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  Sara found herself laughing until her sides ached, and she had to stop and catch her breath. She had not had so much fun since... well, she could not think of when she had ever had so much fun.

  Lord Reath’s voice cut into her thoughts. “Miss Whately, if you would take my left hand, no my right, I believe we shall turn as we ought.”

  “Oh, yes, I am sorry, I was woolgathering.”

  Sara looked up at him while taking his hand. His cheek was dimpled and his deep gray eyes twinkled merrily. The oddest sensation overcame her. It was as if the world just faded away. Despite the cheerful crowd around them, Sara felt as if there was no one else in the room but herself and Lord Reath.

  Deep in his eyes there was something… something both exciting and disturbing at the same time. Heat rushed up her arm from her fingertips and coursed through her body as she felt her bare hand being held gently, but firmly, in Lord Reath’s own hand.

  She knew that at a proper dance they would both be wearing gloves, and now she knew why. That they were actually touching skin to skin, holding each other’s hands, was positively indecent.

  But his eyes… She could drown in those eyes—so deep, so enticing. They looked like the sea on a stormy day.

  A RAKE’S REWARD

  The Merry Men Quartet, Book Two

  Meredith Bond

  Copyright, October, 2015, Meredith Bond.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover Art by Niina Cord http://niinascoverdesign.weebly.com

  Image credit: Hot Damn Stock

  Published by Anessa Books, www.anessabooks.com.

  Chapter One

  Sinclair Stratton, fifth Viscount Reath, knocked on the parlor door. He desperately needed to get out of Portsmouth and on his way. It had taken him ten years to own his youthful indiscretion and do something about it. Now that he’d finally made the move, he wanted it done with—quickly.

  A middle-aged maid in a white mobcap peeked around the door. “Yes?”

  “I am Viscount Reath,” he informed the woman. “I need to speak with your mistress.”

  She disappeared back into the room, mostly closing the door behind her. He could hear her whispering frantically to someone inside. The door was opened once again. This time by a young lady in a plain, brown round gown—dressed for travel. Considering how much she had paid for the conveyance Reath was after, she could not be in difficult circumstances despite her ugly, well-worn clothing. What struck Reath, however, was not so much her dress as her lovely face.

  Brilliant blue eyes shone intelligently from behind incredibly long, dark lashes. The slight curve to her full, yet determined lips. A quirk of an eyebrow. She most definitely looked like someone used to being in charge, despite her obvious youth. “Yes?”

  “Good morning, Miss,” Reath said, bowing. “I was wondering if I might have a word.”

  Her second eyebrow rose to meet the height of the first, but she took a step back and allowed him to enter the cramped room.

  She did not seem like one who needed to be fawned over and flattered, so he got straight to the point. “It is my understanding that you have secured the very last carriage in all of this unfortunate city. I would like to rent it from you.”

  “Really,” she said, folding her arms across her slender body.

  “Yes. I have a matter of some urgency to which I must attend. Unfortunately, my letter to my man of affairs did not reach here before I did, so I am without my own transportation. You understand, I’m sure.”

  The girl said nothing.

  “I will not disturb you with the particulars, but please be assured that I will see to your comfort during your stay here. Tomorrow you should be able to procure another conveyance.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

  Still she said nothing, but he detected a slight twitch of her lips. Was she laughing at him?

  “As I said, I have an urgent meeting…” he paused and then decided to try another tack. “Perhaps you didn’t catch my name. I am Viscount Reath.”

  She tilted her head, waiting for him to continue.

  He straightened his back, squared his shoulders and took a small step toward the girl. “I just returned from India and have urgent matters of state to which I must attend.” All right, a slight fib… more like matters of estate than state, but the girl would never know the difference.

  “That is three times now that you’ve mentioned ‘urgent matters’,” she pointed out, now openly smiling at him. Laughing at him. Reath couldn’t quite decide which. One thing was certain though, she was not at all intimidated by him—it was the strangest thing. Never had anyone dared such a thing—only his closest friends, and this young woman was far from that.

  He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t help but return her smile. “Indeed. I beg your pardon. I’m afraid it is my desperation which has robbed my speech of its usual...” he floundered for a word.

  “Eloquence?” she offered.

  He gave a little laugh. “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “Thank you. Your understanding is greatly appreciated. If you would just tell me your name, I will make arrangements for you to stay the night in the best room this fine establishment can offer.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides. “Oh! I was not agreeing to your preposterous idea. I was simply stating that I understood your predicament. How very vexing to have somewhere you must get to and no conveyance to get you there.”

  “Yes. It is quite frustrating. However—”

  “Unfortunately, I too have somewhere I must get to and so, I’m afraid, I cannot give up my post chaise to you. I am very sorry. Perhaps you can find someone else.” She started moving toward the door in obvious dismissal.

  “There is no one else!” he said. “You are the only person who has rented a carriage who is still here,” he said with an edge of frustration in his voice. He cleared his throat. It would not do to appear desperate. He was a Reath. He was never desperate.

