The Ton's Most Notorious Rake

She vowed to stay clear of men...

But can she resist the ton’s most notorious rake?

Alone in the dirt, her ankle in agony, the last person Molly Morgan wants to come to her rescue is the handsome yet infuriating Beau Russington. Molly does her utmost to avoid scandalous rakes like Russ, but his dangerous allure shakes up her quiet country life. The sparks between them could be explosive, if Molly only dare surrender...

“Mallory pens a lovely, sweet second-chance romance.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Duke’s Secret Heir

“Passionate, moving and a positive gem.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Lady for Lord Randall

SARAH MALLORY was born in the West Country and now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire Moors. She has been writing for more than three decades—mainly historical romances set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, including the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award for The Dangerous Lord Darrington and for Beneath the Major’s Scars.

Also by Sarah Mallory

The Scarlet Gown

Never Trust a Rebel

A Lady for Lord Randall

The Duke’s Secret Heir

Pursued for the Viscount’s Vengeance

The Infamous Arrandales miniseries

The Chaperon’s Seduction

Temptation of a Governess

Return of the Runaway

The Outcast’s Redemption

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Ton’s Most Notorious Rake

Sarah Mallory

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07348-6

THE TON’S MOST NOTORIOUS RAKE

© 2018 Sarah Mallory

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For TGH,

as we stand on the edge of another great adventure.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Extract

Chapter One

‘Molly! Molly!’

She held her breath, balanced in her leafy eyrie and peeping down at the path below her. Edwin would never think to look up into a tree. Her brother did not think girls could climb trees. He was four years older and at school now and he did not think girls could do anything. True, her skirts had been a hindrance in scrambling up into the branches and Mama would be sure to scold her when she saw the tear, and Papa might beat her for it, too, and make her learn another tract from the Scriptures, but it would be worth it. She would wait until her brother had passed beneath her, then jump down behind him. That would give him a scare.

‘Molly, where are you?’

‘Where the devil are you?’

The voice had changed. It was no longer Edwin and suddenly she was no longer six years old and hiding in a tree. She was in a dark place, bruised and bleeding, and waiting for the next blow.

‘Molly. Molly!’

It was a dream. Only a dream. She shook off the fear and panic, clinging to the fact that it was her brother’s voice dragging her from sleep. She opened her eyes, but remained still for a moment to gather her thoughts. She was safe here. It was the vicarage garden and she was lying on a rug beneath the shady branches of the beech tree.

‘So there you are, sleepyhead.’

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. ‘I beg your pardon, Edwin. I came out here to do some sketching and I must have fallen asleep.’

‘Well, if you will go off at the crack of dawn to help out at Prospect House.’ He threw himself down beside her on the rug, grinning at her and looking far more like the errant elder brother she had grown up with than the sober Reverend Edwin Frayne, vicar of the parish. ‘There is no need for you to visit more than once a week, you know. Nancy and Fleur are very capable of running the place.’

‘But I like to help when I can and today is market day when they sell the surplus from the dairy and the kitchen garden. There is always so much for them to do to pack up the dog cart, deciding on a price for the eggs and butter, and—’

He threw up a hand, laughing. ‘Enough, enough, Molly. You do not need to convince me. You are a grown woman and may do as you please.’

‘I know they could cope without me,’ she conceded, smiling. ‘However, today will be the last of those early mornings. With the days growing shorter I shall go to the house on a Tuesday. We will prepare all we can in advance so that Fleur and the others have only to pack up the cart in the morning.’

‘If you must.’

She reached for his hand. ‘I like to do it, Edwin. I like to help. It makes me feel necessary.’

‘You are very necessary, my dear. You are necessary to my comfort, keeping house for me here.’

She took his hand and squeezed it, wanting to say how grateful she was that he had taken her in when she was so suddenly widowed, but the memories that stirred up brought an unwelcome lump to her throat and she did not wish to embarrass either of them with her tears, so she pinned on a bright smile and asked him where he had been.

‘I called upon our new neighbours at Newlands.’

‘Oh.’

Edwin spread his hands, ‘I could not ignore them, Molly, you must see that. And I admit I was pleasantly surprised. Sir Gerald is really most gentleman-like. He was most accommodating.’

‘One would expect him to be, to a man of the cloth.’ Molly bit her lip. ‘I beg your pardon, Edwin, I know one should never listen to gossip, but from everything I have heard, Sir Gerald Kilburn and his friends are everything I most despise...’

She tailed off and Edwin looked at her with some amusement.

