Page 10 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

With one leg crossed over the other, Rafe lounged in the garden room of Devington Priory, his gaze unwavering from Miss Slade—who pretended she did not notice, but judging from the rigidity of her posture, she most certainly did—while his attention remained on Mr. Slade.

The host was in new form, at least based on Rafe’s brief experiences. Gone was the blustering, finger pointing Machiavellian, determined to matchmake his daughter by any means necessary. The man, instead, was all smiles and good humor, singing the praises of Rafe’s father in their Oxford days.

Beyond the adjacent double doors, the dining table was being set. The scents wafting in had Rafe almost licking his lips. It would be the longest dinner engagement of the week, he suspected, the mischievous stranger dining with prospective in-laws and bride, but it marked one of the most important—his first real opportunity to observe Miss Slade and gauge her response to him.

The Slade family and Rafe enjoyed wine in the room with the best view, two sides of the room being three sets of French doors that opened onto the formal gardens to the back of the house.

“The Great Hall was once the dining room,” Rafe found himself sharing after much prodding by Mrs. Slade. “Mother hated it. It echoed. It was drafty. It had no great view except the fireplace. Mother is nothing without her creature comforts.”

Mrs. Slade tittered in agreement.

“She put her foot down, as she’s wont to do. The saloon became the dining room. The stag parlor became this garden room. And both former designations relocated next to the billiard room, turning the west into the bachelor wing.”

Mrs. Slade made some remark or another. Rafe did not hear her.

Instead, he lost himself to the memory. He had been all of ten when the great upheaval occurred. No one had slept until the rearrangement had been completed—a day in the life of the Fitz-Stephenses, he mused. His father had done little except mutter how much his mother would disapprove. Indeed, Gran had disapproved heartily. The rooms were this way before you were born, Marion. How dare you upset the applecart for a view. Who wants a view while dining ?

Tangled in the fabric of memory, he was startled to realize he had lost the thread of conversation after it had moved forward. He listened to gain his bearings. Mr. Slade was sharing a tale of living in North Yorkshire. Good; Rafe had not missed anything significant. His eyes wandered back to Miss Slade’s stiff profile.

He had been thinking periodically of their brief encounter by the folly. Queerly, what struck him most was her choice in Philomena. Of all the horses in the stables, she had chosen the mare no one would ride. At one point, the mare had been intended for his mother, but the two had butted heads too many times, and in the end, Philomena won the right to be the pampered lady no one bothered. Absently, he wondered if the choice of horse was a reflection of her own personality. Stubborn to a fault? A determined biter? He coughed to disguise his laugh.

“Will you sit with Genevieve at church?” Mr. Slade asked with an expectant stare.

Rafe’s attention jerked back to his host. What had the man asked? After a speedy search through his peripheral memory, he turned to Miss Slade and raised his eyebrows in question, his expression asking for invitation or rejection before he answered. His delightfully conversational betrothed avoided his gaze.

“I would be delighted ,” Rafe said. “And speaking of delights. I am all eagerness to hear the vicar’s sermon. I’ve missed his words of wisdom. No one has mastered doom and gloom quite like the Reverend Goodson.”

Mrs. Slade, who sat across from her youngest two daughters, offered, “Then you’ve not heard. He has a young curate sermonizing now.”

“Oh ho ho. That is a surprise,” Rafe said. “As I live and breathe. Goodson allowing someone else at the pulpit?” He whistled low. “I’ll have you know, our beloved vicar has not aged a day since my christening.”

His immortality was undisputed, as no one could remember Goodson not being vicar. Not even Gran.

Mrs. Slade ventured, “The curate will be a welcome surprise for you, then, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. Young and affable. No doom and gloom there, I assure you. Poor dear is curate for both Grant Lindis and Lynntreow. That is no short distance. The poo r dear .”

“Ah, I’m not surprised,” Rafe said. “Lynntreow hasn’t had a vicar in years. Baronet Lyttleparva is an exacting man, shall we say, and hasn’t met anyone he likes well enough to recommend for the vicar’s living. I had hoped the previous curate would win favor, but if our new curate is now taking Lynntreow in hand, in addition… well, there’s a poor dear for you, the prior curate who not only was not offered the living but wasn’t invited to remain as curate.” He clucked his tongue.

Mr. Slade tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Baronet Lyttleparva, you say?”

Rafe waited for his host to ask something specific about the baronet or hint to what he wished to know, but the man said no more, the wrinkles on his brow speaking for him. It was not difficult to surmise what Mr. Slade wanted, but Rafe could only guess as to why. To rub elbows with Quality seemed Mr. Slade’s game. He wanted alliances with families like the Fitz-Stephenses. As to the end game, Rafe could not say. To find matches for his daughters? Or was there a more selfish intent at play? Perhaps there was not an end game. Perhaps Mr. Slade simply liked sharing his glass with those who afforded him a sense of importance.

