The Rake’s Revenge (Reformed Rakes #2)

Prologue

“No one is marching you down the aisle with a pistol at your back! You do not have to do this!” Rafe Hart, the future Viscount Blackwood, trailed after Dorian Poole, current Earl of Stadewell, pleading with him to see reason.

“He is not listening,” their other friend, Pearce Brinley, said in a sing-song tone. “Look at the besotted half-smile on his lips. The man made his choice, and there will be no talking him out of it.”

“But why?” Hart groaned at Dorian. “You’ve your whole life ahead of you to have yourself leg-shackled to a woman; why do it now when you are only just one-and-twenty? What is the rush?”

“Love, that’s what!” The fourth member of their group caught up to them and slung his arm around Dorian’s shoulders. Gideon Bray, Earl of Easton, was another of the men who’d attended school with their troupe of rabblerousers and charming rogues.

Individually, they each stood to inherit titles and the respect they entailed; as a whole, they presented a danger to every woman of the ton, young and old.

Some were better behaved than others, with Dorian being on the lily-white end of that spectrum.

He wasn’t opposed to sharing a disarming smile now and again, but his affections for the past several months had been solely directed toward the only child of Baron Wyle.

Lady Amelia Alvin had stolen Dorian’s heart from across the floor at Almack’s, and he had never seen it coming.

By the time they’d shared their first conversation, he was planning which of the Kempton rings he would offer to her for their engagement.

The first time they danced, he’d begun planning their wedding.

The first time she’d treated his much younger sister, Clara, with all the affection one would expect of her own blood, Dorian knew he would be well and truly lost forever unless he could possess this woman.

Every one of his actions since the moment he’d met her had been with that sole purpose in mind; he’d been swallowed whole by desire and longing before he knew what had happened.

“Bah!” Hart waved a dismissive hand. “Overrated drivel. A poison dart of poetry aimed to wither a man’s bollocks.”

“How romantic you are,” Easton gushed sarcastically.

“Mark my words, the lot of you! Nothing good can come from giving anyone such power over yourself. You are willingly taking leave of your senses in giving in to the fantasy—I will never understand it!”

“My, but aren’t you particularly bitter tonight, Hart,” Brinley chimed in with a raised brow.

“He is prickly because Mrs. Alton dissolved their arrangement.”

Hart shot Dorian a glare in return for revealing the source of his ornery attitude, but he brushed it off. Nothing could sour Dorian’s mood; he would see Amelia shortly.

“Buck up, man!” Easton elbowed Hart. “Another woman will step into her place, and you’ll soon forget the sting of rejection.”

“It wasn’t rejection,” Hart grumbled.

“Whatever the reason, forget it! We have much to celebrate.”

“That is what I am trying to say!” Hart pleaded.

“We should be celebrating our youth and freedom, not the loss of it. There are so many other available women—take that widow you were seeing for a spell, Stadewell. She was rather enthusiastic, wasn’t she?

You are doing her and all other lonely widows a disservice by locking yourself in shackles. ”

Brinley shook his head and looked heavenward as if for strength to deal with Hart’s dramatics.

“I am the first to agree that marriage before a man’s fourth decade is a waste, but there is no changing Stadewell’s mind.

Just look at his face!” He gave Dorian’s cheek a firm pat before he was batted away.

“Does that look like a man with any reservations?”

Dorian checked himself and, sure enough, he wore a silly, besotted grin on his lips.

“Nothing will dampen his mood—not even your caterwauling,” said Easton. “You may as well give up now before you go blue in the face. The wedding is only three weeks away.”

Hart rubbed his temples as if exhausted from dealing with a particularly difficult child. “You’ve no idea how frustrating it is to stand by and watch you imbeciles make mistakes.”

Dorian could no longer help it; he laughed. “Lord, the dramatics!” He gave his friend a playful shove. “I love Miss Alvin. You all like her as well, do you not?” They all nodded in unison—even Hart, though it was slightly begrudgingly.

“This isn’t about liking or disliking her; you know I find her agreeable,” Hart added. “This is about signing away the best years of your life with a few strokes of ink on a marriage register.”

“You say that as if it is a fate worse than death.” It was Dorian’s turn to express exhaustion on the topic.

