The Last Days of a Rake

eloping to Gretna, he wondered what compelled her to break away from her chaperone and family?
    His mind went back, unbidden to Susan, sweet Susan, who had given her virginity in the misguided assurance that he wished to marry her. Could Miss Lascelles have the same thought? Impossible. They had exchanged a few dozen words, and this night’s adventure was all her idea. He had a carriage waiting, and as he put her in it, he noted, by lantern-light, the smug expression on her face. What did it mean? He climbed in and took a seat beside her.
    She turned to him and said, “So, Mr. Lankin, shall we proceed with the seduction? Your little cottage, perhaps? You have one in Chelsea, and I have heard it described as quaint.”
    He was taken aback and simply stared at her, and then tapped the roof of the carriage to start the driver. They were indeed headed to his cottage, a recent purchase few knew about. Regaining his composure, he slid closer to her and caressed her arm. She knew what they were about so there was no need for such finesse, but he was like an old carriage horse that turns the way it always has, on a well-worn route home. Flattery first, then some gentle lovemaking before moving on to the manipulation necessary to convince a woman to part with her most valuable asset, her virginity. “I have never seen a young lady so…so confident and lovely. You have inspired me to—”
    “Mr. Lankin, such old-fashioned manners!” She hooted with laughter, her pretty face alight with mischief, and batted his hand. It was the most emotion she had shown so far. “I am all agog to see your little love nest.” She leaned forward and peered out of the window.
    Lankin was silent, unsure how to proceed with such an unorthodox young woman. When they reached the cottage he silently handed her down, and she strode up to the door and waited for him to unlock it with all the subtlety of a prostitute. It was dreadfully off-putting. Seduction, when the object was so bold and forward, could hardly be called seduction, unless he were the one being solicited for his favors. He let her in and she walked the rooms, her ecru lace gown in the fashion of those days high-waisted, the silhouette slim, brushing the floor with a soft shush of sound, like waves on the shore.
    “A very pretty lair, sir,” she said, as he lit a candle and a lantern.
    His housekeeper was roused and provided them with glasses and wine with which to toast the illicit activity which brought them there. Lankin was confounded for a subject that did not sound ridiculous. In fact, he was baffled how to proceed without seeming utterly absurd.
    She seemed to sense his confusion, for she turned from admiring the painting over the fireplace and smiled at him, lifting her wine glass in a salute, and then downed the liquid in one gulp. “Shall we?” She took his hand and led him down the hall to the bedchamber.
    It soon became apparent to him that his bet was null and void, as the lady did not possess that which he was supposed to take. The “lovemaking” was quick and pedestrian. He had performed poorly, he felt. He sat on the edge of the bed while she drew on her stockings and pulled her chemise over her head.
    “Please don’t feel too badly, Mr. Lankin, at your failure to provide any pleasure to me,” she said, her gaze deliberately malicious as she eyed his naked form with a withering glance. Her melodious voice was throaty with spite, as she continued, “I shall tell no one how pitiful you are at this endeavor. I wouldn’t want to damage your hard-earned reputation, or spoil whatever future debauchment you intend.”
    He sprang to his feet, thrust his arms into a robe and whirled to confront her. “What kind of unfeminine woman are you, to behave thus? You have no becoming modesty. You’re shrill, coarse, without the delicacy to—”
    “To what, feign reluctance?” She glared at him in disgust. “Or to have the insipidity to fall in love with you, as my cousin, Susan Bailey, did?”
    The name struck him and he gaped at her like a landed fish.
    “Oh yes, Susan was my cousin.” She smiled, but there was no softer emotion in her expression, only loathing.
    “Was?” he asked, and his voice echoed sadly in the cold room.
    “Didn’t anyone tell you?” she said, her eyes flashing fury as she stalked around the room toward the door. “My dear, sweet, vulnerable cousin Susan, despairing in her unwavering love for you, ran away with a violin master and