  “Well, that is truly unfortunate. In that case, you might not want to delay in engaging that room—for yourself.” She opened the door and stood next to it, clearly waiting for him to leave.

  Reath did not give up so easily, no matter how beautiful or well-spoken his opponent was. “I’m afraid I must not have explained myself well enough. You are American, are you not?”

  The young woman crossed her arms again, this time narrowing her eyes as well. She gave a slight nod of her head.

  “Then perhaps you haven’t quite understood. I am a viscount. A nobleman. A lord. I need to get to an extremely…”

  “Urgent meeting. That is the fourth time you’ve said so,” she said, interrupting him. “I may be American, sir, but I am not an idiot. I know very well what a viscount is. Lesser than a duke, marquis or earl, higher in rank than baron. No, I’m afraid you are the one who is unable to understand. I couldn’t care less if you were a count or a cobbler. If you were the prince, or even that lunatic you call king, I would see no reason why your business is any more important than mine. And if you continue to argue with me, sir, I may simply consign you to the fiery depths of—”

  “That is enough, Miss Sara. I’m certain the gentleman understands your meaning,” her maid interrupted.

  The rebuke didn’t seem to faze the young woman at all. She didn’t even turn to look at the maid, or perhaps companion? Governess? Instead, she raised her eyebrows silently asking whether he did, in fact, understand.

  It was a good thing that he was a gentleman. It was the only thing keeping him from acting on the fu
ry now burning in the pit of his stomach at this chit’s extraordinarily rude behavior. Americans!

  “I do, indeed, understand. Quite clearly.” He forced his lips to curve upward. “I understand that not only do they not teach people to treat their betters with respect in America, but they also clearly don’t teach young ladies to speak appropriately.”

  “Betters?” Anger flared from her eyes, and a flush crept up her lovely face. She took a step closer and Reath, to his surprise, found himself retreating. “There is nothing “better” about you. You are no better than any ordinary ruffian off the street, trying to bully me into giving up what is mine. Waltzing into a room, expecting everyone to bow down and give you anything you want, just because you flash them your perfect smile does not make you “better”. The fact that you feel you can use your good looks and inherited title—neither of which you have done anything to deserve—certainly does not make you “better.” No, sir, what would make you better is if you took a page from your American cousins and learned that you must either earn what you want, or accept the fate that life hands you, just like everyone else. Now, I suggest that you make haste to the innkeeper to secure that room before you find that gone as well.”

  She strode to the other end of the room where a tea tray was set out and began to pour herself a cup.

  He had been dismissed! The great diplomat Sinclair Stratton, Fifth Viscount Reath, had been dismissed by a little strip of a girl. He looked at the maid, but she was no help, standing there with an expression of disbelief on her face. It was precisely how he felt himself, but, thank God, at least he had the grace not to show it.

  He turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. This girl clearly had no idea who she was dealing with. No concept of what a viscount was, despite her protestations otherwise. He felt the urge to turn right back around and tell that little chit that she would do better if she respected the hierarchy of this country she was visiting and turn over her post chaise to him.

  But he did not.

  As he neared the common room, his footsteps slowed. A smile was twitching at his lips and before he knew it, his shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter.

  He had certainly been put in his place, hadn’t he? And by a tiny, little nobody! Well, that little nobody certainly had nerve, he had to say that for her. He shook his head and continued on down the hall, his anger dissipating with every step he took.

  How was it that he had been able to convince rajas and nabobs to turn over their kingdoms to the British Empire, convince women to give him exactly what he wanted with just a flash of a smile, but could not convince this one girl to turn over her post chaise to him? He almost laughed out loud at that thought, and had to put his hand over his mouth to contain his laughter.

  A woman immune to his charm! Ha! But she had not been completely indifferent—hadn’t she just said that he couldn’t get everything he wanted just because he was handsome?

  On the other hand, she had been quite magnificent. He couldn’t help but laugh. She couldn’t care if he were “a count or a cobbler or the king.” Clever. She was clearly very clever. And what fire; her eyes had sparked with it.

  Absolutely lovely. And by gad, what a strong woman! This was a woman, whatever her birth and breeding, who was deserving of his respect. It was almost a shame he would never meet her again. A woman like that, with a tongue like a whip, would certainly make a stir among the ton.

  He laughed his way into the common room, shaking his head at the idea of that little firebrand taking the beau monde by storm.

  Chapter Two

  Sara had never seen such a house before. As the coach got closer to her aunt’s home at Darlington, it got bigger and bigger until Sara felt completely encompassed by it.

  “Oh my,” Abigail breathed as the coach approached the front of the house.

  Sara could only nod in agreement.

  “Is this to be your home?” Abigail asked, as if she weren’t going to live here as well. A ridiculous thought, since the middle-aged woman had lived with Sara her entire life, essentially raising her from the time she was eight when her mother died.

  “Our home,” Sara answered, not taking her eyes off the mansion as it loomed over them. “At least until we leave for London. I expect my aunt’s home there will be a more normal size.”

