Page 3 of Stealing the Rake's Heart
Marriage was the key to independence, then, and possibly to gaining back his family’s respect. After all, marrying a rich young woman would be impressive, would it not?
Groaning, Alex rolled himself off the chaise longue, hauled himself into a roughly standing position, and hobbled towards the door.
You’re a fool, Alex. A prize fool. That’s what Father said, and he was right about most things, curse him.
He wouldn’t go to bed, certainly not.
He was going to his club.
***
It was imperative that a gentleman beclubbable. That is, accepted to at least one of the notable clubs in London. Even grumpy, unfriendly Henry had a club.
Alex had several, but Brooks’s was his favourite. It wasn’t as genteel and popular as White’s, but there was a veneer of respectability to the place that kept William paying the membership fees with only a mild eye-roll.
The moment he stepped inside, Alex heard somebody hailing him. He pasted a grin onto his face just in time to turn around and greet a pudgy, genial-faced young man with tufty fair hair and a moustache which made him look a bit like a prawn.
“Alex, old man!” Lord Hamish Grey roared, slapping Alex hard on the back. Hamish was a large man in more ways than one. He was well over six feet tall, probably closer to six and a half, and while he gave the appearance of a tubby man, Alex knew there were iron cords of muscle under all that fat. They’d been friends for years.
“Drinking already, Hamish? Tut-tut,” Alex joked, nudging his friend’s elbow so that he spilled some of his brandy down himself.
Hamish spluttered and laughed. “Fine words fromyou, my good sir! You put on quite the show last night. I half expected to hear that you were dead this morning. I’m surprised Brooks’s has any liquor left at all.”
In the cold light of day, Alex’s half-remembered antics didn’t seem verylordlyat all, let alone gentleman-like. He half cringed at himself.
But rolling in one’s shame never did anyone any good, and Alex had no intention of coming here to mope. He draped an arm around Hamish’s shoulder and manoeuvred him towards a table.
“Why is there not a glass of brandy in my hand, my dear friend?”
Hamish chuckled. “Pray tell, what has caused you to wear such a long visage? I was nearly compelled to inquire if there has been some grievous loss in your life, for your countenance seems most suited to a mourning garb.”
Alex sighed. “Oh, it’s nothing, only that my mother’s long-awaited summer gathering is coming up, and I promised to help.”
“Ah, yes, I recall. I have an invite, by the way. But why does her Grace wantyouto help? No offence, Alex. What about your sister?”
Alex bit his lip. “Katherine is good at organising things, but not soirees. She has no taste, you see. She’d drop a handful of wildflowers in a glass jar and call it a centrepiece.”
“Why you, though? Isn’t the Duke managing it?”
Alex said nothing for a moment. How to explain?
Even as a child, he’d known that his family life was not normal. Tyrannical fathers existed in every corner of the globe, some of them taking residence in London for half the year. But the Duke of Dunleigh was something else. There was a streak of something terrible in his cruelty, something edging towards torture in the ‘lessons’ he taught his children. Alex recalled standing on a stool half of the night, shivering with cold and exhaustion, hunger pains shooting through him, all in punishment for an infraction he could not remember.
His mother was always at the end of it, tearful and remorseful, arms outstretched to hold Alexander close and soothe him.
Not the others, though. Just Alex. He’d never quite understood why, and suspected they didn’t, either. Alexander was her favourite, and that had never changed. Even now, her face softened when he approached. She always had a smile for him, a word of praise for whatever cravat or jacket he was wearing.
It was hard to decide whether that made him feel more loving towards his mother or more guilty towards his siblings.
“I have no idea, really,” Alex answered, and it was the truth.
Chapter Two
“Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but instantly let it fall—perceiving that what it had concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless on the floor.”
Abigail’s entire world had narrowed to the words on the page. When had she last breathed? She sucked in a shaky breath, angling herself better so that the gloomy mid-afternoon light of the grey day would shine better through the window onto her book.
Her book wasMysteries of Udolpho, the second volume, and quite frankly the best thing she had ever read in her life. Emily St Aubert did swoon a great deal, particularly at moments when the story was at its most tense, but she was also courageous and had such integrity.
