The Last Days of a Rake

cutting edge of his charm, “with the lure of you, as fair a vision as I could ever imagine, welcoming me at the end of a long ride?” It had just occurred to him that even here in the country, in her home and with the more relaxed prospect of walks and rides and forest trails to explore, he could still lose the bet. Though his welcome had been warm, and Susan was still herself, gracious, sweet, smiling and lovely, she was just as well guarded in the country as she had been in town.
    “But I thought you would…stay away, I mean,” she said, as she looked down at her gloved hands clasped together. “After our wonderful time during the season—dancing, walking, sharing so much—you refused my papa’s invitation to come stay. I…I was worried that you thought I had designs on your freedom.”
    He glanced over at her then, as she slyly peeped at him from under the brim of her bonnet. She did indeed have such designs, he knew it in that instant, even as she looked hastily away, donning an expression of modest ingenuousness. She was scheming, no doubt with her papa’s aid, to entrap him. He hadn’t been sure before because she was delicate and never hinted at such an end, but that was just evidence of how capable she was in the bloodsport of husband-hunting. A veritable Diana with a cupid’s bow. His resolve hardened; not for him the marital leg hold. “My dear Miss Bailey, do you think I would ever do you the dishonor of believing you had designs?” he asked, deliberately obscure.
    She glanced swiftly over at him and examined his expression with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”
    “Such a plan would exhibit the utmost in indelicacy, would it not? Plotting to catch a husband, like any common little schemer. You would never stoop to such folly.”
    She was silent, her eyes wide, and he decided it was his opportunity to begin a little trickery of his own. He assumed an expression of musing, furrowing his brow. “And aside from that, how could I betroth myself to a lady with whom I have shared only conversation?” he asked.
    “I…I don’t understand,” she said, stumbling over her words.
    He heard the indecision in her voice and knew that, contrary to her words, she did understand him, even as she said she didn’t. It was the moment to press his advantage. “We men are weak creatures, Miss Bailey. We crave the fulfillment of our physical needs, even as the ladies in our lives crave the ethereal food of tenderness and adoration.”
    There was silence. He glanced toward the terrace and noted that the dragon was sleeping. Her knitting had dropped to the ground and her chin rested on her deep bosom. He took Susan’s arm and steered her toward a leafy bower beyond the hedges at the bottom of the knot garden. She did not protest.
    In the shade of an elm, he turned her to face him and looked down into her blue eyes. “Susan, I care for you,” he said, with no prevarication.
    Her breath caught, and she stared up into his eyes, her lips parted. “Oh, Mr. Lankin!” she whispered.
    “But I fear that we would marry without ever knowing how well-suited we are, one to another.”
    Marry. The word caught her undivided attention. She trembled and sagged toward him. She truly was the loveliest creature, all plump pink lips, rosy cheeks and delicious, cool blue eyes. He pushed her bonnet back and some stray tendrils of golden hair came loose from her coronet, lifted to frame her oval face by a breeze that infiltrated the bower. Lowering his face to hers, he touched her lips with his, reverently at first, but then with more urgent passion, until she cried out and struggled. He released her immediately and stepped back, doing his utmost not to show how moved he was by the sweet contours of her form and the breathless feel of her soft mouth against his.
    “Mr. Lankin!” she protested, touching her lips with one gloved hand.
    He gazed steadily at her—she stood staring back at him, her bosom heaving with emotion, tears trembling in her eyes—and acknowledged his own tenderness toward her, and something more, the yearning passion that held him captive, with desire in his loins and affection in his heart. There was a yawning precipice in front of him, a great, gaping maw, and the signpost at the lip said “Marriage”. Two words from him would have catapulted him into the abyss; if he had said, ‘Marry me’ in that moment, it would have all been over. He was an honorable man (was he not?), and would have