The Return of the Rake (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #3)

Prologue

Anne’s story - when it all began…

Anne watched the Earl of Westchester on the other side of the ballroom with a dull ache in her chest. One day he would become the Marquess of Stonehaven, once his loathsome father had died.

He was laughing, guiding some starry-eyed young woman around the floor, no doubt unaware of what he was doing to the poor girl’s heart.

Perhaps she should warn the young lady, but she knew well enough how the girl would receive that kindly meant nudge.

It was dog eat dog for this new batch of marriage-hungry young women, and they would scratch your eyes out if a future marquess was their goal.

Little did they know that Lawrence Cavendish, the Earl of Westchester, had no plans to marry any time soon.

Certainly, he would not marry Anne. It had been foolish of her to think it possible, though she’d believed her chances greater than any of the young women here, for Lawrence loved her.

He had been her dearest friend and she his, since she was old enough to scurry about the countryside in his wake.

His home was a remote one with little society and his father would not allow him to play with the servants’ children.

That had made Anne the only child in the area the old marquess would not dismiss as beneath his touch, though only just.

Anne had thought their friendship, even if it had become more distant in the years since he’d gone away to school, would be enough to bind them together forever. More fool she.

This was her first season too, and it had been going splendidly well.

She had received her first offer of marriage just ten days earlier, and from a nice man, one who was kind, and handsome and well provisioned.

She had turned him down gently, but with the information that her heart was already engaged elsewhere.

When her father had discovered what she had done, he had been furious. Never one to mince words, or to deny himself the pleasure of slapping his only child, it had been days before Anne could show her face in public. When she had, it had only been to confront Stonehaven’s displeasure.

“What the devil were you thinking? Fleetwood is the best of fellows and would have made you an excellent husband! Are you out of your mind?” Lawrence stood staring at her like she’d grown a second head, turning herself into someone he did not recognise.

He had drawn her away from the crowd gathered at the edges of the ballroom, finding a quiet corner close to where the old biddies and chaperones sat gossiping and sipping indifferent sherry.

Anne blushed, misery rising through her like a tide, sweeping away her hopes, snuffing out her fragile dreams and leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

“And what’s this I hear about your heart being engaged elsewhere?” he asked, his tone scathing now. “Don’t tell me you fancy yourself in love already, you’ve barely been in town for a couple of months. Lord, you silly girls with your heads full of nonsense and—”

“Of course I don’t!” she snapped, her temper sparking as it always did, despite the wretchedness that filled her heart. “Though you seem to think I should be head over ears for your Mr Fleetwood, you damned hypocrite.”

“Don’t show me your claws, Anne. If you’ve told Fleetwood a pack of nonsense in order to—”

“It wasn’t a pack of nonsense, or at least I did not think it so when I spoke the words.

I was in love, but I see now that I have been a fool.

Not for the first time in your eyes, I know,” she said bitterly, struggling to keep the emotion from her voice.

Her eyes burned, and she turned away from him, hoping to leave the ballroom before anyone noticed her distress.

“Anne?”

He caught hold of her wrist, keeping her beside him. Anne tugged hard, determined to leave before she embarrassed herself further.

“Let me go,” she growled, trying to hold on to her anger, for that was better than showing him how deeply hurt she was, just how badly he had just trampled upon her dreams. But his voice was gentle now, as it always was after he lost his temper.

For he might bark and bellow, but he was a kind man with a warm heart, which had been her undoing in the end.

“Anne, what do you mean—”

She made the mistake of looking up at him and saw his eyes widen as he understood.

“Good God! Me?”

If Anne had believed the depths of her mortification already plumbed, she knew better in that moment. Heat rose up the back of her neck, her cheeks blazing as Lawrence looked down at her, apparently torn between laughter and absolute horror.

Well, it was good to know where she stood, at least.

“Are you out of your mind?” he asked, a mixture of affection and incredulity behind the question. “We’d murder each other.”

“Yes, you’ve made your feelings abundantly clear, Lawrence, thank you. Now, let me go.”

