Jealous Rakes and June Mistakes (The Rake Review, Season Two, Book Six)

All the world’s a stage—and Remington Ives plays the part of a rake to perfection.

His theater is failing, and Remmy needs money fast. A scandalous rake's reputation might be the only thing that saves it.

But when a country house party reunites him with his childhood friend, his carefully crafted image begins to unravel.

Because Tessa King refuses to believe he’s a scoundrel.

The boy she grew up with couldn’t have changed so much in six years. Even if the man he’s become kisses her like he means to claim her the moment they’re alone.

Tessa is tempted to uncover the truth behind his dangerous charm and the Brazen Belle's scandalous article about him. But temptation is a luxury she cannot afford.

Her livelihood is at stake.

Tessa must choose between remaining a companion… or making a respectable marriage.

Unless Remmy can convince her there’s a third option.Him.

Childhood friends, a rakish reputation, and a forbidden attraction collide at a scandalous house party—but risking their hearts may cost them everything.

Chapter One

Life without drama was terribly tedious, but, occasionally, a man needed a rest. Like right now, for instance. Remington Ives, owner of the Grand Folly Theatre would prefer a bit of silence after seeing a ghost. What he got instead was a headache.

Remmy rested his forehead against his office door as Violet Finch—the Maiden Muse, as the public had begun to call her—knocked for the third time in less than a minute. Each knock had been a series of abuses, rapid fire and loud enough to make Remmy flinch. She knew he was in here.

“I know you’re in there,” Miss Finch hissed. “Open up!”

He could continue playing dead. Or he could get on with it. Open the door, let her in, fuck her good, then push her back into the corridor and dust his hands of her. The actresses knew his liaisons never lasted long. Either the length of the play’s tenure at the Folly or until he left London for the country. Since he was leaving tomorrow, he wouldn’t have to worry about Miss Finch very long.

He looked down at his loose trousers. “Come on, old man. She’s a beauty. And terribly talented. And willing.” But his cock was not willing. Didn’t even twitch.

And he knew why—the ghost.

Tessa King had returned.

Miss Finch abused the door once more. “Mr. Ives! You must let me in. Someone will see!”

He sighed. Even if no one saw, everyone knew. But still, they must play their roles properly, and one of the most important parts of this particular play was secrecy. The appearance of it at least. After they left these walls, they were free to whisper all they liked. Encouraged even.

He cracked open the door.

Miss Finch bolted for that crack like rushing water through a stream. Damn she was slender. Was halfway through before he thought to push back.

Stuck half in and half out of the door, the edge of it, bisecting her face, she said through smooshed lips,

“Did I not please you tonight, Mr. Ives?”

“It was a smashing performance. You are an exquisite Cinderella. Truly. But I’m tired, Miss Finch.”

“I’ll wake you up.” All but purred.

“I have to travel tomorrow.”

“I know.” The one eye he could see glittered. “This’ll be our only chance.” She tried for a saucy smile that only looked tortured. What with the door and all. Her blond ringlets, meticulously styled for that night’s pantomime, were pushed up the door frame behind her.

“I’m afraid you do not understand, though. I’m not looking for company.” He eased off the door, and she slouched when it no longer supported her weight.

“But… all your leading ladies, those that want to at least… and I want to. You… you know I am not truly a miss, yes?”

“Born Miss Smith, married Mrs. Waverly. Self-appointed Miss Finch on your husband’s death. Yes, I’m aware.”

“Only I look so small and innocent. It’s the hair I think. And the lips.”

They were shaped like little bows. A week ago, hell, a few hours ago, he would have been keen to untie that bow and taste the pleasures of her mouth.

Now…

“I do apologize, Miss Finch. My disinterest has nothing to do with you—”

“Oh, shove it.” She huffed, shaking her skirts. “You may own a theatre, but you are incapable of a believable performance. And I have no interest in forcing my way into a disinterested man’s bed. Not when so many others are willing. Good evening, sir.” She flounced away.

“I admire your self-respect,” he called after her.

She made a crude gesture without looking back at him, and he stepped into the hallway, locked the door to keep Miss Finch out, and strode off in the opposite direction.

That flash of red, that pale, freckled face, that ready smile—he’d had only a glimpse earlier, had thought it a dream, but it had to be… Tessa. Home from Italy. And in his theatre.

He found her just where he knew he would, in the dark wings beyond the stage, bent at the waist and peering at some detail on a backdrop. Comfortable in the shadows, he studied her at his leisure.

Six damn years. Six years she’d been lost to him through all but ink and ocean-wrinkled paper, each epistle coming longer after the last until she’d stopped writing altogether.

Yet there she was. Sharper, brighter, and more goddamn beautiful than he remembered.

