The Rake by Mary Jo Putney Page B

father.”
    She was uncomfortably aware that her words were less than the truth. Davenport was certainly no Adonis, but he had a sexual magnetism that would fascinate as many women as it terrified. Her foster daughter was not the sort to be easily terrified.
    Merry propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “He’s going to be lonely in that big house by himself. We should invite him to dinner.”
    â€œHe’ll be getting plenty of invitations once the local gentry know he’s in residence. Davenport is a considerable property owner now, and there are enough unmarried daughters in the area to ensure instant social acceptance as long as he doesn’t do anything too outrageous,” Alys said cynically. “Besides, you know perfectly well that it would be inappropriate for us to invite my employer to dinner.”
    Merry smiled mischievously. “This is not the normal steward’s household.”
    â€œNo,” Alys admitted, “but that doesn’t mean there should be a social relationship between Davenport and us. That would be both improper and uncomfortable.”
    Ignoring her guardian as thoroughly as Peter had, Merry said dreamily, “I’ve always wondered what a rake is like.”
    â€œMeredith, such talk is quite unbecoming,” her guardian said with exasperation. “I don’t want Mr. Davenport pestered by any of you. Not about his horses, his sporting activities, or his social life. Do you understand?”
    She might as well have saved her breath. In a quiet neighborhood like this one, a dashing stranger was bound to be a focus of speculation and interest. The only silver lining Alys could imagine was that Davenport looked too impatient and self-absorbed to waste time corrupting the boys.
    However, Meredith was quite a different story. Her beauty attracted men like wasps to a jam pot. The local swains were respectful enough, but Davenport came from a very different world. Merry handled her local admirers so deftly that she might not realize that she was playing with fire until she was burned. Which meant that Alys was going to have to keep Davenport away from the girl, at the same time satisfying the man with her stewardship.
    It didn’t take a prophet to foresee storms on the horizon.
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    Reggie spent the evening working on the estate account books, spreading them across the library table. It was nearly midnight when he closed the last. He stood and stretched, then picked up his brandy glass and wandered over to the French doors. The gardens that were unkempt by day were lovely in the pale, cool light of a waxing moon. He found the landscape eerily familiar. The old naval captain who had rented the house had made so few changes that Reggie suspected he could go to his old bedroom and find it exactly the same, with books and rocks and other childish treasures.
    However, it was a proposition that he didn’t intend to test. He was twitchy enough already. The house was welcoming but haunted, and he couldn’t turn a corner without half expecting to run into a member of his family. Presumably that feeling would pass. It had better, or he would be unable to endure living here.
    He drank deeply of the brandy. Strickland might prove unendurable anyhow. What on earth did country people do in the evenings? He would perish of boredom at this rate.
    In spite of his misgivings, he had the obscure feeling that he couldn’t go back to his old life. Mentally he had burned his bridges when he came down here. His life was hollow at the core. The only question was what would fill that space.
    Apart from brandy, that was.
    Taking a branch of candles in hand, he prowled through the ground floor. The music room opened off the drawing room, and the old pianoforte still stood there in lonely grandeur. Placing the candelabrum on the shining mahogany lid, he sat down on the bench and played an experimental chord. The liquid notes hung in