Page 27 of The Rake
“Here,” she exclaimed, as the key slipped into her hand, and she discarded the clock on the nearby table. She extended her fingers out towards him, the shimmering key on display.
There was something sweet and promising in the innocent gesture that burnt through Langley in a way he could not understand. It held a purity not because it lacked physicality, but because it seemed to symbolise more than that.
Tentatively, as if it were something precious, Langley closed the distance and touched the metal. The feel of her skin even through her formal gloves was an unnerving sensation, but one that made him feel ever so alive. He found the memory of this moment woke him over the next few nights.
A similarly concerning incident occurred at their long-discussed visit to Vauxhall, as night settled a thick blanket of darkness overhead, all the better to paint the glorious fireworks over. And burn brightly they did—the glimmering shooting stars casting great waves of light, and explosions of red-gold, silver, and bright yellow across the black backdrop. Huddled up in their masks and thick cloaks, they arrived separately, agreeing to meet at the tip of the water’s edge closest to the maze at ten thirty at night. As Langley manoeuvred away from his cohort, he spotted Margot dressed as the huntress—close enough to the Amazon he had always pictured her as.
“A little on the nose, my lord.” Her gaze behind her mask swept over Langley’s costume. He had come garbed as Romeo, and he watched as Margot raised a sceptical eyebrow at his costume. Often his body was studied by women—admired, heliked to think—but with Margot there was something else at play as she looked at him, although he would not dream of labelling it. He feared it resembled a need for approval. “Doesn’t young Montague come to a very sad end? Far too tragic for your lordship, surely?”
“That is only because the young fool wed. If the wedding had never taken place… well, perhaps Juliet would have been happy with Paris.” Langley laughed at her frown, and then added teasingly, “I suppose he could have just stolen Juliet away from their poisonous families. That would have worked too.”
With a shake of her head, Margot came to stand closer to him, her head moving as she surveyed the plush outside extravaganza that was Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens.
“It is beautiful.” Her voice was light, whimsical, and in its depths, Langley caught a note of longing. There was to the tone of her expression, the angle of her head, and the way her body swayed to the distant sound of music, a hint of Margot’s romanticism. It was a quality she hid away, but even deeper Langley suspected there was another emotion at play. Something darker and more desirous perhaps—lust.
She was not wrong, the garden did look magnificent in its decadence with its mazes, its finely decked out trees, and its lanterns hung from every conceivable point creating little golden glows in the night-time crevices. Yet it was not the garden’s many beauties that had him ruminating on the right answer, or pondering how to compliment her—not that he was too caught on hoping to make her laugh again.
Margot sucked in her breath and turned to him. “You suggested we should go to the kitchens?”
As much as Langley would have liked to say no and suggest they meander through one of the elegant mazes, bringing forward the possibility that he might be able to steal a kiss, he instead offered her his hand as gallantly as he could, as ifhe really were the young Romeo brought to life. “Only an idiot would lead a woman away from such a scene.”
“Or a man who values the longer reward,” Margot remarked as her hand settled in the crook of his elbow, and they walked sedately towards the outer rim, away from the stunning sights and the naughty sounds of thetonenjoying themselves.
The servants’ area removed immediately a lot of the romanticism of Vauxhall. It was a standing, all-year structure—which was why Langley had assumed they would find the key there—and it was full to the brim of people working. Evidence in all its forms that the beauty outside took real perseverance to deliver.
Slipping inside, the two of them parted, moving silently around the room, attempting not to disturb a single person. It was only when Margot paused that Langley broke away from his perusal and cut across the frantic open space towards her. In her effort to hide that she had found the clock, Margot was pretending to re-tie her mask.
“I say, my lord.” Her voice was fruity and exaggerated, mimicking one of the grand dames of thebeau monde. “I think it is caught in my hair. How frightful.” She turned and allowed him to fiddle with her curls, whilst she blocked out the sight of her extracting the key from the clock. Once down, and Langley had found himself enjoying the feel of her silken tresses far too much, Margot stepped back. The gleam in her triumphant eyes told him enough. She had the key.
“You are most welcome, my lady.” He took her arm and led her through the bustling kitchen and back towards the dark gardens.
