Page 11 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

The sun knew that today was its self-named day. After another full day clouded by rain, Sunday was, indeed, a sun-day. Genevieve spent most of church service catching glimpses of the rays through the diamond panes. Was Philly as eager to take advantage of the weather as she? Her feet tapped in anticipation of a ride.

The curate spoke of the upcoming competition, his sermon encouraging fellowship and community camaraderie. This would be his first competition. A simple statement but one that helped Genevieve feel not so alone in her outsiderness. She was not the only new face in Grant Lindis.

The Slades and the Fitz-Stephenses shared a pew, Genevieve and the stranger sitting between them. She had met the Fitz-Stephenses on several occasions prior to their second son’s return, as Papa insisted they dine at the house once a week or more, something she could tell did not sit well with the Mmes. Fitz-Stephens but was a welcome invitation for the Squire and the two boys, who enjoyed teasing her sisters. Today, however, was the first time she had seen the family since the betrothal.

The father looked on her with approval. The brothers gave her a curious side eye. The Mmes. Fitz-Stephens ignored her. And yet, so adroitly did the mother and grandmother play their game, Genevieve did not feel slighted. There was neither a cut nor apparent rudeness. With awe-inspiring grace, they publicly accepted her into the fold without personally acknowledging her. The whole of it had her gurgling with silent laughter. They must think she had laid a trap for Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens. A conniving, marriage-minded woman who set out to ensnare him with claims of compromise—who would not laugh at the absurdity, least of all since she had spent every day since the incident blaming him for much the same?

Her thoughts remained occupied as they rose for the end of service and proceeded outside, so occupied she did not pay her father any mind as he exchanged pleasantries in the churchyard, not until her arms prickled with gooseflesh. Donning her bonnet to shield the glare and busy her hands, she glanced around her. The hair on the back of her arms stood on end. Gazes sought hers, each looking away just as quickly—presumably no one wishing to be caught staring or wishing to initiate conversation. The attention was, nonetheless, unsettling.

Both the Slades and the Fitz-Stephenses were busy chatting with others, except her sisters, who amused themselves, all oblivious to the stares. Casually, Genevieve stepped closer to her father, ears strained. He was standing with a couple she did not know.

“I couldn’t say more,” came his voice, albeit with practiced timidity, “but I anticipate a happy ending.”

She could not hear the couple’s soft reply.

Her father responded, his voice just loud enough for others to overhear, “How does word of these understandings spread, I’d like to know? As though the wind itself has a voice. They’ve sworn us to secrecy until…” he dropped his voice “…the banns.” Papa’s laugh was convincingly chagrined to have let his so-called secret slip. “I’ve said too much, haven’t I? Oh, dear me. Fanning the flames! It’s not my intention, but I am proud. Our families will be united.”

In wide-eyed mortification, Genevieve turned to her father. It was inevitable he would spread word but… now ?

A warm hand cupped her elbow. Nearly spinning on her heels with a gasp, she was, at first, confused, and then angry, and finally relieved, all in the span of a few seconds, to see Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens standing at her side, his expression amused and his demeanor at ease.

For her ears only, he said, “We’ve been found out, Miss Slade. Our love affair is public knowledge.” Before she could protest, he lightly squeezed her elbow. “Two choices. I introduce you to all and sundry as my betrothed, here and now, or I escort you home, the clandestine lovers wishing a rare moment of privacy.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that word.” She wanted to hide, but instead she slid a shy smile on her lips for the benefit of onlookers.

He glanced at her with a humored brow. “To Devington Priory?”

Genevieve nodded.

With a fingertip to the brim of his beaver hat, and a wink to their families, he wished a good day to everyone loitering in the churchyard, more than one woman blushing from the simple gesture.

“We’re saved,” he began as they walked down the narrow lane towards the center of Grant Lindis, “from answering probing questions. At least this round. Should we face confrontation of well-meaning but nosy neighbors, I recommend a diplomatic approach. Regardless of the question, the answers should be variations of,” the next said in a high-pitched voice, “‘I thought him handsome at first sight.’”

She wanted to laugh at his imitation of her, as well as his arrogance, but instead she said, “If we’re betrothed, there’s no point in avoiding the question.”

“Are we?”

Her brow wrinkled. Subtly, she slipped her elbow free of his hand and allowed space between them.

Ignoring the scent of his perfume, that same irresistible combination she had tried to forget—citrus, rose water, and mint—she said, “I wish Papa had not said anything. If he had remained silent, we might have ended this silliness without fuss. I wrote to Mr. Thorpe, you should know. I’m certain, as soon as he receives it, he’ll travel here to set all to rights.” How he would do so remained to be seen.

Mr. Fitz-Stephens did not immediately respond. They walked in silence, interrupted only by a wave here and there from churchgoers returning home. She tried to catch a glimpse of his expression but could not see his face past her bonnet, not unless she fully turned, which would ruin her attempts to spy unnoticed.

“You care for him deeply?” he asked at last.

Now was her turn to hesitate. Nothing she could say would sound satisfactory, and she did not wish to lie.