He thought he’d forgotten her, thought he’d put her away in a little box marked Youthful Folly.

But his heart was thumping madly in his chest as it used to do, and his palms were sweating, and his fingertips ached to touch her, to confirm she was real.

If he’d put her in a box, she’d found a way out.

He curled and uncurled his hands. Control. Tessa here now was not part of the play. The unexpected arrival of a former sweetheart not in this narrative. There was only a rake, the women he used and discarded, and the mysterious belle who would write about it.

Hopefully.

He should return to his office as if he’d never seen her.

But he couldn’t help himself.

“Good evening, Miss King,” he said, stepping out of the shadows and into the dim yellow cast by the dying stage lights.

She gasped and popped upright, eyes wide. Then eyes wider. “Remmy!”

She ran right into his arms, and damn it all to hell, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, lifted her onto her tiptoes as she laughed into his cravat. No hesitation. No control.

Thank God, she ripped out of his embrace as thoughtlessly as she’d tripped into it. She circled him, making a show of studying him.

“Oh, you are so different,” she said. “You cannot be taller, but you seem it. Broader certainly.” She tugged the lock of hair at his temple. “You’re wearing it longer. Is that an earring? Terribly roguish, aren’t you, Mr. Ives. So very… different.” She stepped away from him, and the backstage shadows hid her eyes.

She was different, too, with more curves than he remembered, more confidence. She wore silk, a blue that, when she tilted her head and her face caught the light, tossed her hazel eyes into that confused state of color he’d always liked best. The gown was better stuff than he’d seen her in before—new and bright with a low-cut bodice that cunningly displayed her breasts. She wore the gown effortlessly, as if the wool-and-cotton rector’s daughter were used to such luxuries now. Before, she’d been a mouse who inspired protection. Now she was a temptress who inspired…

Nothing. She inspired nothing. Not in him, leastways.

“Lady Chattaway,” he said, “has been taking good care of you, I see.”

“Oh yes, wonderfully good care of me.”

“When did you return to London?”

“Yesterday. We’ve returned for your father’s birthday party. You’ll be there, I assume?”

“Oh yes. It’s not every day a man’s father turns sixty. I wouldn’t dare miss it.” He scratched the back of his neck, stepped closer. “But what are you doing here? At the Folly?”

“Enjoying the entertainment. I insisted we see a show as soon as possible and before we left for the country. I ventured backstage after the play to find you but found this instead.” She wandered toward the backdrop she’d been investigating earlier. “It’s ripped and sewn and the painting over the repaired tear is muddled horribly. It quite distracted me the entire performance.”

“Did it now? You saw it all the way from the audience?”

She nodded, drawing her fingertips down the mended rip, the muddled paint. “I can fix it for you.”

He made a noncommittal noise. “I’ll return you to Lady Chattaway. Is she in the lobby?”

“She’s left. I told her not to wait for me.”

“And she agreed to that mad suggestion?” Remmy asked.

“Of course. I can hail a hackney.”

“No. You cannot. I’ll take you home.”

A pause, then. “Very well. That would be most welcome. It has been so long. I must not waste the opportunity to learn more about you from you.”

He hooked their arms together and led her to his office, moving with the kind of scowly purpose that always meant do not approach me, or I will bite your head off. Hopefully Miss Finch would understand if she happened upon them. They reached his office door un-accosted, and he unlocked it and shoved Tessa inside.

She spun in lazy circles, taking every detail in. “I am so proud of you, Remmy.”

Pride, yes, exactly what he’d always wanted her to feel for him. Partly. When he’d first bought the Folly, he’d imagined her seeing him as a man, finally. Imagined her kissing him, giving in to him in every way.

She stopped spinning and beamed up at him, and in the bright candlelight of his office, he could see her better. Hazel eyes and orange curls, freckled nose and rosy skin. The corner of one of her front teeth possessed the tiniest chip. His fault for encouraging her to climb the stairs via the banister when they were ten. He should feel guilt for putting that imperfection in her mouth, but it was the only part of her that was goddamn his, and it was goddamn charming and—

He was not currently charmed.

“I adore it, Remmy.”

He could kiss her, yes? He could kiss her right now. That’s what he did with women, after all—kissed them. And he’d never wanted to kiss them as much as he wanted to kiss her, though he’d hoped the kissing would help him forget. It had helped him forget.

Forget red hair and hazel eyes and the tiniest chip in her front tooth.

She spun away from him, hopping onto his desk and fiddled with his belongings. Inkpot, pen, playbills, letter opener—she ruined them all. He’d not be able to see a single one of them now without thinking of her.

He stalked over to her, raised a brow.

She raised one back. “Yes?”

