The Rake's Handbook by Sally Orr Read Free Book Online

he longed for the brilliant one. He glanced toward the fire but discreetly kept his attention upon her, trying to discover if time and distance away from John’s suffering had cured her eccentricities.
    â€œI know other mothers whose sons…” She dropped her needlework and tugged on the lock of hair escaping her cap. “A mother should stay with her ill son, not flee to the countryside like a coward, shouldn’t she?”
    His jaw tightened. She spoke of painful feelings, a subject he refused to openly discuss. “Please, let’s not speak of it.”
    â€œYes. I cannot bear it. Not a word, not a whisper. Too much…”
    Ross could not bear it either. His exaggerated reputation as a rake, most likely created by boredom in London’s clubs, coupled with a reckless moment where his behavior reinforced that reputation, had led to his brother’s death. No amount of nursing on her part could have saved John. Now both he and his mother were living a fallacy—both pretending they would recover—both hearts broken. For all his supposed expertise with females, in reality he knew very little. Perhaps her desired furniture or grandchildren would preserve her sanity. For him, the promise of iron and steam engines to build England’s future was the only thought keeping him sane. He rose from his chair and stood behind her. He hugged her, then let his cheek rest upon the top of her head. “We’ll never mention this again. Period.”
    A taut silence ruled, and the room filled with an unspoken pain that hung in the air.
    Once her breathing calmed, he strode over to the console table, poured himself a brandy, and returned to his chair. He peered at the amber liquid dancing from the reflected light, took a long gulp, and savored the brandy’s trail of fire down his throat. Meanwhile, the stillness lingered, except for the ticking of the mantel clock or a random hiss from the coals in the fireplace.
    His mother’s expression, which had been light for most of the evening, remained blank.
    He needed to say something to divert her thoughts from dwelling upon her grief. He planned to tell her his good news at the end of the week, but he’d rouse her from low spirits by telling her tonight. He expected her reaction to be a happy one, so he watched for her smile. “I have news for you. I’ve started negotiations with Charles Allardyce, the major contributor of the funds for our foundry. Next month he will visit Blackwell with several of his daughters. You know the family.” He inhaled deeply. “It is not settled yet, but I plan to wed his daughter, Lucy, if we suit.”
    â€œMarriage?” Her face lit up with the famous family smile. “Grandchildren!” She clapped her hands. “I can hardly wait—boys—I so hope they are boys. I’m not quite sure how to spoil girls. Do you know how to spoil—don’t answer. Why didn’t you write me about your betrothal earlier?” She picked up her needlework then immediately put it back down.
    He grinned, his victory complete with her smile. “I wanted to witness your surprise. But I’m not betrothed yet. Don’t make plans for the wedding breakfast anytime soon.” He hooked his forefinger under his tight collar and tugged it loose.
    â€œDo you love Lucy?” Her insistent tone indicated every detail of the courtship was important to her, and she expected answers.
    â€œAllardyce has given our investment group funds for the initial construction. Better yet, his share of the profits will only amount to five percent per year. He conceded these favorable terms upon my agreement to wed Lucy. With ten daughters, six still at home, his goals are not solely profit.”
    Her smile faded. “Ross,” she whispered, “what about love?”
    With his hands clutched behind his back, he started to pace before her. “Don’t ask for the impossible. I will