“I think.” She sounded sad, pausing before they re-entered the gardens. “I am not suited to such a place.” Her laugh was a little bitter, and she hovered between the servants’ kitchen andthe finery that existed outside. “And yet I am not entirely of your world either.”
For the briefest of moments Langley almost said, ‘You belong with me’. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he forced himself to swallow it down, not because it wasn’t charming, but far more because he actually meant it.
It was galling to admit a few days later, that aside from those interludes he was also experiencing some of the most erotically charged moments of his life. Without even touching her. Their trip to Gunter’s in Berkeley Square, where it turned out the clock was secreted at the back of the famous tea shop. As they waited for a quiet respite, Margot set about devouring her pistachio ice. The sight of her quick spoon, the delight in her eyes, and the way her tongue lapped up the treat—Langley found his imagination running wild with erotic thoughts of how he would much rather occupy her mouth and tongue. When the moment came for him to stand and grab the clock, as indicated by Margot’s waggling eyebrows, he had been unable to stand for fear his tenting breeches would be revealed. The accidental spillage of his own hot tea had provided enough cover… but still, never could Langley remember the force of his own lust for this Amazon.
Now as he wandered his way through the smart salon belonging to some lord or other, at a musical recital filled to the brim with poor, forced-to-be-there debutantes, he dwelt on the diamond scheme. They—Margot, Mrs. Bowley and her maid—had been to everything that thetonhad on offer. They had improved on each of their jaunts. Langley had improved at spying out the clocks themselves, and Margot had discovered a skill at opening the clocks and finding the keys. Why, yesterday evening at the Haymarket Theatre, they had even had to break into the stage manager’s office, ransack the place, and then once the key was secure, right the office again—the memory brought a smile to Langley’s face.
The remaining location would prove tricker. He had been leaving their visit to Madam Sandrine’s—a notorious brothel owner and her luxurious but infamous house—until last, not entirely sure how to broach that subject with Margot.
On this particular night, the musical recital had ended, and he was sipping from the glass of champagne he had procured them, as they discussed their favourite composers. Margot’s choice had surprised him, and he now wanted to take her to a performance of Bach so he could watch her delightful response playing across her face, to see if it matched the passion she had shown when simply discussing why she loved the German composer.
The salon was a handsomely appointed room, and now the music had ceased there was a pleasant murmur of chatter surrounding them. He had learnt that he was surprisingly good at ignoring everyone else in favour of listening to Margot.
They had managed to seclude themselves slightly behind a large potted plant, to discuss their taste in music and even what instruments they’d practised as children. This evening had in fact been arranged as a cover, as there was no need to locate or add a key to their growing collection. In total they now had ten keys.
“I was truly terrible at the piano.” Margot mimicked what she would have done as a child, and Langley tried his best to hide his smile. Again. He could not bear for her to know how much she moved, amused, and stirred him. “Although I suppose one is not meant to admit that in mixed company.”
“I will not hold it against you. At least you have not inflicted the performance on anyone else. A lesson a lot of other young ladies perhaps should have learnt instead of their murdered concertos,” Langley said as Margot grinned.
“Well.” She paused, and he wondered if she would finally tell him a tiny parcel more about her home life, and whateverwas magical about the Keatings. She had told him fragments of her existence before London. Elements of her life that sounded quaint, so very different from his own austere upbringing. It was galling to feel as if Margot’s life had been far richer than he ever expected, and that it made his own look rather pale in comparison.
“But at least I can hold a tune,” Margot said. There was a slight edge of pride to her voice as she drew herself taller. “It was my one saving grace when I was growing up, the one thing I was better at than Elsie…”
In that moment, all that Langley wanted to do was to ask her to sing, to watch her mouth form the notes, the tremble in her throat and décolletage as she hit her stride. It would be thrilling to watch her body transform as she sang. The sheer wanton sensuality of the imagined performance burnt through him—having ignored that aspect of his personality for the last days suddenly made him feel cumbersome, and now he was alive, encouraged by the very weakest of champagne and close confinement with her.
Before Langley could do anything more than fantasise and sway a little closer to her, loud chatter interrupted them. It was the carrying tones of an older woman, one who was excited and proud, and immediately Langley recognised Mrs. Bowley’s pitch.
