Gone with the Rake (Inglorious Scoundrels #1)

Wakefield Manor

Eleven Years Ago…

T hornton couldn’t sleep. Again.

Boredom was killing him at home. At school, with a brood of boys sharing quarters, there was always something to do—something to explore, activities to take part in. He enjoyed boxing, fencing, racing, and playing cards. And when all else failed, boys could always amuse themselves by tormenting one another.

Here, on this vast estate, with no neighbors for miles and only his little sister for company, he found himself wandering the halls like a ghost.

He paused by the library door and shrugged. He’d loved reading as a child but had abandoned the pastime for more active pursuits as he grew older. Now, he only read when he had to. But at this ungodly hour, there was nothing else to do.

The door was open, so he stepped inside, his bare feet making no sound. The room was dark, lit only by the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. Then he heard something.

A faint sound.

He turned toward it, his eyes narrowing at a dark shape nestled between the shelves. An animal?

Shff…

There it was again—that noise, like the rustle of leaves or the turn of a page.

Moving on the balls of his feet, Thorn crept toward the sound.

At the edge of the bookshelf, he stopped.

Someone—a girl?—sat on the floor, her back against the bookcase, a volume resting in her lap. Her bright red locks shimmered in the moonlight, spilling over her shoulders like a fiery waterfall.

He knew this girl. Or at least, he’d seen her before, though he’d never paid her any heed.

She was a servant in this house.

He should have been angry—or at least, his father would have been. A servant, touching his books without permission. But as he watched her, the way she held the volume so gently, her fingers tracing the page with reverence, he felt nothing but curiosity.

Leaning against the shelf, he crossed his arms. Something must have given him away because she suddenly turned, pressing herself against the shelves like a frightened animal. Her eyes squeezed shut as if that might make her invisible.

“I imagine it’s rather difficult to read in the dark,” he mused, his voice soft. “Especially with one’s eyes closed.”

She scrambled to her feet, all grace lost in her panic, the book still cradled to her chest.

“Pardon me, my lord,” she whispered, her head bowed, trying to slip past him.

Without thinking, he reached out to stop her and immediately regretted it when she recoiled as if struck. Something twisted in his chest at her reaction.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured her quickly, raising his hands.

When she didn’t respond or react, Thorn decided to change his approach. Tilting his head, he tried to read the book’s title, noting the familiar Greek text. Was it The Odyssey? He reached out, and she relinquished the book into his hands without hesitation. His brows lifted. “You read Greek?”

“No, my lord.” Her hands twisted in her skirt.

“You were reading Greek by moonlight…” He couldn’t help but tease. “That is impressive, to say the least.”

“I can’t read at all, my lord.” The admission seemed to pain her. It wasn’t surprising that a servant couldn’t read. But what did surprise him was that she seemed ashamed of it.

“Then why do it?”

Her voice was small, her brows drawn low over her eyes. “Because I like the idea of it.”

That, he’d never considered—that something he was forced to do for school could be seen as a coveted gift by someone else.

He studied her then, really looked at her. She was young, probably no older than him, though a few years older than his little sister. Sixteen or seventeen, if he had to guess.

In the moonlight, her hair was like a living flame, loose strands escaping their pins to frame a face that was… not beautiful, precisely, but striking. Her full lips pouted slightly, soft and expressive, and her eyes… he’d love to see their color.

He should send her away. Back to the servants’ quarters where she belonged.

Instead, he heard himself say, “Come.”

He walked toward the hearth and settled into one of the chairs. Lighting the candle on the small table before him, he deliberately relaxed his posture, hoping to put her at ease. When she hesitated in the shadows, he called out again, “Are you coming?”

She emerged slowly, like a woodland creature uncertain of its welcome.

He grinned and gestured to the chair opposite. “Please, sit.”

“I can’t,” she protested, but he saw the longing in her face as her gaze lingered on the book in his lap.

“I shall read to you,” he coaxed.

She stood frozen for a long moment, clearly warring with herself. Then, with a small nod—more to herself than to him—she perched on the edge of the chair.

He smiled, opened the book, and began translating the ancient words into English.

As he read, he stole glances at her face, watching as wonder slowly replaced fear. Her hands unclenched from her skirt, and she leaned forward slightly, lips parted, caught up in the tale. Her eyes—wide and captivating—were an extraordinary light shade of brown. In the soft candlelight, they shimmered like liquid gold.

He had almost forgotten how magical reading could be. But through the golden eyes of a red-haired servant girl, he found the wonder in it again.