The Rake's Handbook by Sally Orr Page B

whether she could resist Mr. Thornbury’s charm on the journey, but if she remained steadfast, there should be no future loss of proprieties and certainly no opportunity for him to kiss her.
    â€œTake my advice. You need an escort. Don’t you understand this man wrote The Rake’s Handbook and cannot be trusted around women?”
    Berdy brightened. “Did you write a handbook, Ross? I’d dearly love to read it if it is all about how to be a rake.”
    â€œDeane, you are too young to read such a vulgar book,” the doctor snapped.
    Berdy sat straight in excitement. “Have you read it, sir?”
    The doctor cleared his throat. “Of course.” He glared at Berdy. “Well, let’s just say I looked into the matter after I witnessed your aunt—”
    â€œNow I question whether anyone in Cheshire has read it,” Elinor stated.
    â€œIs it amusing, Dr. Potts? Tell me all about it.” Without a reply from the doctor, Berdy turned to Ross. “Do you have a copy of the handbook? I’d be immensely grateful if you let me borrow it.”
    â€œNo, I did not think of bringing a copy here to the countryside,” Mr. Thornbury stated. “I apologize.”
    After an awkward silence, Dr. Potts held his hand out to her. “You know my concerns. I’ll take my leave now, but we will speak of this later. May I escort you home?”
    Mr. Thornbury rose from his chair, headed for the door, then turned to address Berdy. “After the doctor leaves, I’ll return with more cravats, so you can teach this old dog a trick or two about the perfect knot.”
    She smiled at him before giving her hand to the doctor in farewell. “Thank you. But I prefer to stay with Berdy while he is feeling poorly.”
    â€œVery well,” the doctor said. “Deane, you and I must discuss your intentions later. Real intentions, none of this vulgar rake nonsense. Thornbury, I’ll take my leave of you for the present. But unless you want to meet before the King’s Bench, I suggest you stop your plans for a foundry.” He bowed slightly, and Mr. Thornbury followed him out of the room.
    Berdy fussed with his neckcloth in preparation for his return.
    Judging from Mr. Thornbury’s ability to keep Berdy from fretting over his leg, she gained confidence that he would see to Berdy’s eventual recovery and amusement while he remained at Blackwell.
    Berdy held up his long white cravat. “The rain after the accident must have washed out the starch. Look at this—limp—dead. A fellow can never be caught in public with a neckcloth like this.”
    She began to harbor guilt that the doctor’s accusations had offended Mr. Thornbury. It was difficult to tell, because even after threats, his lighthearted banter remained. Mr. Thornbury’s patience and charm were an admirable aspect of his manners, and she liked this side of his character. In the future she hoped they would become fast friends. The other side, the flirtatious rake side, she knew how to keep in check now—a simple, firm “no.”
    Mr. Thornbury returned with his arms full of white neckcloths. “My current cravat inventory is scandalous. Will these do?” He laid the neckcloths at the foot of the bed, picked up the top one, and handed it to Berdy. “Show me how to tie L’Americaine .”
    Berdy leaned forward to grab the tie. “Ow!” He crashed back onto the pillows, the cravat pile spilling across the floor.
    Mr. Thornbury, without comment, picked up the spilled neckcloths. He folded them neatly into an orderly pile on the counterpane. Pulling up the ends of his collar, he took the tie from Berdy’s clinched fist. “I hope L’Americaine doesn’t require a whale bone. I don’t wear cravats with stiffeners.”
    Yes. She was glad she had agreed to visit a mine’s chimney, a small token of thanks for his attentions to Berdy. She