The Last Days of a Rake Read Online Free PDF Page A

girls do it. And like it.”
    He could not see her face in the dark cottage, but her voice had an hysterical edge as she said, “Many girls? Edgar, am I just one of a hundred?”
    “Not a hundred. Don’t be ridiculous,” he said sharply.
    “I’m not being ridiculous. That was…that was torture! You’re wicked to do such a hideous thing, and I don’t believe that other girls do it.” She sobbed again then, wailing louder, the sound echoing in the tiny folly.
    He clapped his hands over his ears, unable to bear it another moment, and strode out of the cottage, back down to the house. He had abused Susan, the hospitality of her family and the trust among them, he recognized, but it was not his fault. Blame was to be laid at the feet of all those willing gamblers who had bet he would not succeed.
    Though the first experience of sexual congress is often not pleasant for a woman, Lankin didn’t know that, never having been a lady’s first lover. Had he done it wrong, he wondered, long into the sleepless night, as he tossed and turned on his bed? Or perhaps Susan was just not capable of pleasure, unlike other girls he had been with, who all assured him he was a wonderful lover. Marriage, of course, ensures that a gentleman and lady, as husband and wife, will keep doing the deed, and so improve their relationship, eventually. In this case, he had no incentive to hope he could make her like it another time. He was left with the same sense as one who has eaten something tainted. His lip curled back in disgust and he was revolted by the memory.
    The next morning, she did not come down to breakfast. He had intended to leave, for the wager was won and he needed to return to London to claim his winnings, but some nagging consideration for Susan Bailey’s wellbeing made him stay, at least until he could reassure himself that she was all right.
    She appeared in the middle of the afternoon, dark circles under her eyes and a reproachful expression on her face. That evening, as they sat listening to another house guest playing the piano, she whispered to him, “How could you leave me, Edgar, to make my way back to the house alone? Weren’t you worried for me?”
    “Why would I be? You were safe enough.”
    She didn’t answer, and evidently caught the resentment in his tone. She calmed her expression and when she turned, it was with a softer look. “Edgar, when shall you speak to father?”
    He misunderstood her. “Speak to your father? I barely know the man. And I don’t think he particularly likes me.”
    “But he will expect it!” she said.
    It struck him, then, what she meant. She expected that he would ask her father for her hand in marriage. Of course she did. It was what the night before was supposed to be about, after all. For a moment he was speechless, but then he said, “I don’t wish to rush things, my dearest.”
    Her cheeks paled as she stared at him. If she went on like that, her chaperone, Lady Stoddart, would notice and know something was amiss.
    “Tomorrow,” he said quickly, glancing around the room. The chaperone was, fortunately, a music lover and was tapping out the time with her cane and smiling at the young performer.
    Susan sighed and smiled. “All right. Tomorrow. Would you…would you like to meet me again tonight in the cottage? Not for…you know,” she said, blushing, “but just to talk?”
    “No,” he said. “No, uh, let us not make anyone suspicious.”
    He was gone before first light, the next morning. Over the next few months, he was able to forget about her, he thought. But in the fall of that celebratory year, he heard through Felix Bellwether that she was back in London. Curiosity tickled at him like an incipient itch, and he slipped into an event that she was meant to attend.
    It was a recital, where some wealthy gentleman’s baseborn brat was to prove how accomplished he was so suitable funding could be provided for a European tour. As the violin scratched over taut strings,