‘You must learn not to attach too much importance to the gossip our sister writes to you. She has inherited our father’s abhorrence of anything frivolous. Sir Gerald and his guests all seemed very pleasant. He introduced me to his sister, too. Miss Kilburn is to keep house for him here. She has with her an elderly lady who is her companion. Their presence and that of other ladies suggests this is not a party of rakish bucks intent upon setting the neighbourhood by the ears.’

‘Not all of them, perhaps,’ said Molly darkly. ‘But Louisa wrote to warn me that one of the party is sure to be Sir Gerald’s oldest and closest friend, Charles Russington. Even you will have heard of his reputation, Edwin. Louisa says the gossip about the man is no exaggeration. He is the most attractive man imaginable and no lady in town is safe.’

‘If the fellow is so attractive, perhaps it is he who is not safe from the ladies.’

‘Edwin!’

‘I beg your pardon, I did not mean to be flippant, but I think you are making too much of this. Yes, I have certainly heard of Beau Russington, but I did not see him today.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘If the fellow is as rakish as they say, then perhaps he is coming into the country for a rest! No, no, do not rip up at me for that, my dear. Forgive me, but I think you are too quick to judge. It is our Christian duty to give these people the benefit of the doubt, at least until we are a little better acquainted with them. And we shall soon know what our neighbours think of the newcomers. Sir Gerald told me they plan to attend Friday’s assembly at the King’s Head. His party comprises five ladies, excluding the elderly companion, and six gentlemen, so just think how that will liven things up!’

Molly was still digesting this news when Edwin coughed.

‘I thought we might go this time. Just so that you might meet the Newlands party, you understand. Miss Agnes Kilburn is a quiet, well-mannered young lady, about your age, and your situations are quite similar. I think you might get on very well.’

Molly said nothing, but her doubts must have been plain in her face, for Edwin said earnestly, ‘I really should like you to meet her, my dear.’

She narrowed her eyes, a sudden smile tugging at her mouth. ‘Why, Edwin, I do believe you are blushing. Have you taken a liking to Miss Kilburn?’

‘No, no, of course not, we have only met the once.’ His ears had turned quite red, which only increased Molly’s suspicions. He said, ‘I am merely concerned that we do not appear unfriendly. And I thought you would prefer that to my inviting them here.’

‘There is that,’ she agreed. ‘Very well, we shall go. I admit my interest has been piqued. In meeting Miss Kilburn, at least.’

‘Molly.’ Edwin tried to look stern but failed miserably. ‘I will not have you making Miss Kilburn feel awkward.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Molly, her grey eyes twinkling. ‘I shall be the very soul of discretion!’

* * *

Molly decided that if she was going to attend the assembly then she would need some new gloves, since she had noticed at their last outing that her old ones were looking decidedly shabby. Thus, on the morning of the assembly, she sallied forth to the high street to make her purchases. Hebden’s was by far the most popular shop for the ladies of Compton Parva. The business had begun as a haberdasher, selling everything one might require for sewing such as ribbons, thread and needles, but as the number of families in the area increased, the business had expanded to include such necessary items as ladies’ bonnets, scarves, reticules, stockings and gloves. The shop was now run by Miss Hebden, who had inherited the business from her parents, and when she saw Molly, she came immediately to serve her.

‘Ah, Mrs Morgan, good day to you,’ she greeted Molly with her usual cheerful smile. ‘How may I help you today?’

‘I need a pair of white gloves, but I can wait, if you have other customers.’

‘No, no, those ladies are shopping together and Clara is looking after them very nicely. She does not need me always looking over her shoulder.’

‘She has settled in well, then?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed, very well. She is a quick learner and not afraid to ask if there’s something she don’t know.’ She turned slightly away from her assistant and lowered her voice. ‘I admit I was a little reluctant, when you first suggested I should take her on, but she’s a good girl, very polite, and the customers like her, which is important.’

Molly smiled. ‘I am very glad.’

‘Yes,’ Miss Hebden continued. ‘And she’s company, too. In fact, I have grown very fond of her.’ She hesitated, then said in a rush, ‘I think what you are doing at Prospect House is a very fine thing, Mrs Morgan, taking in those poor girls and giving them a second chance. What Clara has told me about her last employer, trying to take advantage of the poor maid and then turning her off without a character when she refused—well, it makes my blood boil, so it does. And him a gentleman, too, so she says. There’s some wicked folks in this world, Mrs Morgan, and that’s a fact.’ For a moment, Miss Hebden’s countenance was unusually solemn, then she gave herself a little shake and smiled. ‘But I mustn’t keep you talking all day, ma’am. It’s white gloves you want, isn’t it? Now, then, let me see... Yes, here we are. You are in luck, it is the very last pair. We’ve had quite a run on them this week and on ribbons, too. Everyone wants to look their best for tonight’s assembly, I shouldn’t wonder. I understand the new owner of Newlands intends to be there, with his friends, so everyone will be out to impress them.’

