Free The Perfect Rake by Anne Gracíe

little evidence of a heart.
    He darted a quick look at Miss Merridew, and his amusement deepened. A most unusual female. Gently bred and, he thought, a true innocent, despite her brazenness in entering a strange gentleman’s house and claiming a secret betrothal with him. Or perhaps because of it. No truly worldly female would have the temerity to try such a simple ruse. He had no idea what bizarre game she was playing, but there was no denying it, the whole thing was vastly amusing.
    Sir Oswald shook a furious finger at him. “Use another man’s title to steal the innocent heart from a maiden’s tender breast, would you?”
    Gideon tossed the papers carelessly into the coal scuttle and regarded the maiden’s tender breasts with interest, examining their shape and fullness with great pleasure. They were hastily covered with a pair of militantly crossed arms. He lifted his gaze and met a maiden’s glaring eyeballs. Her smooth cheeks were flushed and the tender breasts were now heaving in indignation beneath their green muslin armor. A small, slippered foot tapped angrily on the parquetry floor. Gideon chuckled.
    Prudence had had enough. How dare he—he—look at her in such a manner. She felt hot, breathless, excited—furious! It was time to end this disastrous charade.
    “So!” she declared. “You have been deceiving me!” Unable to muster a convincing sob, she whipped out a lace handkerchief from her reticule and applied it to her eyes. “All of this time, you have been filling my ears with lies!” She drew herself up and said with immense dignity, “I cannot bear it a moment longer! You are without shame! I could not possibly wed a man of such unsteady character!”
    Lord Carradice, more than her equal in the dramatic arts, slapped a tragic hand across his heart and staggered back a pace, and demonstrated wounded to the quick, in silence.
    Great-uncle Oswald watched, frowning. He looked unconvinced. Prudence cast around for some way to end the matter definitively. An idea flew into her mind.
    She snatched up the papers he had tossed aside so carelessly. “My letters,” she explained to her great-uncle. She turned and brandished them in Lord Carradice’s face. “You are heartless to flaunt these in my face, to treat them with such cavalier disdain. It is over, Lord Carradice! I want never to see you again!” She ripped them up and dashed them into the fire with great panache. “Oh, that I was ever foolish enough to give my heart to a rake.” The fire smoldered, then flared eagerly as the papers caught.
    “Oh, no, not the billets doux . My love letters!” cried Lord Carradice in a choked voice. He leaped toward the fire and snatched in vain at the burning papers. He burned his fingers on one and dropped it with a mild curse.
    Stunned, Prudence watched him. The shredded sheets of paper curled into twists of flame and ash. He couldn’t be serious. Surely they could not be real love letters she had burned? He’d just glanced at them and cast them into a coal scuttle with a complete lack of interest. Anything thrown into a coal scuttle was meant for burning! Wasn’t it?
    And yet he looked so distraught. The hollow feeling in her chest grew.
    What if they were love letters? Had he tossed them in the coal scuttle as a blind, meaning to collect them later? She’d used all sorts of devious methods of hiding Phillip’s rare letters from prying eyes. Apart from one special letter that she treasured, his letters weren’t romantic: Phillip was a prosaic writer and his letters were usually a short recital of his daily activities. Even so, she’d never tossed even the dullest one into a coal scuttle.
    Prudence bit her lip. Lord Carradice was staring into the fire, watching his letters burn. He looked desolated, completely crushed. Even his giveaway eyes were no longer laughing.
    She groaned inwardly. Why had she ever considered this mad idea? It had seemed quite simple at the time. There must be insanity in