“Anne—”

“Let. Me. Go.” She whispered the words, but with such rage behind them he obeyed instantly, knowing better than to believe she would not cause a scene if he provoked her.

Anne had fled and, in the days that followed, not seen her old friend at all.

Now, here she was again, at another ball, feeling utterly bereft and lost, and wishing she could turn back the clock. If only she was twelve years old again, running through the woods after Lawrence, living her life as if they were the only two people in the entire world.

He was still her friend, at least. She had known that, but the flowers he had sent her, with a note apologising for his harsh words, had confirmed that her friendship still mattered to him. That was something, she supposed.

“All alone?” The deep voice resonated in her ear, making her shiver.

Anne looked up, startled to discover the Marquess of Leighton gazing down at her.

“And looking so sad, sweet child. I have been watching you all evening, and your melancholy touches my cynical heart like nothing I can ever remember. You are usually so vivacious, my dear. I know, for I have been unable to take my eyes off you since your very first ball. Such a beautiful creature as you ought never to look so forlorn. Let me make you smile, hmmm?”

He was an older man, perhaps in his mid-forties, but still robust and rather handsome, though his face showed signs of dissipation.

Still, he was recently widowed, and she had heard many other young ladies gossiping about his wealth, and what it might be like to be his marchioness.

Anne felt a shiver of unease as she stared into his cool blue eyes, but perhaps if she could get this man to show an interest, her father might not be so furious with her for dismissing Mr Fleetwood.

He believed she was out of her mind to aim as high as a future marquess, not that it had been Lawrence’s title she had coveted.

But her father thought it unlikely she’d capture a title of any kind.

He had told her to apologise to Mr Fleetwood and tell him she had been unwell that day, that she had spoken foolishly, or she would face the consequences, but Anne would not make a fool of herself, no matter her father’s threats.

If she really could catch a marquess, though, well that would show him.

“Do you think it possible, my lord?” she asked the man, holding his gaze with more confidence than she felt.

“Certainly, I do. Come, take a little walk with me,” he said, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and holding it there, a proprietary gesture that made her heart thud with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

She looked around, seeing two young women eyeing her with jealous displeasure. Anne smiled serenely back at them.

Leighton gave a low chuckle. “Indeed, I seem to be winning already, eh?”

“You must know that your attention is sought after, my lord. I am not above feeling pleased to be noticed,” she told him candidly.

“Forthright. I approve. I like plain speaking girls,” he said. “Let us away to the conservatory, where there are not so many interested viewers. I have something to say to you, and I think we need a little privacy.”

Anne slowed her steps, looking up at the man, suddenly wishing he had not noticed her after all.

“Don’t look so frightened,” he said soothingly. “But a fellow needs a quiet place to ask certain questions. You surely do not wish me to declare myself in public?” He winked at her, urging her out of the ballroom.

Anne followed, bewildered but too elated to deny herself the chance of a proposal.

She had heard it said that, as the marquess already had his heir, he would marry the next time to please himself and concern himself less with the girl’s breeding and dowry.

Had he really taken such notice of her? Could it be possible?

Oh, how good it would feel to go home to her father and tell him she had received a proposal from a marquess.

How good it would feel to be a marchioness, when her father was so in awe of anyone with a title and believed her not good enough.

Never good enough. Oh, and the look on her mother’s face, too!

Anne almost laughed as she pictured it. Her mother was an insipid creature who said nothing, unless it was to echo her husband’s words.

Their lives had been one big disappointment, culminating in Anne’s birth, a worthless daughter when they had wanted a son.

She had never made up for that terrible defect, though she had tried and tried for many years.

No longer. Now she would make her own decisions and shape the future herself, no matter what.

“Where are we going?” she asked, trepidation fizzing beneath her skin. All young ladies knew they should not go to secluded places with men.

“Just into the conservatory,” he said, smiling down at her, though that curve of his lips did little to put her at ease.

“Perhaps we could stay here. There’s few people, and—”