Page 1 of The Return of the Rake

Prologue

Anne’s story - when it all began…

Hans Place, Kensington, London, 15th March 1809

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?”