The Rake. Mary Jo Putney

a rack of books, searching for a particular volume. The fellow didn’t hear the door open, so Reggie had time to study him. A lean build and very erect posture, garbed in comfortable country garments—a brown coat, tan breeches, and well-worn boots.

      Reggie’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he realized with a shock that he was observing not a man, but a woman dressed in male clothing. His gaze ran appreciatively down her long, shapely legs even as he wondered who the devil she was. Another of the numerous Heralds, perhaps? Hard to imagine one of that conservative clan dressed so outrageously.

      He cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know where Mr. Weston is?”

      She jumped like a startled hare, then whirled to face him. The woman was the tallest he’d ever seen, with wide eyes and strong, regular features. A wealth of rich brown hair was coiled into a severe coronet that glowed in the afternoon sun and gave her a regal air that even surprise could not eliminate.

      Now that he could see her clearly, he couldn’t imagine how he’d mistaken her for a man. Despite her rigorously masculine clothes, she was quite splendidly curved in all the right places. In fact, the male garb made her look downright provocative.

      His interest quickened. Perhaps Dorset would prove more amusing than he had anticipated. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties and was obviously no shy virgin; her expression was forceful to a point just short of belligerence. On the other hand, she gave every evidence of being mute.

      He repeated, “Do you have any idea where the steward, Mr. Weston, is?”

      There was a moment of absolute silence. Then she drew a deep breath, which did fascinating things to her linen shirt, and said militantly, “I’m Weston.”

      Chapter 4

      Alys stared at the stranger, frozen with shock. Of all the ill luck . . . ! She hadn’t expected Davenport to arrive so soon. She had no doubt whatsoever about the man’s identity—he’d entered the office with the easy confidence of ownership.

      She read the London papers regularly to monitor the world she had fled, and Reginald Davenport’s name was one that turned up regularly. He was a Corinthian, one of a sporting set known for racing, roistering, and raking. Now the man in front of her confirmed her worst fears.

      He might have been handsome if his aristocratic nose hadn’t been broken and reset somewhat less than straight. He must be around forty, his dark hair untouched with gray, but the long face marked by years of dissipation. Despite his obvious strength and athletic build, there was a sallow, unhealthy tint to the dark skin. The wages of sin, no doubt.

      Her only satisfaction was that Davenport was as shocked as she was. He said incredulously, “A. E. Weston, the steward of Strickland?”

      “Yes.” Her one syllable was unforthcoming.

      A look of unholy amusement on his face, he sauntered across the room, his insolent glance scouring her, lingering on her breasts and hips. His eyes were striking, the light, clear blue of aquamarine, and he moved beautifully, with an intensely masculine swagger that reminded her of a stallion.

      He was also half a head taller than she, a fact she did not appreciate. She was used to looking down on men, or at least meeting them eye to eye. Having to look up was disconcerting.

      Her back to the bookcase, Alys stiffened as he approached, her face coloring hotly. His piercing gaze made her feel as if she were being stripped naked, a pursuit in which Davenport must be highly practiced.

      He halted no more than three feet away. His complexion was the weathered tan of a man who was much outdoors. He drawled, “I do believe you are a female.”

      Suddenly furious, Alys subjected him to the same scrutiny he had given her. Her eyes slowly scanned down his lean body, from powerful shoulders to expensive riding boots, with special attention for the buckskin riding breeches that clung to his muscular thighs. Her voice as pointed as her gaze, she said, “Gender is not difficult to determine.”

      He grinned wickedly. “Not usually. And if vision is insufficient, there are surer tests available.”

      His implication was as obvious as it was insulting. If looks could kill, Reginald Davenport would be a dead man. Alys knew she was not the kind of woman men desired, and only an arrogant rooster who pursued anything female would speak so to her. She opened her mouth for a furious reply. Years of supervising recalcitrant laborers had given the ability to wield her tongue like a lash.

      Barely in time she remembered that she was supposed to placate this man, not alienate him. Her mouth snapped shut. The yearning to reply in kind was so great that her jaw ached as she struggled for control. Finally she was able to say in a level voice, “I presume you wish to see the books. Or would you rather tour the property first?”

      He studied her measuringly. “What I would really like is a discussion and a drink. Do you have anything here?”

      Wordlessly she pulled open the door of the cabinet and removed a bottle of whiskey and a pair of tumblers, then poured two fingers worth for each of them. She seldom drank herself, but visitors sometimes appreciated a wee dram. Maybe the spirits would help soften Davenport.

      Taking the glass from her stiff fingers, he sat and stretched out his legs, as relaxed as she was tense. “I assume the late earl didn’t know you were female. He would have never permitted it.” He took a sip of his drink. “Does the present earl know?”

      Alys sat down behind the desk. “No, the only time Wargrave visited Strickland, I made an excuse to be away.” She drank some of her whiskey, needing its warmth.

      “How nice to know that my cousin didn’t arrange this as an insult,” he murmured.

      Too tense to be tactful, Alys asked brusquely, “Are you going to discharge me because I’m a woman?”

      The cool gaze slid over her again. “Don’t put ideas in my head. Discharging you is a tempting prospect.”

      “Do you think a woman can’t do the job?” Alys said, fearing that she had lost this battle before it had started.

      Davenport shrugged. “You are demonstrably doing it. Though I’ve never heard of a female steward, it’s hardly unknown for a woman to run property that she has inherited.”

      “Then, why would you want to get rid of me?”

      He finished his whiskey and leaned forward to pour some more. Instead of answering directly, he asked, “Are you single, married, widowed, or what?”

      “Single, and why should it matter?” Alys was having trouble keeping her belligerence under control.

      “First of all, you’re rather young for the job, even if you were male. The fact that you’re also single is a potential source of gossip when the owner of the estate is a bachelor.”

      Alys stared at him aghast. Of all the things that Davenport might have said, this surprised her the most. “A rake is concerned about propriety?”

      He laughed aloud at the shock in her voice, humor softening his hard face. “I have the feeling that my reputation has preceded me. Is it so unthinkable that a rake should have some concept of decorous behavior?”

      Alys had the grace to blush. Calling him a rake to his face was an unforgivable impertinence. Thank heaven he was amused, not insulted. She said carefully, “I can’t imagine that my gender would cause any eyebrows to raise. I’m thirty, hardly a girl, and I’ve had this position for four years. Everyone in this part of Dorset is used to me.”

      “I’m not used to you,” he said bluntly. “It’s obvious from the way you talk that you’re the respectable sort of female, a breed I’m almost completely unacquainted with. In the nature of things, you will be working with me regularly. I don’t relish having to watch my tongue around you.”

      She shrugged. “After four years of working with every kind of laborer, I’m very hard to shock. Treat me like a man.” She couldn’t resist