The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom

one’s fledgling tries. ‘Firsts’ can be disappointing.” His voice lowered to that deep timbre that tickled her psyche. “But with a skilled and patient instructor, you may exceed your highest hopes.”

      Afton grappled with that statement for a moment. “A…a good instructor can accomplish much,” she finally allowed.

      Glenross tilted his head back in a hearty guffaw and led her into a quick turn. Miraculously, she did not even stumble. The strength and firmness of his hand had guided her unfalteringly through the maneuver. “I shall be pleased to devote myself to the task of teaching you to waltz, Miss Lovejoy. I cannot wait to see how much you might accomplish.”

      Even though she wished the dance could last forever, the whisper in her ear was back. Danger. Danger.

      As Seymour prattled beside him at the tavern bar, Rob tossed back another whiskey. He’d meant to go back to his room and make an early evening of it, but when little Miss Lovejoy had challenged him, made him laugh, made him forget—just for a minute—he’d become rife with guilt. A guilt he was desperate to assuage. In any way possible. He didn’t need the damn guilt to remind him that he’d failed—at being a father and a husband.

      Failed so miserably that Maeve had been moved to tell him so. He was too intemperate, too fierce in his passions, she’d informed him. He unsettled her, she’d said. She’d feared he would consume her if she let him. She’d said she needed a finer emotion from him—something gentler, less intense. Safer. He was, according to his deceased wife, on a level scarcely above an animal. “McHugh the Destroyer,” she’d called him, because he’d destroyed her only chance for happiness. Thus far, he’d been unable to find anything that would prove her wrong. He had wanted her each time he’d been with her, but he hadn’t…what? Become soft and moon-eyed over her many vaunted attributes? Craved her? Thought of her constantly when they were apart? Been anxious for the next time he’d see her?

      Loved her?

      Sadly, he hadn’t. Their marriage had been arranged by their families when they were still in the nursery. And that lack of love was the true source of his guilt. He was left to conclude that he simply did not possess the finer emotions. So, when Maeve had ripened with child at a time when he could not have been the sire, he’d remained silent and claimed Hamish as his own. That was the least he could do for a wife he had failed in every other way.

      But, animal that he was, he’d obsessed over the identity of Hamish’s sire, and about many interesting ways he could kill the damn poacher. Who had given Maeve what Rob had not been able to give her? God help him, it made no difference now, but that question still ate at him.

      Tonight, he’d thought a trip to the gaming hells and brothels of London’s squalid side would sate his animal needs. He’d thought he’d be able to overcome the humiliation of the atrocity his body had become. He’d hoped he’d find relief, release, repose, if only for the night. Instead, when Seymour had taken him to the most popular brothel in London, he’d chosen a saucy redhead with blue eyes and a teasing smile. When he realized he’d selected a pale copy of Miss Lovejoy, he’d given the prostitute a guilty pass. He damn well wasn’t dead below the waist, but he also wasn’t interested in simple ejaculation. Fool that he was, he craved possession. He craved contact on a deeper level than the physical. He craved meaning.

      “McHugh?” Seymour asked.

      A sideways glance revealed an ale-sodden gentleman staring into his tankard. “Aye?”

      “Too bad about Maeve and Hamish.”

      Rob had no reply for that. He gestured to the publican for another glass of whiskey.

      Seymour shook his head. “You shouldn’t have let them go.”

      “I live with that every day, Seymour.” He studied the wet circle left on the bar by his glass.

      “Too late now, though.”

      He tossed his whiskey down in a single gulp and slammed the glass on the bar. “I’m gone, Seymour. My pillow is calling.”

      “But you haven’t made the two-backed beast yet. ’Tisn’t natural. You’re on edge, McHugh. The least little thing could set you off. When was the last time you—”

      Rob shook his head as he turned to the door. He wasn’t about to tell Seymour he hadn’t been with a woman in months—no, years. They’d all blurred together and been so exceedingly forgettable, the women and the years. And he’d grown accustomed to being on edge. Hell, he’d almost grown to like it.

      Afton drew the warm velvet robe closer around her and went to curl up before the fire as she waited for Grace and Dianthe’s return. Though she had more important things to think about, her mind kept wandering back to her dance with Lord Glenross and the feeling of his hand on her waist. She craved more of that feeling, and cringed with guilt every time she thought of it. She was taking his money, pretending to tell his fortune, and using knowledge she gathered as Afton Lovejoy to deceive him into thinking Madame Zoe was clairvoyant. For the first time, she felt like a common fraud.

      To complicate matters, since her sister’s arrival in London one week ago, Afton had purchased ball and riding gowns, shoes, riding boots, dancing slippers, gloves, bonnets, reticules, morning and afternoon gowns, calling cards—and the costs added up. She would not have the resources to give Dianthe a second season. In fact, if she gave up the income as Madame Zoe, she would not be able to see Dianthe through this season.

      Gads! Five years of scrimping and saving, five years of mind-numbing drudgery in Wiltshire and now in London, and all her carefully laid plans were about to go awry because an unspeakable villain had murdered Aunt Henrietta!

      Afton stood and began pacing. She had lost so much. Her mother, her father, Aunt Henrietta, the meager savings for her dowry—all gone. Lord, she was so tired! Dianthe found the uncertainty exciting, but Afton ached to feel safe for just a moment.

      Near dawn, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones pulled her from her reverie, and she hurried to her bedroom window to watch as the Forbush coach pulled up to the front door. Dianthe, accompanied by Grace and Lord Ronald Barrington, one of Grace’s many admirers, stepped out and hurried inside just as the tall grandfather clock struck the hour of four. Afton knew the routine. Lord Ronald would beg a bedtime sherry and then leave, still unrequited in his lust for Grace.

      Turning away from the window, Afton went to wait, cross-legged, on her bed. By the time her door flew open and Dianthe danced in, she had a smile fixed firmly in place.

      “Was it wonderful, Di? Did all the ton fall at your feet?”

      Her sister untied the strings of her cape and let it slide to the floor. “It was extraordinary! I feel like a princess. I adore London! I revel in all my new gowns! Why, oh why, did you not send for me ere now?”

      “I did not know how much you would like town,” Afton replied with a laugh. “I have not experienced your success.”

      “I cannot imagine why not.” Dianthe gazed at herself in the looking glass. “You are much prettier than I, Afton, and so petite. Men love that.”

      “I am not your competition, Di.” Afton smiled.

      “I know you would not want it so, but men are positively intrigued by redheads.”

      “I am past my prime.”

      “Au contraire,” Dianthe laughed. “Twenty and five is fully ripe. You are poised to fall from the tree.”

      Afton had a sudden image of herself as an apple clinging to the tree with her last scrap of strength as Robert McHugh stood below, his hand cupped and ready to catch her. She shivered and put the distracting thought away. “No, Dianthe, you will be the one to make a match before the season ends.”

      “Oh, I hope so. That is why I ordered a new ball gown when I was shopping with the Thayer twins this afternoon. Hortense and Harriett said I shall need every advantage I can secure.”

      A new gown? Afton winced. Between Dianthe’s