The Rake's Redemption. Regina Scott

and his actions only deepened the mystery.

      Her mother offered her a sad smile, nodding to the footman to remove her plate, as well. “Ah, significant indeed. I understand Mr. Everard and his uncle were close.”

      “Very,” Imogene assured her. “He seems genuinely hurt by Lord Everard’s passing. I suspect Mr. Everard has great sensitivity.”

      Her mother’s lips quirked as the footmen began bringing in the second course. “So it would seem. But the other gentlemen this Season are not so very lacking. I’m sure a number of young ladies find Lord Wentworth, for instance, quite presentable.”

      “And I rather suspect he agrees.” She sat straighter, coloring. “Oh, Mother, forgive me! That sounded waspish. I don’t know what’s gotten into me today.”

      Her mother’s look was assessing. “I fear it isn’t just today. I want the best for you, Imogene, but do you think perhaps you have set your sights too high?”

      Imogene raised her chin. “I am the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter. I thought I was supposed to set my sights high!”

      Her mother patted the damask cloth beside her as if she longed to pat Imogene’s hand. “I did not mean to suggest you marry the ragman, dearest. However, you seem to have high expectations of your suitors, so high that I fear no man, not even Mr. Everard, can live up to them.”

      Imogene shook her head. “I would think that intelligence and charm are not too much to ask.”

      Her mother smiled. “I would agree. Lord Eustace has those, yet you refused him out of hand last Season.”

      Imogene remembered the enthusiastic man who had offered his heartfelt proposal on bended knee. “Lord Eustace is no more than a friend, Mother, and unfortunately addicted to whist.”

      “David Willoughby, then,” her mother insisted, lifting a spoonful of the strawberry ice they had been served. “Handsome, charming, the heir to a barony. He looked crushed when you refused him.”

      “He hasn’t darkened the door of a church since he reached his majority,” Imogene informed her, digging into her own ice. “I won’t have a man so lacking in devotion.”

      “And Sir George Lawrence? He certainly attends services and supports any number of charitable causes.”

      Imogene shuddered, swallowing the cool treat. “He also picks his teeth. With his nails. After he’s eaten enough for a regiment. He’ll die of gout before he’s thirty. I have no wish to be a widow.”

      Her mother sighed. “You see? No one is perfect.”

      Vaughn Everard’s face came to mind, brightened by that genuine smile she’d seen at the ball last night. His poetry proclaimed him a man of intelligence and creativity. His actions spoke of a devotion to family, of determined perseverance. But she thought she was only seeing the edges of his character.

      She dropped her gaze to her lap and was surprised to find the fingers of her free hand pleating the silk of her skirt. “I know no one’s perfect, Mother. But none of those gentlemen you mentioned stirred my heart. Surely I am allowed to feel something tender for the man I’ll marry.”

      “I would like that for you, dearest,” her mother murmured, “but not every bride can claim a love match, despite what the novels tell you. There are many other good reasons to wed—security, position, children.”

      Saving her family from penury. Oh, but she mustn’t say that aloud. She wasn’t sure she could pull it off, and telling her mother she had a plan to prevent them from losing the marquessate and all its attendant income would only get her hopes up.

      “I understand, Mother,” she said. “Please know that I will do my duty. The man I accept will be a credit to the name of Devary and the House of Widmore, I promise. I will settle for nothing less.”

      * * *

      Vaughn’s afternoon was far quieter, a fact designed to cause him no end of difficulties. There was nothing he liked less than indolence. He needed action, challenges, something to keep his mind and hands busy. When Uncle had been alive, they’d never lacked for diversions—wagering on impossible odds, cheering horse races and pugilistic displays and closing the gaming tables in the wee hours of the morning. He wasn’t sure when those things had begun to pale—it had begun some time before his uncle’s death, he believed—but he found he had little interest in them now.

      So he sat in his room in Everard House and stared at the empty parchment in front of him. The windows were shuttered, the fire banked low. He’d had the new valet he shared with his cousin Richard remove the clock so its steady ticking would be no distraction. Everything was conducive to starting his next poem, but he found the words had dried up. It was as if everything meaningful to him had turned to dust the day Uncle had died.

      He leaned back in the chair at his writing table, fixed his gaze on the pattern of the wallpaper and traced each leafy green frond back to the center. Why couldn’t he order his thoughts? Other men seemed to concentrate so easily, to shift their attentions when they wished. He found himself concentrating to the point of shutting out everything else or being unable to make his mind settle on a single topic. Even now, it flitted from problem to problem, never solving anything, merely teasing him with possibilities before moving on.

      For a time after Uncle had died, only vengeance had sustained him. His cousins had been concerned for his state of mind. He’d seen the looks flashing between Jerome and Richard when they talked about what had happened the night Uncle’s body had been returned home. If he dwelled on that day now, he’d likely go mad.

      He pushed back his chair and went in search of game.

      Everard House ought to be crowded with him, his cousins Richard and Samantha and Lady Claire Winthrop in residence, to say nothing of his cousin Jerome and his new wife, who were expected any moment. Yet sometimes days went by without more than a chance meeting in the corridor. The others were all intent on making Samantha the toast of London, and that meant taking the girl out where she could be seen.

      Today, for example, Samantha and Lady Claire, as they had all begun to call his cousin’s sponsor, were just returning from some event when he reached the stairs and gazed down into the entryway. The marble-tiled space looked remarkably empty since they had removed the massive statue of a naked Eve holding out a golden apple, one of Uncle’s mad whims. Samantha seemed entirely too small, her dainty features as animated as the hands she waved in front of her sky-blue spencer.

      “But he asked to call,” she was saying breathlessly. “I thought surely you’d advise me to encourage him.”

      “Anyone else, certainly,” Lady Claire replied, handing her feathered bonnet to the footman. Vaughn had been unsure of Richard’s betrothed at first. The color of her thick, wavy hair might be as warm as honey, but her blue gaze could be as cold as ice. And it didn’t help that she had thrown over Richard for a wealthy viscount years ago. He had come to realize, however, that a loving heart beat beneath those fashionable silk gowns, and her devotion to Samantha was unquestionable.

      His cousin puffed out a sigh as she allowed the footman to take her bonnet. “I’m only trying to fulfill Papa’s will!”

      “And with considerable style,” Vaughn called down.

      Her face brightened as she looked up at him. “Cousin Vaughn! You’re home!”

      “An astute observation, infant,” he replied with a smile as he descended the stairs. “And as you appear to be home as well, what say we find ourselves some mischief?”

      She grinned as he reached her side. “What shall it be? Boxing? Fencing?”

      Lady Claire raised a brow. “Entirely without imagination. Pugilism would ruin your gown, and you’ve already beaten him twice with the blade.”

      Three times, but he was not about to admit to their bout the other morning in the stables. “I allow her to win. It inspires confidence.”

      “Ha!”