The Love of a Rake

Book 1: The Brothers of the Aristocracy

by Linda Rae Sande

Genres: Regency Romance; Regency romance; love at first sight; mistaken identity; Second Chance Romance; horse breeders; horses

Synopsis

Everyone has plans ... until something—or someone—comes along to change them.

At the age of thirty-five, Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, decides it's time to trade in his life as the ‘Rake of Reading' for the life of a married man. Trouble is, his reputation precedes him, and he's not particularly attracted to the milk water misses who make up the eligible ladies of the ton. 

His counterpart, Charles Goodwin, Earl of Wakefield, is only twenty-five and enjoys his life as a rake far too much to consider marriage. A visiting prostitute may change his mind on the matter, though, if only because he wants to do the right thing.

When the Earl of Norwick's skittish cousin, Constance, meets Randall in the park, she's intrigued by the gentleman she thinks is merely a well-to-do cit with a fascination for horse racing, but she's only in London to find out what's become of her inheritance. She's determined to return to her home and horses in Sussex to live the life of an independent woman. 

Her counterpart, Eleanor Merriweather, is in London for her come-out with a dream to marry her perfect knight, but having been duped by a brothel's madame upon her arrival, she suddenly finds herself completely and thoroughly ruined.

When the lives of these four are suddenly upended by their chance meetings, the events of two nights and two days will prove that it takes a bit of horse sense to get on the right track in “The Love of a Rake”.

Release date: October 28, 2015

Publisher: Twisted Teacup Publishing

Print pages: 306

Sample

Chapter 1

A Race to the Finish Line

May 20, 1817, Epsom Downs, Surrey 

“He’s holding his own,” Alistair Comber commented, his eyes darting between the pocket watch he held and the opera glasses he was using to better see the jet black horse as it powered its way along the U-shaped race course. 

Although the track at Epsom Downs started with a bit of a climb, the finish featured a slight downhill grade. An early morning rainfall had settled the dust, but clods of soil flew up from the horse’s hooves as they took flight with each gallop.  “It’s a good thing the Derby isn’t a two-mile race any longer, though,” he added with a frown as he noted how the Thoroughbred’s overall pace seemed to slow down after the first turn. 

“Agreed,” Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, replied as he watched his newest racehorse, Zeus, round the last turn and head for the finish line. “He doesn’t have the stamina for two miles. But this one-and-a-half-mile track may just be his forté—if he can do it in under three minutes. If he can’t ... well, I suppose I would rather he race than pay the forfeit fee.” 

Alistair gave him a nod. “Two-hundred guineas is a rather rich fine for pulling out,” he agreed. “Have you had any luck finding a suitable cold-blood mare for him? He would probably make an excellent stud.”

Shaking his head, Randall wondered if Alistair was suggesting he simply put Zeus out to stud rather than continue his training as a racehorse. The man was an expert when it came to horses, whether they raced or were used for farming or puling equipage or for simply riding. “I have not,” he replied as he watched Zeus finish the run. 

“Looks like two-minutes, fifty-five seconds, my lord,” Alistair said with a nod. “I think you may have yourself a racehorse.” 

Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled a cheroot from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to Alistair. 

The second son of an earl shook his head. “Thank you, but no.” At the raised eyebrow the marquess gave him, he added, “I brought my wife along on this trip to Surrey, and I shouldn’t want to smell like a men’s club when I’m escorting her to dinner this evening.” He nodded toward the young woman who sat in a curricle positioned so she could watch the practice runs. She gave a tentative wave when she noticed his gaze. “Julia wanted the chance to get away from London for a bit.” 

The marquess dared a glance toward Julia Harrington Comber. The daughter of Stanley Harrington, Earl of Mayfield, Julia might have been expected to make a match with a duke or marquess’ son, but she had opted to accept the marriage proposal of her father’s then-groom and now the head of his stables and horse breeding program—and a frequent consultant to Tattersall’s. It was Alistair’s connection to the horse trader’s business that had Randall seeking his advice when it came to his racehorse. 

Randall felt a stab of jealousy that a man of Alistair’s age— six-and-twenty, if he had heard correctly—had figured out it was time he take a wife and start a family. “And how do you like being leg-shackled?” Randall asked when he returned his attention to Alistair. 

The groom gave him a nervous grin. “I like it far more than I thought I would,” he answered with a nod. “But then, I’m one of the lucky ones. I ended up with a spirited filly,” Alistair said, one eyebrow arching up.

Randall dared another glance in the direction of Mrs. Comber just as she blew her husband a kiss. Despite his reputation—Randall was known in London as the Rake of Reading—he found himself rather shocked by the young woman’s gesture. Shocked, and just a bit, well, jealous of the earl’s son. “I see what you mean,” he said with an arched eyebrow of his own. 

Noting how the jockey who had ridden Zeus was heading his way with the horse in tow, he held out his right hand. “Thank you for your help. I’ll see to your fee when I’m back in London.” 

Alistair shook the man’s hand and gave him a bow. “Good luck, my lord.” Stepping back, he made his way to his curricle as Randall turned his attention to the jockey. 

“Any trouble?” he asked. The man shook his head and pulled Zeus so the horse stood even with him. 

“He’s fast, my lord, and I’d be willing to wager a year’s earnings on him winning the Derby.” 

Randall took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, there won’t be any of that, son,” he said, knowing anything could happen between now and the race two days hence. Zeus could end up poisoned, or drugged with cocaine, or come up lame from an injury in the stables. The marquess was determined nothing egregious would happen, though. His stable-hands were more than they seemed. Should anyone try to get near the black Thoroughbred, at least one of them would see to it Zeus was protected. “Run him easy tomorrow, and take care you’re not pissed day after tomorrow.” 

The jockey bowed. “Of course, my lord.” 

Randall gave Zeus a quick pat and took his leave of the racetrack, his mind on cold-blood English mares. 

It was well past time he found himself a spirited filly—and not just the mare he needed for the next generation of Reading racehorses. 

He needed a wife.

And at five-and-thirty, he needed an heir before he crossed the finish line.