Page 97 of The Heiress's Daughter
“I’m not claiming to be as pure as the driven snow—far from it—and though I should probably not speak of this to you, I did promise to lay all my cards on the table. I have had mistresses, several over the years, though not at the same time,” he added, seeming to read her mind. “Several were widows, not interested in marriage—which was part of their attraction, I confess. I have also maintained a ladybird or two from time to time, who understood exactly what the arrangement involved. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded. “You forget, my father was a notorious rake.”
His expression was somber. “I didn’t forget. I suppose he is a good part of the reason we’re having this conversation.”
She nodded, surprised by his perception.
“Not all rakes are alike.”
“I know that,” she said quietly, thinking of the way he’d been with Lord Tarrant’s little girls. Sunlight drifted through the dappled shade of the leaves. “You said that you used the gossip about you to your advantage. I don’t understand.”
“Remember those matchmaking mamas? Once my reputation was tarnished, their enthusiasm for thrusting their innocent daughters at me lessened, and when I realized that, I encouraged everyone to think I was more like my father, that like him, I truly deserved the soubriquet of ‘Rake Randall.’ In fact I deliberately cultivated my rakish reputation. I flirted more, took care never to be seen with the same beautiful lady more than twice, and gave every appearance of being a devil-may-care, unreliable rake.”
“You succeeded.”
He gave a wry, bitter laugh. “Yes, and see where it’s landed me. Betrothed to the only woman I want, but who doesn’t believe a word I say.”
The only woman he wanted?Could that possibly be true? She wanted to believe it, but…“Several ladies of the ton have indicated to me that they are…shall we say, intimately acquainted with you. What do you say to that?”
He exhaled in a gust of ironic despair. “I have no answer to that. I have no idea why they would say such a thing—there is no truth in it, though I confess I have never contradicted any rumors that linked my name with some society lady. I don’t know who in particular you are talking about, but apart from two widows who shall remain nameless, neither of whom live in London now, I have not taken any society lady as my mistress, not even for one night. I can’t prove it, but I swear to you it’s true.”
He seemed utterly sincere. Clarissa couldn’t understand why any lady would deliberately tarnish her reputation, but she supposed if someone was trying to cultivate a reputation for being dashing…“Lady Snape?”
He snorted. “I’d as soon bed a viper.”
She recalled that he’d told her before that with Lady Snape it was a case ofHell hath no fury…She thought of several other ladies she could ask him about, but decided it would be demeaning going through a list of names.
She had to make a decision: to choose to believe him, or not.
She sighed and turned away. He was sitting too close for her to think clearly.
“Would you mind if we moved on?” he asked after a minute. “I don’t like to keep the horses standing around.”
“No, of course not.” It was easier when they were moving, with distractions to dissipate the intensity of their conversation.
They came across a cricket match in progress and the horses slowed to a walk. She glanced at him, and saw that the slowing was probably unwitting. His attention was wholly on the players. He tensed slightly as the bowler came running in to bowl. The ball flew, but with a loud thwack the batsman hit it high, right over the heads of the fielders. “Hit for a six. Well done!”
His boyish enthusiasm was endearing. “You’re fond of cricket. Do you play?”
Her question seemed to surprise him, and he looked a bit self-conscious. “I did when I was a boy. Lived for it.” He sounded almost bitter. He wrapped the reins around his long fingers. The horses came to a halt.
“You lost interest as you grew older?” He clearly hadn’t, but she was curious as to what had caused that look, and the odd tone in his voice.
“I don’t play anymore,” he said brusquely.
It wasn’t quite the answer to her question. There was some strong emotion there, tamped down hard beneath the simple statements. “When did you last play?”
There was a long silence. He stared out at the cricket field, unseeing, then he glanced at her and looked away again. Finally he said in a hard voice, “When did I last play? The day my mother died.”
She waited.
“Yes, selfish little swine that I was, I chose to playcricket while my mother was dying.” His bitterness and self-hatred were corrosive.
She laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Didn’t you realize? Did nobody come to fetch you?”
He made a disgusted sound. “Oh, I knew. I was away at school, and my father had sent a message to tell me to come home, that my mother was fading fast.” His face quivered with some fleeting emotion she couldn’t catch. “But the thing was, it wasn’t the first time I’d had that message—far from it—and each time I’d gone home, Mama had rallied, so I pretended I hadn’t received the message. We were due to play in the final, and I didn’t want to miss it.”
“I see.”
