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Copyright ©1996 by Allison Lane
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THE RAKE'S RAINBOW
Allison Lane
 
Chapter 1
How can I go through with this?
The Honourable Thomas Mannering slouched beside a scarred, wooden table in the Laughing Dog's
taproom. One hand supported a head that threatened to roll off his shoulders. The other upended a wine
bottle, dribbling the last drops down the side of his glass. The empty bottle joined two of its mates on the
floor.
Alicia.
His love's angelic face wavered insubstantially against the smoky gloom, her sparkling violet-blue eyes
and golden ringlets refusing to vanish. What horrible pressures had her unfeeling parents brought to bear
against her sweet innocence? Had they threatened her? Locked her away? Beat her? Had she even been
informed before the notice appeared in the paper?
That was his worst fear—and had been for months. Frowning at his newly emptied glass, he imperiously
demanded another bottle from the buxom barmaid. His eyes assessed her abundant charms before he
recalled that there was no time to dally this night. Shudders wracked him at the memory.
How could he do it?
How could he not?
Had he a choice?
The room careened dizzily in the flickering light of an ill-adjusted lantern. He squinted, focusing just
enough to pour more wine.
How long had it been since his world collapsed in ruins? How many months since Alicia had pledged her
undying love in Lady Debenham's rose garden? His loins tightened as he recalled their passionate
embrace. Floating home, he had planned in meticulous detail the words that would request permission to
pay his addresses, only to descend into hell the very next morning when the Post announced her betrothal
to Viscount Darnley. The notice had to have been submitted before the ball. Darnley had not even
attended.
Had she known?
No! She would never have played such a deceitful trick on one she loved. Nor had she willingly
accepted her fate. Her distress hurt him worse than his own pain.
The new bottle emptied as he tried to forget his last interview with the love of his life. She had received
him a week later in the morning room of her father's Berkeley Square town house....
"Papa demanded this betrothal,” she sobbed, tears glistening in her wide, ingenuous eyes as her pacing
brought her close enough for him to touch. His fists clenched with the effort of not claiming one last
blissful embrace. “I tried to change his mind, Thomas, but he was adamant. He refused to countenance a
connection with a younger son of limited means."
He gasped at this intelligence. No one had ever questioned his background. How dare an upstart baron
who was only the third to hold his own title? Thomas might be a younger son, but the Marchgate earldom
dated to Richard Lionheart, and his ancestors had arrived with William.
 
But before he could protest, Alicia smiled in that radiant way that always sent his temperature soaring and
his blood boiling.
"My love, we must look to the future. You know Lord Darnley is an old man and not in the best of
health,” she confided in a husky voice that started fires raging through his loins.
He shuddered at the image of his angel forced to submit to an aging libertine like Darnley.
"He cannot long survive. You must be patient, my dearest Thomas. As a wealthy widow I can marry
where I choose. Papa will no longer control my life.” Resting a delicate hand trustingly against his chest,
she sighed, a single tear escaping to trickle down one alabaster cheek. Her violet eyes begged for
understanding, golden ringlets trembling in agitation.
How could she endure such a plight?
Still bleary from a week-long stupor, he nearly crushed her in his arms. But embracing another man's
betrothed would violate his honor. Nor could he pledge fidelity to another's wife, or to a hypothetical
widow—not and maintain his self-respect. Her face twisted into a momentary expression of—
annoyance? Of course not, he chided himself. She was as disturbed as he over this damnable mess, and
as prone to pain.
"Do not hold this frightful coil against me, my love,” she continued, her hand sliding up to his shoulder,
coursing desire through his body that threatened to undermine his precarious control. “I am counting on
you to see me through this trial."
She did not understand the havoc she was wreaking with those caressing fingers, he reminded himself.
Her natural sensuality was part of what attracted him, as were her vulnerability, her compassion, and her
exquisite taste. He wanted nothing more than to protect her from life's cruelties. But fate denied him that
role.
He managed to leave, honor intact, but, oh, how he wanted her! Why would a loving parent condemn a
daughter to such a mésalliance . Surely not merely for title and money! He could have found both in a
younger, more personable suitor. Corley had been chasing her all season. With a fortune larger than
Darnley's, an earl's title in hand and a marquess's guaranteed when his uncle died, he was by far the
better catch. Corley had been Thomas's principal rival since the day he had first beheld the newest
beauty at Almack's.
He had never considered marrying so soon, expecting several more years of freedom before settling
down. Then he caught sight of Alicia across the room and everything changed. She was a vision of
heaven in a delicate blue gown, an ethereal being framed in a cloud of mist. She met his eyes and smiled.
And he was lost. Her purity and innocence pierced his soul. Circe could not have enslaved him more
thoroughly.
He shuddered.
In a futile effort to forget, he embarked on a debauch that put his previous rakehelling to shame,
squandering each night on wine, women, and faro. Every afternoon he pummeled opponents at Jackson's
—all of whom displayed Darnley's face to his bleary eyes—before resuming his endless rounds of
brothels, gaming hells, and greenrooms, all seeming alike after uncounted bottles of brandy. He
succeeded in losing track of time, losing large amounts of money, and losing his legendary fastidiousness
in both dress and chère amies . But he could not lose sight of Alicia's face. The memories refused to die.
Her wedding came and went. He drank even more, fighting to banish the image of her consorting with
 
