The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2(220)
But Rosalie had seemed so genuine. He ought to be glad he hadn't married her, and been forced to live through the hell Stanton had been subjected to ever since their wedding day. Blake had had a lucky escape from Rosalie in the long run…
Yet it still hurt, no matter what Blake had done to assuage the pain. He knew he was deemed good–looking by many women, but he'd always been devout, and above all careful. Respectful of women, and determined to avoid scandal.
Two years after Rosalie's betrayal, he had been almost desperate for passionate oblivion when he'd met drab widow Leonore Ross.
Eager to relieve himself of his virginity by that stage, he had accepted her worldly arrangement and hospitality, but little else. Blake had never suffered under any illusion that they cared about each other.
Leonore was plain, comfortable, witty, a great observer of people. She had listened with seeming sympathy to the idealistic young doctor rant on about the plight of the poor.
Then there had been the war, and he had gone off to serve gladly, occasionally getting home for a few days' leave from his endless duties.
He smiled grimly. He could count on his finger the number of times he had succumbed to temptation, and still had a few to spare. Even when he had, they had spent far more time talking than….
But he had not seen Leonore in months now. He had been so busy.
No, that was not true either, he admitted, gazing out the window at the streaks of ragged lightning. He shivered at the violent boom of thunder overhead that followed the flash.
Blake shifted in his seat to try to anchor himself more firmly in the rocking coach. He felt a surge of impatience with himself for letting things drag on as they had. He knew he ought to go see Leonore once more to tell her it was truly over. That there was no point in her hoping he might one day return. That he refused to continue what he never should have started in the first place.
It had been unworthy of him, and she ought to have prized her own virtue more highly. He would give her some gifts and the deed to her house so she would never want for anything. Anything except a loving husband, that is, but that was impossible for him, and they both knew it.
Blake loathed rakes, hated himself for his needs. Sometimes he wondered if he ought not to just find himself a quiet young spinster from a respectable religious family, and give her a good home. Give himself an outlet for his longings for care and companionship. Even though he was incapable of loving again, surely that didn't have to condemn him to loneliness for the rest of his life?
The trouble was one of trust. He had never met a woman who had ever inspired him with absolute confidence in her veracity. And where women were dishonest, men were worse: dishonest, and seducers.
He sighed, and gathered up his writing implements once more to resume his work. His breath was like a ghost on the wind in the drafty carriage as the demonic winter storm raged outside.
There was no point in longing for wedded bliss given his sorry past. Love was a rare gift for the fortunate, or the foolish. He was neither. Still, how he wished…
He pulled himself up short at that thought. "Romantic nonsense," he grumbled aloud.
It had no doubt prompted by Peter's hare-brained notion to thrust his step-sister upon Blake. It had simply filled his head with vauge longings for a family, domesticity.
Peter was a good sort, but he must have been desperate to choose a confirmed bachelor like him to tend to the little girl he recalled as being a dark-haired, wide-eyed child as pretty as a porcelain doll.
Blake laughed bitterly as he flicked through the quick letter to the Times he was working on, all about the need for public sanitation, trying to lose himself in the work which always proved such a solace despite its grimness at times.
He was in the middle of crossing out a couple of words in his letter when he heard a shout from John the driver.
"Trouble up ahead, sir! Whoa! Whoa!"
He dropped his lap desk and quill on the seat and tugged the window sash. "What sort of trouble?" he called.
Then he saw it for himself. A large coach, the London mail one judging from its size, had tumbled right over on its side in the middle of the road.
CHAPTER THREE
"Oh, Lord," Blake groaned as he stared at the sight of the wrecked coach amid the swirling snow.
He dragged on his coat and scarf at once, and reached for his medical bag.
He leapt out of his carriage and ran over to the coach. He managed to climb up on top and peer in.
There were only two passengers, a man and a woman. He had no idea how badly injured they were. He called to them, but received no reply.
He climbed down again and rushed back to his carriage for supplies. "John, you're going to have to leave me here. Ride like the clappers to the next village to get some help," he called up to him as he fastened up his coat and swathed himself in his scarf against the snow.