Read Online This Rake of Mine by Elizabeth Boyle - Free Book Online Page A

Park? She glanced once more at Felicity and her meticulously kept
Chronicles
, and the answer bore down on her like a runaway mail coach.
    Gads, they hadn't come down here thinking one of them would make a match with this infamous rake? Miranda's stomach rolled.
    Lord John and one of these girls? Why, it was preposterous!
    Not that she wouldn't put it past their scandalous host to take advantage of an innocent young lady, despite his assertions about wanting to be left alone, especially if he discovered the fortunes these young girls would bring to a marriage.
    Thistleton Park obviously wasn't prosperous enough to keep him in his usual extravagant Town style, so the lure of a rich dowry to finance a return to London in the lavish and misspent fashion he preferred might be enough to tempt him from whatever dark region of the house he'd retreated to.
    That thought sent a broadside of panic through her.
    Miranda shot to her feet and into action. "We've imposed on Lord John's hospitality long enough," she announced. "Ladies, let us get our things packed." Ignoring Philippa's protest over her unfinished breakfast, she added a definitive, "
Now
."
    The girls knew better than to lodge any further protests, but still, they rose reluctantly from the feast before them and their obviously unfinished task—whatever that was.
    Pippin, not one to waste a meal, pocketed a roll or two and looked to be considering whether a couple of sausages would fit as well.
    While Miranda knew she should rebuke her, at this point she didn't want to risk a mutiny.
    She was in enemy territory with three rake-mad girls. The only course was to hie them out of Thistleton Park as quickly as she could.
    Get them well away from Lord John Tremont. A pirate of hearts in ways that these three ladies should never discover.
    As she had only too late.
Chapter 3
    « ^ »
     
    J ack stormed into his bedchamber and threw off his sodden clothes. He had every intention of getting what he considered his due: some well-needed rest. Climbing into the large bed, he pulled the coverlet over his head and willed himself to go to sleep.
    But in spite of the fact that he had been up all night, sleep eluded him, and he knew exactly what the cause of his unrest was.
    Miss Porter and her charges
. How the devil could a man get any peace knowing there was a pack of females in his house?
    Truly he'd been quite magnanimous in giving them an hour to depart, but even that seemed foolhardy as he lay in his bed and conjured up a thousand and one ways his unwanted guests could ruin his life.
    Especially that tart-tongued Miss Porter.
    He rolled over and closed his eyes. He didn't like admitting it, but ever since he'd bumped into her at Miss Emery's, the redheaded minx and her mysterious button had haunted his thoughts.
    Jack wanted to imagine that it was her red hair that had captivated his lonely imagination, for he'd always had a weakness for auburn-haired beauties, but there was something else about her… the way she seemed so tightly wound… the wary light in her eyes… that made him want to unravel her that much more…
    Perhaps he did need to get up to Town, as Temple was always urging him to do. Get this restless need out of his blood in some fancy brothel. But not even that enticed him, for to go to Town…
    Jack shook his head. He'd burned far too many bridges in London to find respite there. No, for better or worse, his life was here at Thistleton Park.
    His Aunt Josephine had seen to that.
     
    London
    Four years earlier
     
    Rap! Rap! Rap!
    The hideous pounding in Jack's head was, he knew, the harbinger of a hangover that threatened to equal the three days of drinking and gambling that had come before. Having been on one of his infamous benders, Lord Jack Tremont had passed out only hours earlier and was certainly in no mood to be disturbed.
    Besides, for all he could remember, he had won the night before, so there shouldn't be anyone at the door to collect on vowels or issue a