The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2(277)

He simply kissed her brow and put his arm around her as they stepped out into the night. There was nothing lover-like about it, but it sent a clear message to the remaining audience: their little scheme hadn't worked.



Her cousins seethed. Blake had not been discredited, Alistair Grant had closed ranks with his two old friends and the lovely little Arabella, and Philip Marshall, whom they perceived as their main rival, had come out looking even more glamorous than usual.



So it was true. Most women just loved a rake. The little hayseed was no different, for all her air of respectability.



The Nevilles would move forward to a more romantic phase of their plan, and see what success they had.



Both smacked their lips together with relish. Arabella was a tasty little dish fit for a king, and they were looking forward to tucking in with gusto.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE



January turned to February, and Arabella had never felt so fulfilled. She had her work at the clinic and the house, the almost constant companionship of Blake, and the good society of his Rakehell friends and her cousins.



Every waking moment seemed to be filled with chores during the day, and entertainments, discussion groups, musicales, amateur theatricals, routs, and of course her charity drive for the clinic in the evenings.



She seemed so happy and settled that Blake was reluctant to uproot her entirely from London. Not when he was going to be going to Somerset on business in the main. Of course there was her estate to see to, but he could easily find a decent steward, pick up any personal items that she requested, and come home as soon as Sarah Davenport's baby was born and he had seen Mr. Jerome and paid his respects as befitting the gentleman's named heir.



Arabella loved her life with Blake, but she missed Somerset. She longed to see her old friends, her loyal servants, who had been part of the family. Her bright sunny bedroom overlooking the orchard. Her little sitting room full of all her special projects, her work with the villagers.



But Blake seemed to be thriving at the clinic. The uncomfortable evening at Lady Cavendish's had caused him to be even more sought after socially, by much more respectable people. He had undergone a trial by fire and survived. Now everyone wanted to know him, and meet his ward, whom half of London could not praise highly enough, and whom the other half of society, the female half mostly, reviled.



Rosalie fumed over the failure of her little plot for some days. At length she decided if she couldn't damage Blake personally, she could damage him professionally.



Inventing an imaginary illness, she presented herself at his examination rooms one day.



She immediately proceeded to remove her gown for a thorough scrutiny of all parts of her anatomy. She had also forgotten to put on many of the undergarments considered de rigeur for a Society dame. Though it was rather cold, she felt sure Blake would warm her up in no time.



Rosalie presented herself at the side entrance to the house used for patients, which led to Blake's suite of examination rooms and dispensary.



Arabella, sitting in the library working on her accounts, heard a tinny laugh go past. Despite Blake's injunctions never to go to that part of the house unless he specifically sent for her, she got up and stepped into the small cupboard which adjoined the examination room, which he used as his dispensary.



"Really, taking off all your clothes is most definitely not necessary," he tried to insist as Rosalie's breasts popped out of her chemise, which she had opened with a deftness which would have impressed any prostitute.



"Oh, Blake, why deny it? You still want me, for all your show of virtue in front of that little infant you've been saddled with."



"Even if it were true, this is neither the time nor the place-"



He was trying to avoid her hands now, and stepped back against the examination room wall, declaring impatiently, "This is a pointless game, Rosalie. Think about it. If I wanted you, I would know where to find you, now wouldn't I? Three-quarters of the men in London queue up outside your door every night. Be satisfied with them. It's over between us. It never even began. You ended it. You have no one to blame except yourself."



Her green eyes sparkled with fury. "You will be mine, or I'll tell everyone that you accosted me in the middle of my examination. It will ruin your practice."



"Maybe amongst the fashionable set, but not the poor," he said angrily.



"Oh, that's easily taken care of. I can just tell everyone about the abortions you perform at the clinic, the number of your own bastards you've had to get rid of thanks to the generosity of the women you supposedly treat-"



"That's enough!" Blake roared. "Your mind is so unspeakably filthy I can scarcely even name it. You want me to copulate with you to keep you silent about these lies? I don't bow to blackmail. If I don't wish to be with you willingly, what makes you think I'll go by force?"