‘Well, well, what have we here?’ Nick’s voice was low, surprisingly cultured. His tone was teasing. ‘A kiss from the prettiest woman here will be my prize.’
Serena could smell him. Fresh sweat, laundered linen, something else deeply masculine she couldn’t put a name to. Reluctantly she forced herself to hold his gaze, to counter his teasing smile with a haughty look of her own.
‘Definitely the prettiest woman here. A kiss will be worth all the money in the winner’s purse and more.’ The words were whispered in her ear as he pushed back her bonnet, tilting her chin with a firm but gentle finger. He hesitated for a tantalising moment, then pulled her closer, confining the contact to his lips alone.
It was a teasing kiss, which lasted no more than a few seconds. His breath was warm and sweet. His lips were soft against her own.
‘Get off me, you ruffian!’ she said angrily pushing him away. What had she been thinking?
The man who had taken such a liberty eyed her quizzically. ‘Ruffian or not, you enjoyed that as much as I did, I’ll wager…’
Born and educated in Scotland, Marguerite Kaye originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise—a decision which was a relief both to her and the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first-class honours and a Masters degree along the way.
The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living—a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.
Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.
When she is not writing, Marguerite enjoys cooking and hill walking. A confirmed Europhile, who spends much of the year in sunny climes, she returns regularly to the beautiful Highland scenery of her native Argyll, the place she still calls home.
Marguerite would love to hear from you. You can contact her on: [email protected]
The Rake And The Heiress
Marguerite Kaye
MILLS & BOON
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For A, who makes all things, especially me, possible. Just love.
A previous novel by Marguerite Kaye: THE WICKED LORD RASENBY
Prologue
Paris—August 1815
The doctor closed the bedchamber door gently behind him and turned to the young woman waiting anxiously in the hallway. He noted with sadness that she was showing clear signs of strain following the trauma of the past few days. Her delicate beauty, while still intact, seemed fragile, as if frayed. The sparkle had gone from her cornflower-blue eyes, her creamy complexion was dull and ghostly pale, her blonde hair unkempt, confined carelessly under a bandeau. Despite his stern countenance and insistence on the timely settlement of bills, the doctor was a compassionate man at heart. He sighed deeply. At times like this he cursed his vocation.
The grave expression and resigned shake of his head told Serena all she needed to know. She fought to quell the tidal wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm her.
‘You must keep him comfortable, Mademoiselle Cachet, that is all you can do for him now. I will return in the morning, but…’ The doctor’s shrug was all too eloquent. It was obvious he didn’t expect Papa to survive the night.
Valiantly suppressing a sob—for what purpose would tears serve now?—Serena wearily forced herself upright from the support of the door frame she’d been leaning against. She tried to absorb the doctor’s instructions, but his clear, calm words barely penetrated the fog enveloping her shocked mind. His voice seemed faint, as if it were coming from a far distant shore. Clean dressings and sleeping draughts would ease Papa’s suffering, but not even a magic potion could save him now.
The doctor departed with an admonition to send for him if necessary, giving Serena a final comforting pat on the shoulder. As he opened the strong oak door at the foot of the stairwell which separated their living quarters from the gaming rooms, a sharp burst of drunken laughter pierced the air. With a steady supply of men returning from Waterloo the tables were always busy, but for once Serena cared naught. What use was a full purse without Papa to share its bounty?
Nothing mattered now save making the most of these last precious hours. Papa must see his daughter calm and loving, not tearful and dishevelled. Resolutely tucking a stray golden curl back under her bandeau, carefully straightening the neckline of her dress and taking a deep calming breath, Serena reentered her father’s bedchamber with a heavy heart.
Velvet hangings pulled shut over the leaded windows contained the stifling heat of the room and muffled all noise from the busy street below. A huge mirror above the marble fireplace reflected the rich rugs, the polished wood, the bright gilt and glowing silver fittings of the opulent furnishings. Reflected too, the snowy white pile of linen torn for bandages and the collection of vials and bottles atop the bedside table on which a decanter usually sat. On the floor a mound of bloodied dressings paid testament to Serena’s hours of tender nursing. The scent of lavender water and laudanum lay heavy in the air.
Philip Cachet lay on a large tester bed, dwarfed by the mountains of pillows that had been arranged around his tall frame in an attempt to ease the flow of blood from his wound. Why had he not simply handed over his purse? For the hundredth time since Papa had staggered through the door clutching his chest, Serena cursed the cowardly footpad who had taken his valuables and now, it seemed, his life too. She was shocked to see how diminished her father looked, his shaven head bare and vulnerable without the wig he still insisted on wearing, despite it being