Molly stifled the urge to say that she did not wish to impress anyone. More customers came into the shop at that moment, so she paid for her gloves and left. She felt a little spurt of indignation that the arrival of a fashionable gentleman and his friends could arouse such interest in the town. Well, she for one would not give them another thought.

Alas for such hopes. Molly had not gone a hundred yards when she met up with Mrs Birch and Lady Currick, two highly respected matrons of Compton Parva. Since each of them had a daughter of marriageable age, Molly was not surprised when they told her they would be attending that evening’s assembly.

‘All of Compton Parva will be there,’ remarked Mrs Birch, nodding sagely. ‘Everyone is agog to see the new owner of Newlands. Have you met him yet, Mrs Morgan? No? Ah, then we have the advantage of you.’

‘Yes,’ averred Lady Currick, interrupting her friend. ‘Sir William lost no time in visiting Newlands and invited them all to join my little card party last night. Was there ever such a man! Not a word to me until it was too late. I asked him how he thought I would accommodate another eleven guests, which, of course, he could not answer. But somehow I managed to squeeze in another table and it passed off very pleasantly, did it not, Mrs Birch? What a pity you were not able to join us, Mrs Morgan, for you could then have met the whole party.’

‘I vow I was a little in awe of them to begin with,’ said Mrs Birch, ‘but I needn’t have worried, they were all so pleasant and obliging. Sir Gerald is a most engaging young man, very genial and even-tempered, despite his carrot-coloured hair! And wait until you see the ladies’ gowns, Mrs Morgan. London fashions, one can tell at a glance.’

Molly listened in good-humoured silence while the ladies went into raptures over the cut and quality of the various gowns and giggled like schoolgirls over the handsome gentlemen, saving an especial mention for Beau Russington.

‘Oh, now there is a handsome gentleman,’ said Lady Currick, sighing. ‘One can quite understand why ladies are constantly throwing themselves at him. He is so very tall and with such an air of fashion about him!’

‘And those eyes, ma’am.’ Mrs Birch sighed gustily. ‘So dark and intense, and that way he has of fixing his gaze upon one, as if you were the only person in the room. La, I think if I were not a happily married woman I might succumb to the beau myself!’

‘Indeed, I think you are right, my dear, I have always had a soft spot for a rake, even one as notorious as Beau Russington.’ Lady Currick gave another little giggle before becoming serious. ‘But with so many personable young men in town, and all of them renowned for being a little fast, we must be sure the girls are properly chaperoned. No more than two dances, if any one of these gentlemen should ask them to stand up.’

Molly stared at them. ‘You acknowledge the gentlemen to be libertines, yet you will allow your daughters to dance with them?’

‘Why, of course, my dear, it would be a great honour to stand up with a fashionable gentleman. And I have no worries that they might attract the gentlemen’s attention beyond the dance, for I think Mrs Birch will agree with me that our girls cannot hold a candle to the fine ladies staying at Newlands. But you will see for yourself, Mrs Morgan, if you are coming to the ball this evening.’

The ladies strolled off and Molly went on her way, wondering if it was too late to cry off from tonight’s assembly, but it was not really to be considered. She would be obliged to meet the Newlands party at some point, so it would be best to get it over.

* * *

It was with the feeling of one doing an onerous duty that Molly went upstairs to change later that evening. She had no intention of dancing at the assembly and she chose to wear her grey satin gown with a demitrain, but when she tried to add a lace cap to the ensemble, Edwin protested, saying it made her look like a dowd.

‘Nonsense, it is perfectly proper for a widow of my age.’

‘Anyone would think you were forty rather than four-and-twenty,’ retorted Edwin. He added, ‘Covering your head like that is the sort of thing Father would have approved. He was ever the puritan.’

That made her laugh. ‘That is certainly a strong inducement to me to remove it.’

‘Which is my intention, little sister! Now, go and take that thing off.’

Molly capitulated, realising that her brother was very much displeased, and ten minutes later, she presented herself in the drawing room again, her unruly dark curls almost tamed by a bandeau of white ribbon.

