Rescued By The Forbidden Rake. Mary Brendan

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      ‘You know Nelly’s a stickler for etiquette,’ Faye whispered a rueful reply, unfolding her napkin. Her housekeeper took pains to ensure that her mistress’s reputation was protected even if that meant returning home late, after visitors had left. Mr Collins might be Miss Shawcross’s future husband, but in Nelly Gideon’s mind one observed rules until vows were taken.

      As Peter carved the chicken and helped hand around the dishes of vegetables Faye felt a twinge of melancholy that he couldn’t always show such tolerance to her brother and sister. Soon, he would want them out of the way as well so that he could have his fiancée to himself. When it was just the two of them Faye enjoyed his kisses and caresses although sometimes she wondered why she didn’t crave their privacy as passionately as he did.

      * * *

      ‘When must you return to your ship?’ Faye asked when the children had left the table and she had also eaten her fill.

      ‘In less than a week, I’m afraid.’ Peter put down his pudding spoon and patted his stomach. ‘Your Mrs Gideon always turns out a decent dinner.’

      ‘She is a boon and I don’t know what I’d do without her or her husband helping us out.’ Faye rang the little bell to let Mrs Gideon know that she could clear the table. ‘If you have finished, we can go and sit in the parlour.’

      ‘I’d certainly like a little comfort before being ejected by your virtuous housekeeper to the frugal offerings of the White Hart.’ His hazel eyes darkened with desire as he pulled out her chair, then teased her nape with his fingers. ‘I can’t wait much longer for us to be husband and wife.’ His voice sounded rough. ‘Have you contacted that woman yet to advise her you are to be married and she must send for her children?’

      ‘I have not; as I have said, I’ve no idea whereabouts in Ireland my stepmother is.’ Faye felt a niggling exasperation tighten her insides. Despite her reply never altering, Peter regularly asked her the same question about ‘that woman’ as he called Deborah Shawcross. Faye truthfully did not know her whereabouts and, even if she did, she would not force her brother and sister to go and live with an adulteress who had rejected her own flesh and blood in favour of her lover.

      At the time her brother had been just six years old and although Michael had been distraught for a while he now avoided speaking of his mother. Claire, at ten years old, had comprehended what had occurred between her parents and had been so hurt by her mother’s abandonment that she’d professed to hate her.

      Humiliated by his wife’s betrayal Cecil Shawcross had dealt with it as best he could, but when it became apparent Deborah was not coming home he had banned any mention of her. They had all sensed that their father’s snapping and snarling was the outcome of him being deeply wounded and had obeyed his wishes. But none of them had forgotten that Deborah Shawcross had turned their lives upside down.

      Peter’s frustration that his fiancée had been burdened with caring for her siblings was understandable, but in other ways Faye thought him unreasonable. She would happily marry immediately, but Peter had made it clear that the children could not have a permanent home beneath his roof. Even had Faye not promised her late father that she would see the children safely settled, she loved them too much to ever reject them as their mother had.

      ‘May I?’ Peter had picked up the decanter on the sideboard in the parlour.

      ‘Oh, do help yourself,’ Faye replied, settling on the sofa. The children had gone to their rooms as they always did when Lieutenant Collins paid a visit. Now that they were alone Faye knew she had a perfect opportunity to broach the unpleasant subject of her meeting with Westwood. But she was reluctant to spoil their harmony on Peter’s first day back and decided to wait until tomorrow to break news that was likely to create a bad atmosphere. But know about it he must.

      ‘So, the new fellow at Valeside has moved in lock, stock and barrel with his wife, has he?’ Peter made himself comfortable beside Faye, an arm slung negligently along the sofa’s velvet back as he sipped his port.

      ‘Oh, you mean Mr Kavanagh. I don’t think the lady we saw with him is his wife.’ Faye gave a tiny laugh. She had not expected the conversation to turn in that direction. ‘According to Anne Holly she is his chère amie.’

      ‘Is she indeed?’ Peter snorted amusement and took a gulp of his drink. ‘Deuced brass neck of the fellow taking her about with him like that. Ryan Kavanagh, you say, is his name?’ Peter put down his goblet and turned his attention to his fiancée. ‘Never mind about him... I’d sooner think about you and how much I shall miss you when I set sail.’ He leaned forward, brushing his lips against Faye’s. His hands travelled to her slender waist, shifting her closer to him on the sofa as his kiss deepened.

      ‘Actually, there is something I should say to you, Peter...’ Faye held him off a little. She’d had a change of heart and wanted to get the bad news over with, but he again hungrily captured her mouth with his own.

      ‘Oh...sorry... I should have knocked...’ Claire garbled out, having burst into the parlour. ‘Michael is unwell; Mrs Gideon is with him. She said to tell you to come and see him.’

      Peter cursed angrily beneath his breath and surged upright. ‘I’ll be on my way. I’ll call tomorrow, if I may. Then I shall be in London for a day or two before returning to Portsmouth.’

      ‘Yes, please do come tomorrow.’ Faye gave her fiancé an apologetic smile. ‘Would you like a nightcap before you go?’ She was also disappointed that his visit had been abruptly curtailed.

      Out in the hallway she heard the unmistakable sound from upstairs of Michael being sick. With a resigned sigh and a quick farewell peck on her fiancé’s cheek, she let Peter see himself out.

      ‘He’s got the bellyache and headache; it’s not the chicken I cooked,’ Mrs Gideon announced bluntly, holding a basin under the invalid’s chin.

      ‘He’s been scrumping today, he told me so,’ Claire said, wrinkling her nose in distaste before adding, ‘I’m off to bed.’

      ‘Scrumping, eh? Apples aren’t ripe yet...no wonder he’s got the bellyache.’ Mrs Gideon snorted.

      ‘I’ll see to him, Mrs Gideon; you and your husband will want to get to your own beds now.’

      ‘I’ll fetch Master Michael a powder to settle his stomach before I leave.’

      ‘Have you been scrumping?’ Faye asked when Nelly had left the room.

      Michael nodded, screwing up his face as a cramp tightened his belly. ‘Claire shouldn’t have told on me. I don’t tell on her.’

      ‘What’s to tell?’ Faye asked mildly. She glanced at her brother, but he turned his face away on the pillow.

      ‘Nothing...’ he mumbled.

      ‘There now. Get that down you. And stay away from sour apples; you’ve probably taken in a maggot as well,’ Mrs Gideon scolded, handing over a tumbler of milky liquid. She picked up the bowl. ‘I’ll dispose of this and be by tomorrow as usual.’

      ‘Thank you, Mrs Gideon.’

      Meekly Michael did as he was bade, sipping the brew with a grimace before allowing his sister to tuck him up.

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