“Mr. Fitz-Stephens,” one of the younger sisters crooned, catching his attention away from Mrs. Slade’s continued raptures about the young curate and Mr. Slade’s lingering enquiry.

Miss Cecilia, he believed, was her name. She had been batting her eyelashes at him since his arrival. However awkward that, given she was not only the sister of his betrothed but about the age of his younger brothers, he found himself more amused than anything, namely because with every batted eyelash, his oh-so-devoted betrothed responded with some subtle sign of reproach, be it flexing fingers or clenching her jaw. The theatrics of her disapproval had him chuckling to himself. It was just such insights of her for which he thirsted during this dinner engagement.

Turning his gaze to Miss Cecilia, he awarded her a winning smile. “Yes, Miss Cecilia. I am all agog.”

She blushed, then darted a glance to her youngest sister before asking, “Do you like to read?”

“I’ve been known to turn a page now and then.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, watching Miss Slade in his periphery, even while he faced Miss Cecilia.

“Do you like…” she mouthed with silent exaggeration the words “ gothic novels .”

Mrs. Slade yipped and plied her fan. “What have I told you! You’re never to speak of those vile works in my presence!” She leaned back, looking pale and breathless.

“But I didn’t, Mama! I mouthed , you see, which is altogether different….”

“In front of our guest!” Mrs. Slade protested, fumbling for her vinaigrette as she dropped her fan. “I am mortified!” With a sniff of her salts to restore her nerves, she moaned about the heathenness of her children.

Rafe cast an understanding smile to Mrs. Slade.

With giddy glances, Miss Cecilia and her sister pressed the conversation further.

Voices overlapping, Miss Theia said, “Radcliffe is my favorite,” while Miss Cecilia said, “Mrs. Trowbridge is my favorite.”

Shushing her sister with a quelling glance, Miss Cecilia said, “Trowbridge is bounds better than Radcliffe. You simply must read Trowbridge, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. The Count di Bianckino is divine !”

“He is not ,” argued Miss Theia. “He’s a villain! A detestable blackguard!”

Sniffing with vexation, her sister defended, “And why should the villain not also be divine , hmm? Not all of us favor the twinkling-eyed hero.”

As the two battled—Mrs. Slade suffering renewed vapors and waving her smelling salts, and Mr. Slade staring into his wine glass in hopes a pithy conversation was at the bottom of it—Rafe wondered where that left him in Miss Cecilia’s estimation given the direction of the batting eyelashes: villain or hero?

More importantly, how did Miss Slade view him?

Villain, without doubt.

He turned to Miss Slade, who feigned disinterest. “And you, Miss Slade? What do you enjoy reading?”

With a distracted and languid tone, she said airily, “I must beg your pardon. I wasn’t listening. Did you say something?”

“Trowbridge or Radcliffe is the debate—where do you stand?”

“Unlike my sisters, Mr. Fitz-Stephens, I do not favor villains or villainous tales, least of all featuring Italian counts or rogues .”

Just as dinner was announced, Rafe’s lips curved into a grin to catch the deepening pink of Miss Slade’s cheeks—her reply proved she had been listening to every word spoken.

The array of sumptuous decadence lining the dining table was fit for a king, not humble Rafe. Judging from the surprise flitting across Mr. Slade’s brow as he surveyed the meal, this treat was courtesy of Cook rather than the host. After dinner, Rafe would slip into the kitchen to plant a kiss on Cook’s cheek— yes, Cook, I’ve missed you too .

Accepting the chair next to his ever-affectionate bride-to-be, he catalogued the available foodstuffs, his mouth watering in anticipation. But first, his ladylove. He offered to plate her dinner. She pursed her lips, implying she was on the cusp of rejecting—and he suspected with what she thought would be a witty rejoinder about being of independent enough mind to plate for herself—but for whatever reason, she nodded acceptance. Small victory. He chose the best of the best for her, although he might have been a trifle too generous on portions. With a shrug, he began filling his plate with twice the amount. The dishes were some of his favorites, after all.

From the corners of his eyes, he observed her. Was she a finicky eater who poked at her food, or did she have a healthy appetite?

Without hesitation, she dug into the fare. Perhaps dug was discourteous. With ladylike gentility? Whatever the case, he grinned his satisfaction. She was not missish, then, at least not with appetite.

Mr. Slade asked, “Tell me, Mr. Fitz-Stephens, what parties does your family host in the autumn months?”

Rafe’s cutlery hesitated. “Parties, sir?”

