SubmittingtotheRake by Em Brown

Chapter One
     
    Though the clouds shrouded the night in blackness, obscuring
all but shadows from view, the lone woman standing at the gates pulled her veil
more securely about her face with restless, trembling hands. Every little
noise—the stirring of the leaves in the trees, the scurry of some small animal,
the crunch of pebbles at her feet—made her jump. At any moment she expected her
cousin to descend upon her with eyes ablaze, denouncing her treachery and
forswearing the sisterhood they had shared these past years.
    Heloise Merrill cringed and glanced down the path, both
dreading and desperate for the arrival of the carriage. Her cousin Josephine
would not understand that, were it not for the affection the two of them
shared, Heloise would not be standing on an open road by herself in the middle
of the night, pretending to be her cousin.
    She tugged at her veil.
    Would the footmen recognize that she was not Josephine
Merrill? Her form alone could betray her. Josephine possessed a slender body
with delicate, sloping shoulders whereas Heloise had square shoulders and flesh
to spare about her arms and waist. The veil hid her countenance—her round face,
full cheeks and rosebud mouth. Josephine had a physiognomy that tapered at the
chin, wide lips, a pert nose and slender arched brows.
    The glow of a lantern approached. Heloise willed her feet to
stay and not carry her back to the safety of the home she shared with her
cousin and uncle, Jonathan Merrill, who had kindly taken Heloise in years ago
when her parents had both succumbed to consumption. Alas, her uncle would not
be home for a sennight, leaving Heloise the elder of the household. She had been
tempted to send for him immediately when she had discovered the note intended
for Josephine—an invitation to three shameless nights of profligacy with
Sebastian Cadwell, the Earl of Blythe—but even then her uncle would not have
been able to return in time. Josephine might never forgive her, but she could
not allow her cousin to throw away a life of promise on a youthful fancy for a
dangerous man—one of the worst rakes in England.
    “Miss Merrill?” the driver inquired after alighting from his
perch.
    After forcing herself to exhale, Heloise nodded. Accepting
his assistance with averted eyes, as if the driver might see through her veil,
she stepped into the carriage. A whip cracked the air, and the carriage lurched
forward. It would be hours before she arrived at her destination, the Château
Follet, so named for its owner, a French expatriate.
    Some dubbed it the Château of Debauchery.
    How many victims had the earl claimed? Heloise wondered,
unable to settle herself comfortably in the rich upholstery of the carriage
seats. Neither the driver nor the footman had sneered at her or indicated in
any way that they thought her a wanton woman. They did not even ask why she
traveled sans a portmanteau or valise. Was it because they were accustomed to
picking up women in the middle of the night for their master? Heloise shuddered
to think how closely Josephine had come to ruining herself—and that prospect
remained lest Heloise returned successful. She simply had to succeed. Her
attempts to reason with Josephine had failed.
     
    “What has the Earl of Blythe to recommend himself but a
rugged countenance?” Heloise had asked.
    “You would not understand, Heloise,” Josephine had
returned.
    “What would I not understand?” she had pressed.
    Tossing her luxuriant flaxen curls, Josephine had
replied, “The ways of a man and a woman.”
    “I am six years your senior. You are but a babe at nine
and ten. I have glimpsed more of human nature than you, Josephine.”
    “My dear Heloise, you may have more years than I, and I
mean no cruelty, but your experience with men is decidedly limited.”
     
    Heloise had not revealed to Josephine that her experience
with the opposite sex was not as lacking as Josephine would believe. Granted,
Josephine had no shortage of suitors