Darnley. Autumn rolled by without notice. His closest friends fought to rescue him from the brink of
disaster, but without success. For the first time in his life he cared nothing for what others thought of him.
Reality was too barren to face sober.
But now he was caught in an even worse coil. Three days before, he had been summoned home to stand
on the carpet where generations of Mannerings had meted out punishment to errant offspring. The Earl of
Marchgate pinned his second son with a withering glare and rang a peal over his head the likes of which
he had never endured in all his five-and-twenty years.
"Look at you!” the earl had stormed, a condemning finger pointed at his disheveled appearance.
“Bloodshot eyes, sallow skin, bosky at two in the afternoon! Eight months and you still wear your heart
on your sleeve. Is this the face a Mannering presents to the world? Where is your pride? Your honor?
Your debauchery is no longer just the latest on-dit , nor can it be fobbed off as yet another example of a
young cub sowing wild oats. You have become the laughingstock of the ton . And you are killing your
mother."
Thomas raised stricken eyes to his parent. As close to sober as he had been in months, he was appalled
at his own behavior, aware at last of just how low he had sunk. “Dear Lord,” he whispered, “you know I
would never deliberately harm her."
"This must stop,” continued the earl, his tired voice suddenly laced with pain. “At the very least you must
leave town. Eleanor comes out this spring. Unfair though it might be, your present behavior will seriously
damage her chances.” He noted the flush spreading across his son's face and sighed in relief. Perhaps the
boy was still reachable. His voice gentled. “Go down to Crawley. Try to rebuild your life. How deeply
are you dipped?"
"Nothing I cannot manage,” Thomas muttered darkly.
"Nonsense,” snapped the earl, anger again mastering his face. “I've had six duns at my door this week
over your debts. I will not have a son of mine in prison. Until Robert begets an heir, you stand second to
one of the oldest titles in England. Now how deeply are you dipped?"
"I don't know,” he admitted with a groan, dropping heavily into a chair and covering his face with his
hands. Silence stretched uncomfortably. He did not look up until a hand grasped his shoulder.
"Are you willing to make a clean start?” asked the earl quietly.
He nodded.
"Is Crawley mortgaged?"
He nodded again.
"Gather everything you owe,” commanded the earl. “I want everything—vowels, tradesmen's bills,
mortgage. I will pay the lot. But that will be all. Your allowance will continue for one year, then cease. Go
to Crawley. You have a year to make it profitable."
"But Crawley is in ruins,” he protested.
"Then I suggest you remain sober enough to restore it. It should be a very lucrative estate. And if you run
short of money, there is always your inheritance."
"You know the conditions."
 

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