The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2(219)

He rubbed the back of his aching neck, his fingers tangling in his lightly wavy ebony hair. He wondered again at his decision to leave Town to visit Michael Avenel for Christmas. There was so much to do in his practice already.



Even worse, now that his old college friend Peter Davison had placed upon Blake the onerous responsibility of being guardian to his young moppet of a sister, Arabella, his time would hardly be his own.



Blake sighed heavily and snuggled under one of the plaid rugs as a chill seemed to settle over him. He let the rocking motions of the coach soothe him, lull him into a reverie. He might be irritated with Peter's presumption, but it was hardly fair to blame him or the child for Peter being sent to India at such short notice.



Blake had barely had time to help Peter pack and kit him out with medicines and provisions for the six-month voyage before it had been time for Blake's carriage to take him to the London docks.



As for visiting Michael, it was the least Blake could do. His oldest friend was still despondent after being paralyzed during the final battle at Toulouse in April. In Michael's last letter it had sounded like he could do with some cheering up. There was no sense in them both being alone for the holidays. After all, it wasn't as if Blake had planned to spend them with anyone.



Peter had said he and the solicitors had taken care of all the arrangements, and that little Arabella wouldn't be coming to Blake's home in London until January.



Blake thought of traveling further past Michael's house, down into Somerset to see her, but had told himself not to be so officious. She had a nanny and house full of servants to look after her.



He would go see Michael, and perhaps some of their other so-called Rakehell friends, all relatively recently married. At least none of their set of friends here in England would be as alone for Christmas as Peter would be on board ship.



Blake hated to leave the clinic, but he had just taken on another of their radical group, Antony Herriot, to assist there. He was several years younger and only newly fully qualified, but he was intelligent, eager, and sensible. Sooner or later, Blake would have to learn to delegate and trust him.



Sarah Deveril, another staunch Radical, and the primary organizer for the charitable clinic, had also been successful in encouraging some of the more liberal Society matrons to give a hand over the Christmas season. They would be donating time, food, clothes, and medicines. The clinic really could do without Blake for a week.



At the thought of Sarah, he once again felt mild shock as well as delight. It had been wonderful if surprising news about her recent marriage to another of the Rakehells in August, with the baby due in February. Well, she was in love. She had fallen head over heels for a man who had not even known his own last name, whom she had termed her cousin Alexander for the sake of avoiding scandal, and lived with until she had found out some hints as to his true identity.



Blake had been stunned at their story, but pleased all the same. He'd known Alexander at Oxford. He had been a French émigré, a solid, principled man. He'd suffered a great deal as a result of his loss of memory and injuries, and had obviously been through hell during the war, in which he had acted as a translator and spy for the British forces.



Alexander, the rightful Earl of Ferncliffe, still wasn't one hundred percent well, with definite gaps in his memory. Blake wondered how Sarah was going to manage a new baby in addition to everything else. But the couple adored each other and were inseparable. Love would find a way. Their road had been fraught with pitfalls, but he envied them both their joy.



He sighed deeply. Another dashing Rakehell happily married. Another of his friends about to have a child. Blake stared through the window, his mood now as gloomy as the winter weather outside.



He felt as though he were in a sort of limbo. That he had been ever since his fiancée Rosalie had broken off their engagement and married Robert Stanton almost eight years ago.



Stanton was a decent man, and really had not known of Rosalie's previous commitment. Blake blamed her, heartless coquette that she was, with an eye only for what she could get from a man, not give.



At the time, Stanton had been in line for a peerage. Therefore Stanton had been a far better bet as a spouse than a mere medical man like Blake. But it had been heart-rending to see Rosalie's cold smile of triumph when she had walked out the door only a few days before they were supposed to have wed.



Blake had been so stunned and devastated that he had not known what to do with himself. The one time he had ever dared to trust love, and he had got it all so wrong.



His father's example should have taught him. Women were frail, fickle, not to be trusted….