Redeeming The Roguish Rake. Liz Tyner
One sentence and his father’s servants would whisk him away.
When his father returned, Fox would hear nothing but how his evil ways had led to his downfall. Every time he saw his father, this tale would be resurrected and pointed to and every bump on Fox’s face would be examined by the earl as he spoke. Anger flared in his thoughts. He’d never visit his father again. Ever. The ridicule.
A bit of ink dripped on the page.
‘Do you need help?’ she asked, leaning so that a wisp of her hair tickled his cheek. The lilacs engulfed him.
All thoughts of revenge slid into the back of his mind.
She clasped the paper, holding it steady and unsteadying the rest of him.
Thank y... he wrote. The ink ended. He handed her the pen, hands touching. She dipped it in the ink again and leaned over him again, their shoulders together. He finished the word. I suppose...he wrote, inhaling, taking his time. She dipped the pen and returned to his side...revenge is wrong.
He didn’t add, but necessary.
She smiled and it touched her eyes and even her feet as she took the pen and paper and put it on the table.
Looking into her eyes was much better than looking in any mirror. And if she was happiest seeing him as a vicar, then he would stay a vicar for the time being.
At the first hint of his father returning, he’d make his way to the estate, get Rusty back and return to London. She’d never know who he was.
Only a few moments later, Rebecca’s father walked in the door. She quickly stepped back from Fox and put her hands behind her back.
He saw the glance her father gave them and the widened eyes, followed by a smile.
‘You missed a good service today. One of my best.’ He spoke to Rebecca as he set the boots in his hand on the floor and then he put his scarf and coat on a peg. ‘It was on pride and boastfulness.’
‘Father,’ she admonished, then turned to Foxworthy. ‘That’s his favourite jest.’
‘I told everyone that our guest is still recovering.’ He picked up the boots. ‘And I may have mentioned my plans to let a younger man take my place.’
Fox shook his head. ‘No...vicar.’
‘Very kind of you, Son.’ His smile had a sadness at his eyes. ‘But you’ll do a fine job and it’s time everyone knows that I’m going to step down. A high calling indeed.’
‘...’ox...orthee.’ He touched his chest.
‘You’re worthy, son. Or the earl wouldn’t have chosen you.’
The vicar held the boots nearer Fox. They were of good quality and scuffed. Fox wondered where they came from, a little warning fluttering inside his head. He’d never realised such a thing existed inside him and he considered carefully, and decided not to ask what he didn’t want to know.
Fox looked at the covers over his bare feet.
He tried not to think of it. Poor villagers did not just outgrow boots in that size.
‘Now, Rebecca,’ the vicar said. ‘What delicious meal are you going to cook for us?’
Rebecca moved to go about her chores.
Then the vicar started talking about Rebecca’s mother and how saintly she was and how blessed they were to have a daughter like Rebecca. He complimented Rebecca with every other word.
Fox settled in to the covers. He wondered if Rebecca knew that her father had exchanged his prayer book for a matchmaker’s tally sheet.
The man erred on a grand scale, as all fathers seemed to do where their child was concerned. Faithfulness was only for vicars and simpletons. And perhaps for a man so scarred only a wife would touch him without pity.
Her father, the not-so-subtle matchmaker, left after they’d eaten, hoping to get more men involved in the search for the criminals who had attacked a vicar.
A waste of time, Fox thought, unless they searched for men in London who had a jealous streak.
Fox stuffed the pillow tighter at his head and watched Rebecca.
Her bottom bustled nicely as she worked. It worked better than any laudanum to relieve his pain. His eyes drooped, watching each nuance. Each twist. Each whisper of movement.
He’d been wrong to think her drab. The sun sparkling in the window when she walked by the glass showed him otherwise.
In fact, the sun taunted him by showing him what he could not have. He looked at the ceiling again, trying to recall something in his past he’d wanted—something he’d wanted but not been able to have. Nothing came to mind except Mrs Lake. And he’d worked hard to get her from his mind—filling his world with all the beauty he could surround himself with. He’d determined never to let anyone else that deep into his thoughts again.
He’d even been able to talk Gillray into drawing a caricature. Gillray had created a picture of Fox surrounded by a bevy of ladies of all shapes and ages.
That had been before he’d turned twenty. It had been published. He’d been certain the former Mrs Lake would have seen it.
The bereaved Mrs Lake had been beyond beautiful, and twice his age at thirty-two when she’d dropped her fan onto his boot.
Seeing her tearful eyes as she had told of her loss had torn at his heart, but when she’d clutched at him for support—he’d been too green to understand that she had him by the pizzle. Unfortunately, his heart had been attached to it at that moment.
Within days he’d told her he loved her; she’d told him she would wait until he became old enough to wed.
Then the Duke of Marchwell’s wife had died and Mrs Lake had told Foxworthy he was just infatuated with her. That he would forget her and that she was much too old for him.
It had been quite immature of him to propose to the elderly Countess Bolton the day after Mrs Lake had announced her betrothal to the seventy-year-old duke, but even Earl Bolton had caught the humour in that proposal and thumped Foxworthy on the back and congratulated him at realising what a gem the countess was.
He doubted Mrs Lake had enjoyed the print as much as he had. The caricaturists in London had become quite fond of Foxworthy over the years.
Now was when he needed Gillray’s pen. Fox would like a sketch of Rebecca. One of her bustling about, hovering over the little needs of the village like a mother hen guarding the chicks.
Now the little mother hen faced him, and he waited for the sound of her voice.
‘You’ve met the earl as he’s chosen you for his vicar.’
He nodded, more with his eyes than his head.
‘He’s such a good-hearted man. Kind. Caring. We’re all so lucky to have him.’
No need to let her know her hero wasn’t perfect. His father was a kind man.
A boring but kind man. The most boring man on the face of the earth. Sanctimonious, too. Proud in his austere life. As if he thought the things he could turn his back on made him stronger. When his daughter had died, he’d even turned his back on the whole of London.
He’d not taken well to a son who didn’t turn his back.
Rebecca’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘You’ve a spot of blood on your nightshirt.’
‘How can you stand to look at this?’ He forced out the words, this time willing to ignore the pain.
Now she huffed out a breath. ‘I’ve never seen you any