The Rake by Mary Jo Putney Read Free Book Online

obedient in those days. That was one of many things that had changed when he left Strickland.
    His steps led him unerringly to the estate office on the opposite side of the yard. The door opened silently under his hand, and he stepped inside. The room seemed dim after the bright afternoon sun. Behind the desk a man stood in front of a rack of books, searching for a particular volume. The fellow didn’t hear the door open, so Reggie had time to study him. A lean build and very erect posture, garbed in comfortable country garments—a brown coat, tan breeches, and well-worn boots.
    Reggie’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he realized with a shock that he was observing not a man, but a woman dressed in male clothing. His gaze ran appreciatively down her long, shapely legs even as he wondered who the devil she was. Another of the numerous Heralds, perhaps? Hard to imagine one of that conservative clan dressed so outrageously.
    He cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know where Mr. Weston is?”
    She jumped like a startled hare, then whirled to face him. The woman was the tallest he’d ever seen, with wide eyes and strong, regular features. A wealth of rich brown hair was coiled into a severe coronet that glowed in the afternoon sun and gave her a regal air that even surprise could not eliminate.
    Now that he could see her clearly, he couldn’t imagine how he’d mistaken her for a man. Despite her rigorously masculine clothes, she was quite splendidly curved in all the right places. In fact, the male garb made her look downright provocative.
    His interest quickened. Perhaps Dorset would prove more amusing than he had anticipated. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties and was obviously no shy virgin; her expression was forceful to a point just short of belligerence. On the other hand, she gave every evidence of being mute.
    He repeated, “Do you have any idea where the steward, Mr. Weston, is?”
    There was a moment of absolute silence. Then she drew a deep breath, which did fascinating things to her linen shirt, and said militantly, “ I’m Weston.”

Chapter 4
    Alys stared at the stranger, frozen with shock. Of all the ill luck ... ! She hadn’t expected Davenport to arrive so soon. She had no doubt whatsoever about the man’s identity—he’d entered the office with the easy confidence of ownership.
    She read the London papers regularly to monitor the world she had fled, and Reginald Davenport’s name was one that turned up regularly. He was a Corinthian, one of a sporting set known for racing, roistering, and raking. Now the man in front of her confirmed her worst fears.
    He might have been handsome if his aristocratic nose hadn’t been broken and reset somewhat less than straight. He must be around forty, his dark hair untouched with gray, but the long face marked by years of dissipation. Despite his obvious strength and athletic build, there was a sallow, unhealthy tint to the dark skin. The wages of sin, no doubt.
    Her only satisfaction was that Davenport was as shocked as she was. He said incredulously, “A. E. Weston, the steward of Strickland?”
    â€œYes.” Her one syllable was unforthcoming.
    A look of unholy amusement on his face, he sauntered across the room, his insolent glance scouring her, lingering on her breasts and hips. His eyes were striking, the light, clear blue of aquamarine, and he moved beautifully, with an intensely masculine swagger that reminded her of a stallion.
    He was also half a head taller than she, a fact she did not appreciate. She was used to looking down on men, or at least meeting them eye to eye. Having to look up was disconcerting.
    Her back to the bookcase, Alys stiffened as he approached, her face coloring hotly. His piercing gaze made her feel as if she were being stripped naked, a pursuit in which Davenport must be highly practiced.
    He halted no more than three feet away. His complexion was