“You know,” he waved his hand, as though the answer was obvious. “Foxhunting, shooting parties, and all.” Without awaiting a reply, he continued, “I would benefit from the usual guest list and the name of the local huntsman, should I wish to host, that is.”

Rafe weighed his response, choosing his words with care so as not to cause offense. “Can’t say we’re known for our hosting. More lawn than park, if you take my meaning. Mother enjoys hosting a retreat now and again. She would be happy to share her guest list with Mrs. Slade.” She would ring his neck for offering. “The best foxhunt is in Lower Sidvenna. His Lordship’s country estate is there, or one of them, rather. Exclusive guest list. Can’t say I’ve ever been invited.” To himself, he thought, hence, Mr. Sycophant, I cannot make an intro duction .

Mr. Slade’s disappointment was palpable but brief. His keen mind worked other possibilities. Undoubtedly, Rafe thought, Slade wished to chafe his elbows with the bluebloods. The man was not common, thankfully, however prone to histrionics he and his wife were, but his lineage, as far as Rafe knew, held no appeal, leastways for the nobs. Rafe could be wrong, but if Slade was of good family, why need an entrée into society? All the blunt in the world could not buy Slade recommended lineage.

But marriage could.

Rafe angled to admire Miss Slade, who looked most fetching in daffodil yellow today. Composed, austere, graceful. Except her hair. Libertine strands escaped the confines of their carefully wound curls, chestnut frizz haloing her coiffure. There was something enticing about the untamed curls. A glimpse of the real Genevieve?

Miss Cecilia, sitting opposite him, said, “Tell us about the Fracas Frolic. Genevieve took us into the village today, and everyone was talking about it. But what is it?”

To Miss Slade, he said, “I would be honored to escort you and your sisters on your next excursion to the village.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitz-Stephens,” Miss Slade said. Firmly, but not impolitely, she added, “We do not require an escort so close to home. I’ll keep your offer in mind should we wish to venture further afield.”

“Ah, but you won’t know all the best places in Grant Lindis without an escort in-the-know.”

“What’s there to know? A few shops and a tea garden.”

“Tea garden? We don’t have a tea garden.” He glanced around the table for confirmation. “We have a tavern, rather.”

“It would appear much has changed since your last return from London.” A sneaky bit of smuggery curled the corners of Miss Slade’s lips, or so it appeared to him.

Miss Cecilia, who huffed to have been forgotten, prompted, “The frolic?”

“Oh, yes!” Rafe set down his cutlery with a lingering look at his plate. “It’s a century-long tradition between Grant Lindis and neighboring Eurwendin, this competition. For one week, we go head-to-head, a new event every day, each earning points.”

Miss Slade’s haughtiness slipped, her interest piqued. “What sort of competition?”

“Team racing, mostly. Let’s see… there’s the forest run, the regatta, the swim meet, and… whatever else they’ve chosen. Points are earned in the morning race. In the afternoon, it’s fun on the green, three-legged races, and the like.” Tapping the table next to Miss Slade’s plate, he said, “There is always one event exclusive to the ladies. My mother will know what it is this year. Can I tempt you, Miss Slade?”

Her eyes flashed with something. Enticement? He could not read it, but he liked the fire behind that gaze, however brief the flicker.

“I couldn’t say, Mr. Fitz-Stephens, not without knowing the event.”

“I’ll consider that a challenge to convince you,” he teased with impishness.

And oh, how he loved a challenge. Mulgere hircum . To milk a male goat. In other words, to attempt the impossible—his specialty.

As conversation continued, Rafe’s attention danced between Miss Slade, her family, and the beveled windowpanes. The sunny sky had darkened with an ominous cloud, and a light pitter-patter of rain glazed the glass. He had not intended to stay beyond dinner. Nothing to concern himself with yet, but the awareness of an incoming storm kept his eyes darting outside from time to time.

His primary concern was Miss Slade. Too soon to say what was to be done about their unusual situation. She was not amenable to the match. That much was certain. With care, he believed he could win her over. The pressing question: did he want to? She had expressed a promise to someone else, with someone, he assumed, she had fancied herself in love. Nothing about the match was particularly attractive to either of them. Well, except her . She was attractive. But he could not be guided by lust, least of all for someone who blamed him.

Once dinner ended, they returned to the garden room. The rain fell in a steady stream, although the sky had lightened, the dark cloud moving quickly past, of which Rafe was grateful. The rain would keep him longer than he wished, but less so than a storm.

The meal had been so satisfying, including not one, not two, but three of his favorite desserts, Rafe almost welcomed the delay in his departure. How he would be able to sup with his family this evening, he was unsure. Then, who was he fooling? Of course, he would be able to sup with his family. In fact, as satiated as Rafe was, if a tray were brought in now, he would willingly partake. One did not maintain an active life without ample sustenance, after all.