“You’re acting like you own the place. You do not.”

“I saw the back of the playbill, Remmy.”

“Spectators usually do.”

“Dream sweetly of blue skies, inked right there at the very bottom of the last page.”

He wrapped his hands around her waist and scooped her off the desk, plopped her back on the ground. He only let himself linger there for half a breath because holy hell her waist was delicious just above the flare of her hips and arse, and that was with all those layers between them. What would it feel like without—

He stepped away from her and grabbed his hat from a hook on the wall, dropped it on his head. He grabbed his greatcoat too, swung it around his shoulders, and shoved his hands in the pockets to hide their trembling.

“Theatre is dreaming. It only seemed appropriate. Come on then,” he grumbled, shuffling her out the back door of his office and into an alley. He helped her over puddles as they made their way toward the main street, and then he hailed a hackney in the quiet of a late London evening.

“I like that you put it there. I’ve always mourned not being able to watch you build the Folly from close-up. Those words, there, make me feel as if I were a part of it.”

“They’re just words.”

She chuckled, and the sound seemed a sudden sun in the dark night. Holy hell, what sorcery had Lady Chattaway accomplished. The last time he’d seen Tessa, she’d been crying and small and broken.

Their shoulders brushed—an accident—as he turned to study the solid column that was the Grand Folly. Dark on the side street, but glowing a bit at the edges, as if its magnificence couldn’t be contained.

Their shoulders bumped again—another damn accident—as he turned back around. The moon above London, behind foggy striations clinging to the air, was round and full and silver. But he couldn’t enjoy it. Nor could he revel in the Folly’s glory. Almost glory.

Almost midnight. The first day of June was a mere quarter hour away. Soon he would discover if his plan had worked. The Rake Review always found its way into the hands of greedy London readers the first of each month. And the first of the month was less than an hour away.

A hackney lurched to a stop before them, and Remmy let Tessa enter first, after she gave the driver Lady Chattaway’s address. He sat next to Tessa, and the hack took off.

The conveyance was small, and their thighs didn’t touch, but heat wafted off her in waves. He tugged at his cravat, which was suddenly much too tight.

He cleared his throat. “Are you still painting?”

“I am. I think I’ve improved, too.”

“I’m sure you have. You’ll show me? At Crossvale?”

“Of course.” She picked at her glove, pulling each finger loose one at a time then tugging the whole thing tight at the wrist. Again, again, again.

Was she nervous? Of him? Comic, that. He was the one who should be sweating. The last time he’d seen her he’d confessed his love, and she’d thanked him then bounced into a coach and out of the country. After years of feeling thoroughly humiliated, he’d realized she might not have fully understood his meaning. It may have been less a brutal rejection and more of a horrifying misunderstanding. But that didn’t matter. The end would have been the same.

“Are your mother and father still angry with you?” He’d not even tried to attend one of the Crossvale rector’s sermons since Tessa left.

She sighed. “Yes. Papa less so. He writes that he is merely disappointed. And it took six years to get him there. Tell me, other than your interest in the Folly, how have you been? Your mother only ever speaks of that in her letters.”

He hadn’t been aware his mother was writing to her. It was not entirely unexpected. The countess likely felt responsible for Tessa to some degree. But considering she’d told a love-silly Remmy he would ruin Tessa’s life if he proposed… well, it was also quite the shock.

“That’s unexpected. Naturally, she and my father were not originally keen on me doing more than actually owning the theatre, but they didn’t grumble too much when it became clear I planned to put my mark on every aspect of the business.” Remmy rubbed the back of his neck. “The Folly has become an obsession for me. There is nothing I do that is not related.”

“You do not box?”

“Well, yes.”

“Or fence?”

“Yes, but—”

“Or ride in the park?”

He chuckled. “You win, Tessa King. I am not so single-minded as I let on.” Though, he did not want her to know of his other activities, the ones with actresses and brothels and—damn. She’d find out sooner or later. He’d made it so everyone knew.

She settled her hand above her décolletage, her fingertips brushing her neck and overlapping a simple necklace that glinted gold in the moonlight.

What would it feel like to put a kiss just there?

He swallowed the impulse, old and leftover from the boy he used to be.

“Your mother writes of the Grand Folly constantly. In every letter. You’ve made it terribly successful.”

“It will be. Soon. The truth is… I’m still in the red. I’ve spent and spent and spent—the façade, the talent, the seating. Everything new and fashionable and the best quality. It takes money, and to make back that money, I have to fill the seats. And that has not been happening as quickly as I would have liked.”

He should hate admitting that, but it felt different with Tessa, like setting down a stone he’d been carrying for too long.

She patted his shoulder, ever the old, familiar chum. “Patrons will come. I know they will. The crowd tonight was quite nice.”