  “I sure hope so. I'm certain to get lost here.”

  Sara laughed. “We both will!” she said, as the carriage slowed to a halt.

  Before it had even come to a complete stop, a young man was opening the door and pulling out the step so the two women could descend.

  “Welcome to Darlington,” the footman said, offering her his gloved hand. “You must be Miss Whately. Her ladyship has been expecting you.”

  “Thank you.” Sara allowed him to help her from the carriage. With one last look up at the house, and a hearty prayer that those inside would not be as imposing, she followed him up the steps and through the door.

  The dour-looking older man, tall and thin in a stiff black coat, standing just inside was not a hopeful sign. He was the butler, though; weren’t they all supposed to be imposing?

  The woman standing next to him, with steel-colored hair, seemed to be his female equivalent. She bobbed a curtsey, but the expression on her face didn’t lighten even a touch. “I’m Mrs. Liven, the housekeeper,” she informed them. “You'll be wanting to freshen up before meeting Lady Darlington. Right this way.”

  It wasn't a question, and Sara didn't seem to have a choice in the matter. With a glance behind her to make sure Abigail stayed close, she followed the woman up a grand stairway and then another slightly smaller one.

  A short way down the hall, the woman stopped at one of an array of doors. As she went in, she said, “This will be your room for the duration of your stay.”

  Sara wasn’t certain she would be able to find it again, but it was absolutely lovely. Pale blue silk covered the walls. There was a dainty dressing table off to the right with a vase of lilacs on it gently scenting the room. A cozy chair perfectly placed in front of the fire. An enormous tester bed took up most of the far wall.

  So much for the imposing house. Sara was certain that she had entered some sort of fairyland.

  This was just the sort of bedroom she had always fantasized about when she'd been a young girl shivering with cold in her narrow, little bed in Philadelphia—for there had never been enough coal to last the entirety of the winter. Her sweet, oblivious father would scold her for not buying enough, but he'd had no idea that she’d bought all that they could afford.

  What her Papa would say to this amount of luxury, she could only imagine. He'd probably scoff and lecture his sister on her extravagant ways for hours, touching on all that could have been done with her wealth rather than spend it on beautiful furnishings and silk-covered walls. He would certainly have rather seen it spent on books, Sara thought with a little laugh.

  “You are Miss Whately’s maid?” the starched woman asked Abigail.

  “My companion,” Sara said, quickly.

  “Yes,” Abigail said at the same time.

  The woman looked from one to the other. She finally gave an almost imperceptible shrug and said, “There is a cot for you in Miss Whately’s dressing room.” She nodded her head toward a door Sara hadn't even noticed.

  “Thank you,” Abigail gave a curtsey.

  “And here is warm water for Miss Whately to wash with,” Mrs. Liven said, as the door was opened by a maid with impeccable timing.

  The young woman carried in a pitcher, from which she poured steaming water into a beautiful blue and white ceramic basin.

  “Should you need anything else just tell Sally,” the housekeeper said, giving a nod toward the maid who stood waiting. “When you are ready to meet your aunt, pull the bell and a footman will come to direct you to her ladyship’s sitting room.”

  But Sara was too anxious. She hardly even wanted to waste the few minut
es that it would take to wash her hands, even though she knew she should. Dipping her hands into the water and giving a quick rub at the soap next to the basin, she said, “I believe I'm ready to meet her now.”

  The housekeeper raised an eyebrow and gave a pointed look at her travel-creased dress. “Very well. If you would follow me.” She waited a moment while Sara quickly dried her hands, then turned and led the way back down to the first floor. She stopped at a door just at the top of the grand stairway, where she knocked before entering. “Miss Whately,” she announced, and then stood aside for Sara to enter the room.

  Sara suddenly found her stomach clenching into knots. All of the worries she’d contemplated for hours on the ship to England assailed her: What would her aunt be like? Would she be a replica of her father? Would she be completely different? Would she be kind? Pre-occupied like her father? Stern and imposing like her house?

  Sara simply had no idea what to expect from her father’s older sister. She’d never even corresponded with Sara, and had written only occasionally to her own brother. All Sara knew about her was that she had somehow correctly calculated her age, determining that she was old enough to be presented to society. Somehow she had convinced Sara’s Republican-minded father to send her to England to make her debut. She could not imagine what her aunt had said to convince him to do so, but whatever it was it had worked because here she was.

  As she walked through the door, she had an impression of a light, airy room with bright yellow walls dense with paintings, but her eyes were fixed on the lady who bustled toward her, a broad, welcoming smile on her face.

  There was such a feeling of warmth and welcome in the woman. Sara could breathe again, and did, although she tried to keep it from being too obvious.

  Lady Darlington’s gray silk morning dress, cinched just below her bosom by a wide lavender ribbon, bespoke her dowager status, but the rich chestnut curls that framed her face gave her a very young look. And, with a rush of relief, Sara saw in her face echoes of the features of her own beloved father, as well as what looked to be an ever-present smile that was also very much his.