Folding his hands over his waistcoat, he looked to his hosts in anticipation of more conversation. They were an inquisitive lot. Far different company than his family, the Slades full of questions, and the Fitz-Stephenses full of answers.

“Tell me, Mr. Fitz-Stephens,” began Mr. Slade, “about your London home. Fashionable, I suspect. In Mayfair? A home befitting my daughter?”

Miss Slade squeaked.

Mrs. Slade leaned forward in her chair with undisguised interest.

The sisters looked at each other and giggled.

Before he answered, Miss Theia, the youngest sister, said, “I’ve always wanted to see London. The country is so boring . Do you enjoy musical soirees? Do you attend the theatre? Have you been to the museum? A person could live in London! How bored you must be in Devonshire.”

As she rattled on, he watched Miss Slade’s reaction, which, unlike her mother, was of disguised interest. She tilted her head and leaned forward, poised to hear his reply, but she fidgeted with the embroidered sprig of her dinner gown, attention riveted on the thread, for all the world disinterested in whatever he had to say. Rafe tucked away the smile edging his lips.

“My apartments are at Gray’s Inn, temporary bachelor lodging.” He hesitated before continuing. How to word his answer without some reference to m arriage ?

When he married? Should he marry? If he married? After he married? They rather than he ?

“My options are numerous,” he said, settling on the obtuse. “I could choose a circuit, the Western circuit, for instance, to live near my family, and travel to the Quarter Sessions. I could choose London but agree to work the Assizes, as needed, for more time in the countryside. Alternatively, I could choose London as my permanent home, or within a reasonable distance, and take to the Old Bailey. Assuming, of course, I’m Called to the Bar. All have their advantages.”

“London!” squealed the sisters.

Miss Cecilia added, “No sane person would choose the country.”

“Are you so sure?” Rafe teased her with a daring grin. “I counter anyone who is bored in the country isn’t trying. There’s myriad entertainment available.”

While he had intended to add the Fracas Frolic as an example, he saw from the widening of her eyes and the darting of her gaze between him and Miss Slade, that she was imagining far saucier entertainment than he had intended—sneaking into bedchambers being the primary source. Rather than clarify or dissuade, he simply resumed his smile, only directing it at Miss Slade.

“My wife ,” he continued with emphasis, “would be a driving force behind the decision. Raising children is not ideal in London, but she may have an interest in city life. I could be persuaded to take whichever route. The home, then, would depend on that choice.”

He observed Miss Slade’s agitated fingers picking at the innocent thread.

However much his answer aimed to tease her, what he described was not untrue, although it was more complicated. His plan had always been the Old Bailey. From there, he hoped for promotion to King’s Counsel, potentially on to Parliament, or, alternatively, sitting as a Judge. He had never wished to become a circuit barrister. The circuit offered no opportunity for promotion, and less challenging cases, more misdemeanor than criminal, only a few shades darker than what his father saw as a magistrate. The circuit offered nothing beyond the humdrum dullness of traveling the circuit, an endless loop.

He could still fulfill his dream as a London barrister with a wife and family, but it would not prove easy. He had seen that already during his terms at Gray’s Inn. Old Bailey barristers were married to the profession. The circuit barristers were the family men. It was not a matter of talent or respectability, only of life choices. Raising children in London did not appeal to him.

Rafe’s eyes caught Miss Slade’s and lingered. Were his as clouded as hers?

After fielding enough questions for the rain to subside, Rafe rose. “My thanks for dinner. I’m impelled to return while there’s a part in the clouds.”

“Please, stay longer,” pleaded Mrs. Slade. “Don’t let rain stop our fun.”

Miss Theia suggested, “We could best you at billiards! We’ve been practicing.”

With an apologetic bow, Rafe said, “I would be tempted by your offer had I not promised the remainder of the afternoon to my father. Actually, it is he who has promised the afternoon to me . I am not too humble to beg, you must know. After much pleading, he’s agreed to confer with me about a selection of old cases I’ve been studying. Having a magistrate’s insight will be advantageous. My hope is he’ll amuse me enough to debate opposing perspectives, namely had I been a barrister on the case and chosen a different angle to argue.”

As he rattled on about his scheme, he watched the Slades’ attention waver. Their posture slackened, and their eyes wandered. All except Miss Slade, who listened with apparent curiosity.

Now that was interesting. While her family preferred talks of London, she perked at his plans to interrogate his father about law. He tucked that away to consider in more depth later. For now, he had Cook’s cheek to kiss before making a mad dash back to the dower house before rain returned.