Instead, she side-stepped his question. “You can’t possibly want this betrothal. I do not grant you permission to protest or feign insult, for we both see the same side of the situation because we both know what happened. It was a misunderstanding, and Papa took advantage to trap us both, using our gentility against us. You must resent me. If not for participating in his machinations, then simply for being in an unlikely location at an unlikely moment.”

Had all of that spilled past her lips at once? Too late to withdraw it. Not that she had said anything he did not already think or should think, but did she have to mention res entment ?

With a voice too airy, too whimsical for this conversation, he said, “We are in the perfect position for friendship, then.”

This time, she did laugh. “Friendship? Based on what, exactly?”

Dipping his head low, his voice dangerously close to the edge of her bonnet, he said, “I have the advantage of being the only gentleman to have seen you in curlers.”

Genevieve covered her mouth to muffle a cry. Her limbs trembled and her cheeks warmed with outrage. And he called himself a gentleman!

Pretending he had not said what he had, Mr. Fitz-Stephens asked, “Your Mr. Thorpe is not going to ‘demand satisfaction,’ is he?”

Huffing, still hot with anger, she snapped, “Would serve you right to have a glove meet your cheek.”

He chuckled. “It doesn’t work quite like that these days.”

She rushed to speak before he could insult her further or ask more questions about Mr. Thorpe. “Once he arrives, you need only step aside. I thank you for your gentlemanly offer, but your kindness will no longer be needed. You may return to your plans to become a London barrister and stay there hereafter.”

“So, you were listening.”

With a scoff, she turned away so he could enjoy a view of the back of her bonnet, her view the narrow lane that would take them up the drive to Devington Priory.

“Miss Slade, I believe you are an intelligent enough woman to realize the situation is not as easy as Mr. Thorpe arriving and my stepping aside, not if your father is set on this match, and not now that he has ensured word is spreading.”

He paused long enough to allow her to agree or disagree if she wished. She pursed her lips.

“If extrication from this betrothal is what you wish,” he continued, “I will make it my mission to see you united with your Mr. Thorpe, namely with your parents’ happy approval.”

“Of course, I wish this sham of a betrothal to end. Neither of us wants this. We were both coerced.” Softer, less confident, she asked, “Don’t you agree?”

He hesitated long enough for her to turn to face him. Whatever expression she had expected was not the one she saw.

His lips had curled into a wolfish grin, and his eyelids had drooped in admiration. “The more I recall those curlers, the more enticed I am to marry you.”

Genevieve’s jaw slackened. “How… how… oof !” She crossed her arms over her chest and quickened her steps, the house now in sight.

Behind her, Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens laughed heartily.

Morning twilight illuminated the world around Rafe, his legs pumping forward, his lungs expanding with the crisp country air.

Ex nihilo nihil fit . Nothing comes from nothing. Work is required to succeed. Selwyn had taught him this, never letting him forget it, all part of the training within the Vitruvian Society. It would be good to see Selwyn again once Rafe and Rupert Headley decided on the best day to call on him.

Despite the Fitz-Stephens family’s penchant for late nights, Rafe rose before dawn every morning for his jog, rain or shine, the time his own. Awaiting him at the dower house would be a warm bath. While he missed having ready access to his gymnasium in London, he was hard pressed not to prefer the country air to London’s soot, so much so, he spent nearly every morning questioning his future. He had always preferred the country. London offered ample conveniences, but it was not home.

The country air was not the only element to prompt him to envisage his future. For so long, he had single-mindedly barreled in one direction, at no point stopping to think about the sacrifices he would need to make. With his goal clear, he had never concerned himself with sacrifices.

Given Miss Slade had Mr. Thorpe, and this misunderstanding would be resolved before long, he need not concern himself with sacrifices even now.

The betrothal was temporary. Rafe did not wish to marry someone whose heart lay elsewhere. Thus, he would do all in his power to convince the Slades that Mr. Thorpe was the better choice for their daughter, and once that occurred, he could recuse himself from the understanding, and in doing so, reunite Miss Slade with her true love. A happy ending for everyone.

It was not the betrothal or Miss Slade that had him questioning his future, rather it was the idea of the betrothal and, yes, even of Miss Slade. Where should his priorities lie? Family or profession? He could have both. He need not sacrifice one for the other. But choosing the specific path he had originally planned complicated the time and attention he could devote to a family, not to mention location. He did not wish to raise children in or near London.

As he rounded back towards the dower house, he reconsidered his priorities. For now, his priorities were a bath, breakfast, and then a ride with Alfgar to meet Headley, all thoughts of marriage and obstinate women with grey eyes muted in anticipation of a hearty meal.

Several hours later, Rafe sat across from Headley in the tea garden.

“This is novel,” Headley said, taking in the cozy surroundings.

“A new extension of the tavern. Between this, the curate, and the Slades letting my family home, I’m a stranger in my own village.”