* * *

The public entrance to the King’s Head assembly rooms was at the top of a flight of stairs, leading up from the yard. When Molly and Edwin arrived, the Newlands party were about to go in, and Edwin would have hurried Molly up the stairs to meet them, but she hung back.

‘There can be no rush, Edwin, and I would like to take off my cloak and tidy myself first. Even that may take some time, though; I so rarely come to these dances that I can already see several of our acquaintances waiting to speak to me.’

‘Very well, go and talk to your friends, my dear, and I shall meet you in the ballroom.’

Molly happily sent him on his way and went off to the cloakroom to change into her dancing shoes. She tried not to dawdle, acknowledging her reluctance to meet Sir Gerald Kilburn and his guests. The presence of a party of fashionable gentlemen and ladies in Compton Parva was bound to cause a flutter and, while the young ladies present this evening had the advantage of their parents’ protection, her girls, as Molly called the inhabitants of Prospect House, were very vulnerable.

Molly had set up Prospect House as a refuge for young women who had lost their reputation and had nowhere to call home. Some were of humble birth, but many were young ladies who had been cast on to the streets and left with no means of supporting themselves. Molly provided them with food and shelter, and in return, her ‘girls’ helped out in the house and on the farm attached to it. Molly tried to find them suitable work and move them on, but she knew there would always be more destitute young women to take their place.

Molly had worked hard to overcome the doubts and prejudice of the townspeople, but she knew that such a house would attract the attention of rakes and libertines, who would see its inhabitants as fair game. Molly was afraid that some of her younger charges were still innocent and naive enough to succumb to the blandishments of a personable man and that could have catastrophic consequences, not only for the young woman, but also for the refuge itself. In the five years since she had set it up, Prospect House had become self-supporting, but its success relied upon the continuing goodwill of the local townspeople.

She was thus not inclined to look favourably upon the newcomers, and when she went into the ballroom and saw her brother chatting away in the friendliest style to a group of fashionably dressed strangers, she did not approach him. Surmising this must be the party from Newlands, Molly moved to a spot at the side of the room and took the opportunity to observe them.

Sir Gerald was soon identified, a stocky young man with a cheerful, open countenance and a shock of red hair. Molly guessed it was his sister standing beside him. The likeness between the two was very marked, although Agnes’s hair was more golden than red, and in repose, her countenance was more serious. Her glance quickly surveyed the rest of the party. She had no doubt the local ladies would be taking note of every detail of the gowns, from the uncommonly short sleeves of one lady’s blossom-coloured crape to the deep frill of Vandyke lace around the bottom of Miss Kilburn’s gossamer silk. By contrast, the gentlemen’s fashions appeared to be very much the same—dark coats with lighter small clothes and pale waistcoats—but Molly was obliged to admit that she was no expert on the finer points of male fashion.

There was one figure, however, who stood out from the rest of the gentlemen. It was not merely his height, but a certain flamboyance in his appearance. His improbably black hair was pomaded to a high gloss and brushed forward to frame his face with several artistic curls. His countenance was handsome, in a florid sort of way, with thick dark brows and lashes that Molly thought suspiciously dark. His lips, too, appeared unnaturally red, even from this distance. The points of his collar hid most of his cheeks and the folds of his cravat frothed around his neck. His black tailcoat was so broad across the back and nipped in at the waist that she suspected the shoulders were padded. He was gesticulating elaborately as he talked and the ladies around him appeared to be hanging on to his every word. Molly’s lip curled in scorn.

‘So that is Beau Russington.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

The startled voice at her shoulder made her look around. A tall gentleman in a plain blue coat was regarding her. She did not know him, but recalled seeing him talking to Mr Fetherpen, the bookseller, when she came in.

‘Oh, dear, I did not mean to speak aloud.’ She smiled an apology. ‘The gentleman over there, holding forth to the group standing before the mirror. He has been described to me as an—’ She stopped herself from saying an infamous rake. That would be most impolite, and for all she knew the man at her side might well be one of the Newlands party. ‘As a leader of fashion,’ she ended lamely. She saw the amused look on the stranger’s face and added quickly, ‘That is what the epithet beau denotes, does it not?’

‘It does indeed, ma’am.’ The stranger looked across the room. ‘You refer to the exquisite in the garish waistcoat, I presume?’

‘Yes.’

‘That fribble,’ he said, a note of contempt in his voice. ‘That painted fop.’

‘Yes,’ said Molly, glad to discover he shared her opinion.

‘That is not Beau Russington, madam. It is Sir Joseph Aikers.’

‘Not?’ She looked at the stranger in surprise.