This was a conversation he’d had with his friends many times over the duration of his relationship with Miss Alvin.

From the first, his intentions toward her had been the purest sort of affection, but it had taken some convincing for his friends to comprehend.

Then, they’d each taken turns trying to dissuade him from pursuing anything more serious than a flirtation with the beautiful debutante.

One by one, they’d come to terms with Dorian’s decision, with Hart being the remaining holdout.

Even Dorian’s parents had accepted his decision with gusto as soon as they’d learned the object of his affection came from a respectable family, carried a sizable dowry, and had all the manners and good graces befitting a future marchioness.

“Isn’t it?” Hart leveled another stare at him.

“Give in. You’ve lost. Let the man be happy.

” Brinley nearly nudged Hart into a puddle as they continued along the street.

The sprawling townhouse one block ahead was their destination.

It glowed like a golden beacon in the unseasonably warm London evening, casting glittering reflections on the puddles littering the walk.

The line of carriages stretched impossibly long beside them—well past Dorian’s own home—so it would have been pointless not to make the trek on foot.

While it was less fashionable to arrive sans-carriage, Dorian did not think he could postpone seeing Miss Alvin for the extra hour it would take to sit immobile in traffic.

It also meant he could escape Hart’s complaints more quickly.

He loved the man like a brother, but his incessant need for attention could grow wearisome.

What Hart was saying was nothing Dorian hadn’t heard before from any of his other well-meaning friends, and even his own father.

Since he had not yet reached his majority, Dorian had required his father’s approval before he’d been able to offer for Amelia.

It had taken several days and many conversations for Dorian to convince him that he was serious about taking such a giant step.

“Marrying too early could prove to be a mistake you will regret for the rest of your days,” his father had cautioned him.

Dorian had responded, “So could allowing this woman to slip away.”

In the end, Dorian had obtained approval from his father, a blessing from Baron Wyle, and Miss Alvin accepted his offer with nothing shy of exuberant enthusiasm.

This match was more than a pairing of good breeding and the benefit of a hefty dowry in exchange for a lofty title; Dorian was well and truly in love with the woman.

He found her stunning, enchanting, and witty in an uncontrived manner.

While she excelled in the traditional feminine arts, she was also a brilliant horsewoman, brave and skilled enough to keep pace with him on their rides.

She was kind to everyone she met. She was not prone to the same mood swings or games that Dorian had witnessed from so many of her peers.

In all, Amelia Alvin had snagged him from their first meeting, and Dorian had been addicted ever since.

As a group, Dorian and his friends ascended the stairs into the townhouse along with the throng of other newly arrived guests. Instantly, Dorian’s heart rate increased, and he began searching for Miss Amelia Alvin, silently calculating how long it would be until he could hold her in his arms.

“Ah, the blush of young love,” Lady Opton, a septuagenarian matron, crooned to Amelia.

The three ostrich feathers the woman wore in her snow-white hair bobbed with every one of her shaky movements, and it was difficult for Amelia to tear her eyes away from them.

She prayed the woman did not teeter too closely to one of the many candelabras, lest there be a combustible emergency.

She pasted on a kind smile and opened her mouth when Lady Opton continued. “I remember being so na?ve.”

Amelia’s mouth snapped shut like a fish’s.

“Men are all pretty speeches and promises until they get what they want; mark my word.” With no little effort, she leveled an arthritic finger at Amelia.

Amelia took a few seconds to remind herself of the necessity of composure. Her smile was more than a little strained when she finally said, “I appreciate the words of caution from someone as experienced as yourself.”

Lady Opton narrowed her pale eyes at her, as if trying to discern her sincerity.

She seemed to decide Amelia was worthy of more knowledge, so she continued.

“Accept everything you are owed, handle everything with a stiff upper lip, and you’ll manage.

You chits these days may not be made of the sterner stuff of my generation, but lesser women have managed. ”

Amelia gritted her teeth and then felt badly for her uncharitable feelings toward this woman.

Were her words rude and unsolicited? Absolutely.

But she wondered what Lady Opton must have endured to make her feel it was so necessary to impart this knowledge to a young woman whom she did not know other than in general passing. That was sobering.