Gone with the Rake (Inglorious Scoundrels #1)

Chapter 2

V iscount Arthur Thornton, known simply as Thorn in London society, cracked open his eyes and winced. A sharp pain pierced his head as he groaned and rubbed his eyes, blinking away the haze. The faint chirping of birds outside mixed with the distant clatter of carriage wheels and the hum of voices drifting in through the open window, letting him know it was time to get up.

He dropped his hand to the side, his fingers brushing against warm, soft flesh.

Thorn froze.

“Mm… Thorn!” a woman moaned pleasantly by his side.

Someone was in bed with him.

He turned his head gingerly, hissing at the occasional jolts of pain in his temples, and squinted at the gorgeous blonde woman beside him, a blue satin sheet just barely covering her naked form.

Who was she? And what was she doing in his bed?

His gaze glided back to the satin blue sheets… This wasn’t even his bed! Where the devil was he?

His hand instinctively moved to his chest, fingers brushing over the chain beneath his shirt—only to realize he hadn’t even disrobed. He looked down. Yes, still fully clothed, although his breeches were unfastened.

Thorn looked around. Golden sunlight streamed through the parted curtains, casting a bright, almost blinding glow across the room. A delicate floral wallpaper and a vanity adorned with glass perfume bottles assured him he was not in his own bedchamber.

The woman scooted closer to him and rubbed her inviting body against his side. Heat pooled inside his loins, and his body tightened with need. If only he could act on this need of his. Instead, his head buzzed unpleasantly, and nausea made its way to his throat.

Thorn sat up, shaking the woman off him as he did so.

“What’s wrong, Thorn, darling? Don’t you want your… breakfast?” the lady offered suggestively.

“Yes,” he croaked, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. He scrubbed his face, noting a few days’ worth of stubble. Was it still called stubble at this point, or was it a beard? Vlad, his valet, would be very displeased. “Coffee would be lovely.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The bed dipped as the woman got to her knees and crawled toward him. She placed her warm hands on his shoulders and started kneading his tired muscles. “You are so hard… so—”

Thorn stood sharply and winced. Would this headache ever cease? “Listen… Miss…”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even remember my name, do you?” When he didn’t respond, she covered her lush breasts with her hands and gasped. “It’s Iris, you scoundrel! How could you?”

“Apologies, but at the moment, I barely remember my name.” He looked around, spotting his cloak carelessly tossed on the back of an armchair. He went to pick it up. “How did I get here?”

“Ugh!” The lady offendedly ripped the sheet from the bed and covered herself with it. “I am going to take my morning ablutions and upon my return, I trust you will have departed.”

Thorn turned his eyes heavenward, but a splitting headache struck again, making him wince. How much had he drunk last night? It must have been a significant amount for him not to remember a thing. It wasn’t unusual for him to be foxed to the eyebrows whenever he bedded a woman, but in his current state, he doubted he had managed to perform tolerably. No wonder the woman hadn’t looked or sounded satisfied.

He cupped his erect length and winced. Apparently, he hadn’t been satisfied either.

His fingers shaking, Thorn slowly fastened the falls of his breeches. “Do I… owe you?”

The woman who had just turned away to leave sharply turned back, fury blazing in her strikingly blue eyes. She did not look like a brothel wench, but the headache muddled Thorn’s mind so that he couldn’t be sure of anything. And he needed to be sure.

“I am not a whore!” Her fingers curled into fists by her side. But then her features softened before her mouth twisted in a sneer. She looked down at the bulge in his trousers suggestively. “But even if I was, you wouldn’t owe me anything other than a heartfelt apology. I doubt your… tool even works. All these rumors about your prowess, I should have known, were lies.”

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she stalked off in a dramatic flourish.

With a shrug that caused another blinding pain in his temples, Thorn collected his hat, wrapped his cloak over his shoulders, and walked out of the luxurious townhouse. No, this woman, whoever she was, was not a whore. She was either a kept woman of a wealthy aristocrat or perhaps a wealthy widow. Not that it mattered who she was. He was unlikely to see her again.

Thorn looked up and down the street in search of his carriage, but the road was empty. How did he get here in the first place? And when?

It wasn’t in Thorn’s nature to get drunk to the point of passing out, although he would be lying if he said that had never happened before. The last time he remembered being in this state, however, was years ago. And he had a good reason for that…

Thorn grimaced and pushed the thought away. He needed to get home.

He drew the corners of his cloak tighter together against the wind and turned toward Mayfair.

What had prompted his descent into his vices this time?

Sure, the arrival of his father’s wife was more than just an inconvenience, but it had never driven him to drink before. He dipped his hand inside his cloak’s inner pocket in search of gloves. Instead, he pulled out a letter addressed to him from his father.

Ah, there it is! The memory resurfaced with a stabbing pain.

A missive from his father had arrived a few nights ago, stating that he was on his deathbed and was requesting—nay, demanding—Thorn’s presence back at the Wakefield estate.

Curse the old man and his demands. He could rot in hell for all Thorn cared. Thorn had already successfully assumed the responsibility for the Wakefield estates from London. As a matter of fact—he took out his pocket watch and glanced at the time, fifteen minutes past noon—he had a meeting with the solicitor in less than two hours. He didn’t need to see his sire for anything. Just the thought of seeing him made him shudder.

It wasn’t easy to forget the old codger now that Thorn had returned to live under Wakefield’s roof while engaging in business affairs. He only wished he didn’t give up his bachelor dwelling where there were no reminders of Wakefield and especially his harpy wife.

