The Rake Read Online Free PDF Page B

and Jonathan
Flemming sat down to haggle over the fine points of the settlement.
They were still ensconced in the parlor, discussing the nuptials,
when the party returned from their picnic.
    Phoebe uttered a shriek of delight when her
mother announced Demi’s engagement and flew across the room to
congratulate Demi, evidencing every appearance of genuine
excitement. Before Demi knew it, she was surrounding by Phoebe and
her friends, chattering so rapidly and excitedly they reminded her
far more of a gaggle of geese than a half dozen young women. She
accepted their excitement and congratulations, wondering if they
were truly as happy for her as they appeared to be, simply excited
that someone was getting married in general, or, cynically, if they
were thrilled because they no longer had to concern themselves that
Jonathan Flemming might cast his handkerchief in their
direction.
    She finally decided that it was more than
likely the second of the two possibilities. They were Phoebe’s
friends, not hers. If they had been her friends, they would have
been commiserating with her, not congratulating her, or possibly
the last of the three conjectures. They were none of them in any
danger of Mr. Flemming’s attentions, though. He was of good family,
and apparently well enough off, but he was obviously also aware
that he was not considered a great prize on the marriage mart and
Phoebe and her friends were above his touch.
    The men who’d accompanied the party promptly
scattered at the announcement, like a flock of birds startled by
the huntsman’s gun, disappearing almost before anyone was aware of
their intentions. The moment Phoebe and her friends ebbed away,
gathering in an excited little knot to pry the particulars from
Alma Moreland and Mr. Flemming, Demi rose and headed toward the
door.
    She’d almost made good her escape when
Phoebe stopped her. “You are not leaving when we are right in the
middle of planning the wedding?”
    Demi smiled wanly. “I feel certain that I
can leave it in Aunt Alma and Mr. Flemming’s capable hands.”
    Alma Moreland sent her a narrow eyed glare,
but for once Demi found she simply didn’t care. Jonathan Flemming
was another matter. She didn’t particularly like the look he sent
her and forced another smile. “In any case, I don’t feel at all
well and see no reason to expose everyone if I should be coming
down with something.”
    As she’d hoped, that comment was sufficient
to quiet even Mr. Flemming’s objections to her departure. She left
amid instructions, well wishes, and suggestions, moving down the
hallway toward the stairs. She’d already reached the foot of the
stairs when it dawned upon her that her aunt would almost certainly
be up to check on her before very long, to ascertain whether she’d
lied or not.
    Changing directions, she made her way
through the study and out onto the verandah that ran nearly the
width of the manor in back. The sun was dipping near the tops of
the distant trees and already the air was cool. She shivered,
chaffing her arms and wishing she’d thought to grab a shawl. As
tempting as the thought was of returning for one, she dismissed it.
She’d escaped and she wasn’t about to be caught merely because she
couldn’t bear a little discomfort.
    A faint whiff of something burning tickled
at her nostrils and she looked around to discover its source. Lord
Wyndham was lounging against the wall near the balustrade that ran
round the verandah, smoking a cheroot. Nodding, she hurried down
the steps and crossed the garden, walking as briskly as her skirts
allowed, ladylike be damned.
    She had no destination in mind, but as she
reached the edge of the garden, she gathered her skirts in her
hands and, lifting them out of her way, darted across the meadow.
She had not run in years, not since she was a little girl and
certainly not since she’d begun to wear a corset. She discovered
very quickly that the skirts were not the only impediment to
putting as much