrived so but a dead man on her door would damage its reputation and no amount of tales of her in books would heal the damage caused by such a tragedy.

Of course dead men could not moan, so assuming it had emanated from him, he was likely exceedingly drunk and had passed out instead of going home. She eased out a breath and moved closer.

Blast. The handsome, arrogant man. But of course it was. She had not thought he had overindulged but maybe he could not handle his ale. Rubbing a hand over her face, she debated what to do with him. It would not do for some member of the gentry to die of exposure on her doorstep.

If only Simon were here. Now she would have to drag him across the ground on her own. She was no tiny, delicate lady, but this man was tall and strong, and likely weighed a great deal.

She sighed. “Why did you have to get so deep in your cups at my inn?”

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