Thorn finally arrived at the doorstep of his father’s townhouse, its cold and imposing facade looming over him like a dark cloud, a place as unwelcoming as the man who used to reside within.

Ah, dear, sweet home.

Thorn opened the door and was greeted by the stony face of the butler.

“Cecil.” Thorn tipped his head before handing the old man his hat and the cloak.

Cecil had served the Wakefield title for many years, and although he had never said anything objectionable, the glint of disapproval was forever present in his eyes.

Thorn turned toward the grand staircase and immediately regretted ever stepping foot back in this townhouse.

“Oh, how lovely that you’ve finally graced us with your presence, dear,” Rosemary Thornton, the Marchioness of Wakefield, intoned mockingly as she appeared on the landing above him. Her dark brown hair was swept into a tight chignon, and she wore a stunning green gown accentuating her feminine curves. Paired with a fur-lined spencer jacket in a complementary shade, she looked as though she was dressed for the dullest of tea parties. Her left arm was pressed close to her side, and she was holding a big, furry… rat?

The rat made a sharp, high-pitched noise, and Thorn blinked. What the devil?

Gliding down the stairs, her gloved hand hovered just above the banister, never quite touching it. “I thought we wouldn’t be seeing you for several months—if not years.”

“You thought or you hoped?” Thorn asked gruffly.

“There is no reason to be… well, you,” she said as she floated past him, flicking her wrist in his direction.

He turned slowly, watching her walk away. “If not with you, where else can I just be me… Mother.”

She rounded on him, nostrils flaring, the cool, unbothered facade quickly fading away. He knew how much she despised being called Mother . He hated to call her that, too. Only a couple years his senior and an abomination in his eyes, she did not deserve that title, but she deserved to be addressed with any other sort of respect even less.

She took a few deep breaths before her lips spread in an artificial smile, her eyes narrowing. “I am glad you finally came to think of me this way.” Her tone was sweet, but her words dripped with venom. “Although I’d prefer if you referred to me as the mistress of the house—the Marchioness.” Her smile turned into a self-satisfied smirk that made his skin crawl.

“And I’d prefer to never see you again.” Thorn turned back to the stairs and started his slow ascent as he spoke, “Pity, we can’t always get what we want.”

“Oh, sure you can, my dear son,” she said in an irritating sing-song voice. “All you have to do is resume your regular debauched activities and never set foot in this house again.” Her skirts swished with each step as she retreated, and the sharp noise from her rat, followed by a bang of the door, punctuated her departure.

Thorn only hoped he wouldn’t see the poisonous witch again for the rest of his life, as unlikely as that seemed. His pulse still throbbed in his temples as he continued toward his room.

He needed a bath, a cup of coffee, and perhaps a good day’s rest. But there was far too much to be done. Besides, he would never be able to rest in this house.

Thorn hastily cleaned himself, changed his clothes, and ignoring Vlad’s attempts to groom his appearance, made his way to the study, where a steaming cup of coffee awaited him on the desk with the daily paper.

Thorn glanced at the front page.

Hunt for the Mist Continues as the Illusive Thief…

Without bothering to finish the headline, he tossed the paper aside. Taking a long, satisfying sip of coffee, he pulled the financial ledgers toward him and dove into his work.

He had months of records to go through, and at a glance, most of them were the spendthrift marchioness’s doing. Gowns, jewels, accessories—it seemed she’d bought enough for the entire ton . Thorn wasn’t daft; he knew what she was doing. She was buying everything she could take with her once the marquessate passed to Thorn.

This much was expected. After all, Rosemary couldn’t be naive enough to believe he’d keep her under his roof once he inherited the title.

But there was more—apart from the clothing, she’d bought antiques and rare art, things Thorn had never seen inside this house. She also bought a carriage, a set of horses and… did it say a dog?

Strange. He didn’t remember seeing any dogs in the house. And it didn’t have any records of a rat. Unless… Was his step-witch not capable of buying a proper dog?

He shook his head.

Aside from the dog, how did she plan to cart all these things away unnoticed once Thorn took over the title? Was she already storing them away, hopeful that he wouldn’t pay attention to the ledgers? Either way, it seemed she was determined to impoverish the title before the marquess’s death. Except…

Hmmm.

It seemed her spending habits had slowed to a crawl a few days ago. Perhaps she’d gotten everything she needed or was just taking a break from her spending ways.

Something about that lull bothered Thorn. And that self-satisfied smirk she wore earlier today refused to leave his mind.

Thorn rubbed his eyes. She was up to something; he just needed to figure out what that something was.

At that moment, a short, stocky gentleman appeared in the doorway, spectacles perched atop his nose.

“Mr. Pryce,” Thorn said before the man even made a sound. “Please, enter.”

The solicitor waddled into the room and bowed. “My lord.”

Thorn stood. “Please, do sit down. We haven’t spoken in a while.”

“Yes,” Mr. Pryce said as they both settled in their chairs. “I have spent quite a bit of time with Lord Wakefield and brought specific instructions from him.”

Thorn quirked a brow. “Instructions?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Lord Wakefield has changed his will.”

Thorn stilled. That’s why Rosemary’s spending had come to an abrupt stop; it had to be. The witch had finally persuaded the old bastard to change his will! He had probably left everything to her. Oh, well. Now he didn’t need to slave away behind this desk.

Thorn’s nostrils flared. “Let me guess, Lady Wakefield gets everything that is not entailed.”

Mr. Pryce nodded. “That is correct. Unless…”

“Unless?” Thorn leaned forward, curiosity gnawing at his chest.

Mr. Pryce cleared his throat again and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Unless your lordship marries before Lord Wakefield’s demise.”