“Nice is not good enough. I need a crowd big enough to cause a riot.”

“That might be illegal.” She grinned, a mischievous little half thing begging for adoration.

The hack slowed then lurched to a stop, and he swung the door open. She yawned as she stepped down onto the street, and he followed her.

After a few steps toward the house, she looked over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow. At Crossvale.” The she disappeared inside the townhouse, and he paid the driver, sending him off into the night and setting a path for the Folly. He should have kept the hack. He wasn’t thinking clearly.

Tessa had returned.

What did that mean?

Nothing. They’d spent six years away from one another. They weren’t young and innocent anymore. And even though she seemed keen to slip back into their friendship, he didn’t want to.

In a beam of moonlight, he pulled out his pocket watch. Past midnight. The first day of June. He set a path for the Folly.

His plan must work. He was no good at investments, had lost more money that way than he cared to consider. He had no temperament for the military or the church, though his brothers didn’t seem to mind those gentlemanly occupations. He had only his love of the dramatic and the theatre Uncle Dudley had left him three years ago. His new rakish reputation had already increased the Folly’s patrons this last year. If he could keep all of London invested in the stage play that was his bedroom life, he’d keep them in his theatre too and prove he was worth a damn.

Tessa’s return changed none of that. She didn’t want him. Never had and never would, not the way he’d foolishly wanted her.

Remmy’s bootsteps echoed on the empty streets, and a few stars winked far above the London lights. No fog tonight. Few people out. The air was summer thick, and he took his time returning to the theatre, enjoying the sort of intermission he existed in. Act 1 was over. Act 2 soon to start—an entire change of scenery.

When he reached the alley that led to his office at the back of the Folly, he paused. There, in the darkness, a dim white square in the middle of his door—small and inconsequential.

But his hands shook, and he moved slower than before through air thicker than it should be.

It was a piece of folded paper. A small scandal sheet tacked to the wood just at his eye level. Carefully, he removed the tack and read the words splashed in bold lettering across the top of the paper.

The Rake Review.

It had never been delivered before. He’d always obtained one through another reader’s hands as they were passed along from person to whispering person. He couldn’t see any more than the larger letters of the publication’s title in the moonlight, so he swept into his office and locked the door behind him. No light here either. He fumbled in his drawer for a tinderbox and found a candle.

And when a flame sparked to life, he held the paper close and read.

Dearest Readers,

I have been summoned. Like a goddess of old, I heard my name on the lips of a libertine. The gossip says this lothario believes himself of such substantial rakish quality that he should appear in these pages. Rakes of this sort are as easy to come by as grass in a field. Conceit and big mouths as common to them as smoldering eyes and naughty hands. Though it is terribly enticing to disappoint him, I have decided to be magnanimous.

And though I had another man in mind for June’s rake, I shall celebrate the loud-mouthed lothario’s sins instead.

I should have gotten round to you soon enough, Mr. R___ I___.

They say the talented ingenues who trod the boards of his stage also bounce the boards of his bed. Often. And it is this author’s opinion that the ladies who are so terribly busy under his employ cannot be blamed for small moments of weakness. Though he cannot be called pretty, he is certainly magnetic, a rough-hewn demigod with a penchant, I hear, for baring more skin than he should behind closed theatre doors.

And everywhere else, to be sure. I know I am not the only one who spied his recent indecent exercise in the Serpentine. The gentleman must be allergic to linen. Or perhaps he considers the physique he’s cultivated learning swordplay for his productions as simply too impressive to be hidden behind polite garb. Or it could be that his valet has quite forgotten to dress him some mornings. Either way, a walk near Drury Lane (or Hyde Park) may very well end with a peek at a finely sculped male chest.

Before I put my readers, and myself, in dire need of our smelling salts, let me enumerate his many flaws—a loud mouth, a propensity toward foul language, a decided lack of loyalty to the fairer sex, and an ego rather larger than London. It seems this self-made man believes he is unstoppable. He shall have every pound, accolade, and woman to be had from now till eternity.

If this author’s pen can achieve one thing in this year of our Lord 1822, let it be to dim this rake’s gas lamps and knock him right off his own stage.

If all the world’s a stage and men and women merely players, Mr. R__ I__ might do well to discover what kind of play he’s in. Comedy? Or tragedy? Pride does, after all, always come before the fall.

Remain, dear readers, ever brazen,

The Brazen Belle

Remmy laughed. Pride comes before the fall, eh? Well, so long as everyone else fell right into his theatre’s seats, what did he care where he landed? He’d done it. Good God, he’d done it! Now all that remained was to continue the act as more eyes than ever turned his way.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GHP8ZD3F