The tea garden was small, a far cry from any pleasure garden one could enjoy in London. In fact, there was little to it aside from al fresco tables amongst a young but burgeoning flower garden with narrow paths and a small pond with an idyllic but rather pointless little bridge. Why The Dragon’s Breath tavern had wanted to expand with this , Rafe could only guess, but he imagined it was popular with the ladies. Had Miss Slade enjoyed a meal here yet?

Headley dug into his mutton. “How’s it living with Mrs. Edwina? She always had a soft spot for me, but I can’t imagine living under the same roof as her.”

“Gran’s as high in the instep as ever, but I’m enjoying her doting, I admit. With Giles not here at present, I’m receiving his princely treatment.”

“Any word from the golden boy?”

Rafe shook his head before savoring the port. “Not since Father invested in the latest expedition, whatever it is.”

“And you don’t suspect him of pilfering?”

“Couldn’t say. Gran does. She’s never understood Giles’s fascination with exploration or travel. If it had been a younger son, I don’t think she would question it, but a Fitz-Stephens heir? Insupportable.”

“Always refreshing to know your grandmama wouldn’t mind you being lost at sea or thrown overboard by pirates, so long as you weren’t the heir to Devington.”

Rafe laughed.

“You’ve said little about the Slades. Vulgar merchants? Respectable but ungenteel?”

Rafe had intentionally been avoiding talk of the Slades. He did not want to deceive his friend by not mentioning the betrothal, but neither did he wish what should have been a happy occasion be explained as a mistake of circumstance. No matter how he worded the explanation, it did not show Miss Slade to any advantage, much less him. A betrothal should not be pitied. Ah, but dash if there was not a good explanation. Could he fake happiness and pretend it was real? All the worse when she chose to marry Mr. Thorpe. He could not keep the betrothal secret for long, but a little more time would offer him a chance to think of a believable explanation that would not humiliate him or Miss Slade.

He opted for vagueness this round. “Mr. Slade, from what I understand, is an old Oxford friend of Father’s, although I’ve never met the family before. They, apparently, maintained correspondence throughout the years.”

What else to say that would not sound negative? He refused to besmirch Miss Slade’s family, regardless of the betrothal conditions.

Turning his glass one way then another, Rafe continued, “My impression of Mr. Slade is he enjoys a life of leisure, i.e., responsibility and he would not be caught in the same room. A life to be envied by many, I should think.”

“I see.” Headley leaned back in his chair after plying his napkin. “Lord of the manor without strings attached. A grand way to live, although there’s no pride in it, but what of his family?”

Hesitantly, Rafe admitted, “Three daughters.” With a chuckle to ease the constriction of his cravat, he added, “And before you raise your eyebrows, two are too young.”

“Two?”

“The eldest is a pretty painting, yes, but not for you.”

Rafe could only guess what Headley must be thinking—an undesirable woman? Already spoken for? Rafe marking his territory?

Whatever the case, Headley nodded. “Understood.”

Rafe spotted the gleam in Headley’s eyes. Changing subjects before more could slip, he asked, “Have you decided to compete?”

“You know I have. I’ve already rounded up our rowers for the regatta, which is more than you’ve done, and you live here.”

Grimacing, Rafe knew what Headley was implying—he was distracted by something or someone . “You’ll stay at the dower house for the week?”

“Unless the Slades wouldn’t mind a handsome and unattached gentleman staying in his usual suite.” The gleam sparkled.

“I’ll ensure a room is prepared at the dower house, then,” Rafe said with a wink. Easier said than done. The house was already full to bursting. The room they had set aside for Giles would have to do.

“Diana wants to join this year. Room for her, as well? She could stay at Devington.”

She could. But that would irritate his family. “Gran will welcome her with open arms.” Although where Headley’s sister would room would be left for Gran to decide. “Any other plots to worm your way into the big house, or is my hospitality acceptable?”

“There are the dogs, as well, to consider…. No, I concede. For now.” Headley’s smirk said he would get to the bottom of why the eldest daughter was not for him. “The rowers hope to spend tomorrow practicing. Are you game, Fitz-Stephens?”

“Without hesitation. We’ll want to scour the lake for Eurwendin spies first. Last year, they aimed for every advantage.”

“ Spies ? Only the Fracas Frolic could turn neighboring villagers into spies.” Headley shook his head. “Speaking of spies , I was tossing around the possibility of visiting Selwyn on Wednesday.”

“I’m in. Meet at the fort? Oh, and I don’t know where you got the idea Selwyn is a former spy. He was a privateer.”

“I beg to differ. A spy who wants you to think he was a privateer. All part of his disguise. Now, unless you plan to romance me amongst the blooms,” Headley said with a waggle of his eyebrows, “I propose you make good on that race you promised. Hercules is eager to show Alfgar what a horse can do.” He rose and nodded for Rafe to follow.

Tossing back the remaining port, Rafe did as he was bid, eager for a stimulating ride. Alfie had shown no signs of injury since the light bruising on the journey from London and had been champing his bit to do more than ginger walks and trots about the estate grounds. Alfie was restless. As was Rafe. Who was Rafe to deny them both the pleasure of a good ride?