Page 14 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Rafe watched her toying with her ringlets, a trifle smitten. How the devil was he going to matchmake her with Mr. Thorpe? He was unconvinced he wanted to. He could seduce her into falling for him, instead, steal her heart from her old love, move forward with the betrothal. But was it wise? And how arrogant of him to believe hearts were easily swayed. If she were so inconstant, that would say more about her than his acumen with the fairer sex.

Yet he could not tear his eyes from her. Etiquette had the right of it to ensure couples were chaperoned at all times. This solitude, the intimacy of it, the ability to say whatever one wished without being overheard or observed, it was dangerously intoxicating, quite heady.

Breaking his thoughts, he asked, “How are you liking Grant Lindis?”

“It’s humorous you ask me today of all days because today has been the first day, I believe, of my entire life, I’ve felt like I was welcomed, really welcomed as a village member. I helped mark the path for the forest run.”

He held up the twig. “I gathered.”

She narrowed her gaze, but a becoming blush blossomed on her cheeks. “I’ve lived all over the British Isles, yet never met with so warm a welcome. For a brief time, I also lived in Wales and Scotland. The longest we’ve lived anywhere was five years. After five years, you would think I would have been part of something, made friends, known my neighbors. Not a whit, I tell you. Most places, we only stayed for three, but that has shortened each year. We’ve had back-to-back one-year leases for the past four years. One year never seems long enough to try to make friends. I simply don’t bother. Yet today… today proved me wrong.”

Miss Slade gazed into the distance, a faint smile giving him the impression she was remembering her romp in the forest. He was only disappointed he had not been there to witness it.

“Papa loves to meet new people,” she continued. “Loves entertaining and socializing. He’s restless, though, and querulous if he’s stuck anywhere too long. Seeing the same people is never as enjoyable for him as meeting new people. I think the longer he stays somewhere, the more responsibility he feels, from the care of the estate to the maintenance of existing friendships, and if there’s one quality he does not like, it’s responsibility. If he could see his daughters settled, I believe he would take Mama traveling abroad, although he has never said as much.”

Rafe fiddled with the twig, wondering what it would be like to be brought up without a home, without consistency. He could not imagine a life without his neighbors. Every happy memory was wound around Grant Lindis or neighboring villages and towns. If pressed, he could sketch the placement of every tree in the nearby woods, mark all the best places to retreat for solitude or cause mischief with one’s mates. Regardless of how their situation ended, he felt it his duty to ensure she could consider this a home, a place of friendly refuge no matter where in the world she moved next—with or without Mr. Thorpe.

“I wonder,” she continued, “what stories my previous houses had to tell. I never knew to listen. Think of the hidden rooms I must have missed.”

“Or, instead of thinking what’s been missed, we could think of what’s now been found.”

He was referring to her feelings of belonging in Grant Lindis, perhaps also to this room, a haven away from troubles, but as their eyes met and held, he wondered if the words had not implied something more. Her eyes darkened to an almost smokey shade of slate. One corner of Rafe’s lips quivered. In future, he may reconsider being alone with her. She was dangerous, more so because she had no awareness of the beauty she wielded, and he was not thinking only of her figure, face, and disheveled curls.

She disturbed the direction of his thoughts, but only as a ripple on the water’s surface. “Were you really out walking the grounds, or was that an excuse to avoid the inevitable tray in the drawing room?”

Trying not to watch her lips form the words, he stayed focused on her eyes, not that it helped cool the skin beneath his cravat. “You said it, not me. My arrival was innocent, a gentleman caller for the Slade family, but when I was informed all were from home, impishness got the best of me. Mr. Norton hinted to everyone’s whereabouts, so I decided to linger, suspecting you would return soon. Why am I giving away my secrets? You’ve put a spell on me, Miss Slade.”

“Genevieve,” she nudged.

“ Ita vero ,” he agreed. “While you were foraging in the forest, I spent the morning with old friends. Made a few new ones in the process.”

She arched her brows. “Oh? Will you tell me about it, or only tease me?”

“I might have to tease you. It involves a secret society.”

Her brows rose higher.

“Only jesting. It is a society, but not in any way secret. It’s the Vitruvian Society. I’ve been a member since I was… oh, I’m not certain, actually… fourteen, perhaps? It’s not unlike the gentlemen clubs in London, but more in the way of a sportsman club.”

“As I’ve not been to London and have no brothers, I can honestly say I don’t know anything about the gentlemen clubs in London.” The admonishment was gentle, said with a breathy laugh.

“Ah, yes. There’s that. Incidentally, I’m not a member of any of the London clubs, but I hear they mostly involve gambling, coffee, and gossip, although I’m sure there’s more to them than that. At least, I hope so. Allow me to approach my club’s introduction differently. I engaged in a duel today. How is that for an opening?”

His words had the desired effect.

She gasped and gripped the arms of her chair. “I… suppose you won?”

“By the skin of my teeth. It wasn’t a duel at dawn, I should clarify, although that removes much of the drama. It was a fencing bout with one of the newer members of the Society. More than once, I thought my goose was cooked. I did win, but it was humbling to be so out of practice.”

“ Why were you fighting?”

“We weren’t. We were engaged in conversation.”

She tilted her head, the brows now furrowing.

“A fencing jest, yes? A conversation of blades?” He chuckled to himself. “Never mind my attempt at humor. In truth, we were engaged in conversation, more than one, in point of fact. See, a fencing bout among Society members isn’t just about fencing. We must debate while crossing blades, the topic being the standing champion’s choice. A test for both mind and body.”

“I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but what sort of club is this?”

It gave him pause that someone would not know about the Vitruvian Society. He should have realized she would not be familiar with it. After all, none of the barristers at Gray’s Inn knew about it, nor had anyone he had met in London. But now that he was home, in his old stomping ground, it was unusual for someone not to know about the Society, even if only by reputation of its exclusivity of membership. All his brothers were members. Giles was one of the founding members.

“My apologies, Genevieve.” He admired the flush along her neck at his use of her name. “I don’t mean to shroud with secrecy. The society is based, in part, on the Vitruvian Man, but more specifically on the Renaissance ideologies modernized according to Descartes’ treatise on man, i.e. an enlightened man, who embodies the tenets of reason. Such a man exemplifies athleticism, self-improvement and development, self-government, education, discussion and debate, critical thought, questioning and reasoning, just to name a few.”

Her mouth formed an oh , but she said nothing at first. Rafe sat up a little straighter, feeling more like a bounder than an enlightened gentleman for all his flirting. He hardly exemplified any of these traits at the moment.

Instead of pointing out his flaws, she asked, “You joined to become this Vitruvian person?”

He restrained his mirth. “It’s not a matter of joining. One must earn their place. An existing member must first recommend you, and then you face a one-week trial before the members vote if you’re to join the ranks.”

“That doesn’t sound too terrible. Anyone can join if they’re recommended and voted, then. And the training of all those things is after the trial?”

“Not exactly. One must already be those things, instinctively, and that must be demonstrated. The trial isn’t where we attend meetings to get to know fellow members. It’s a true trial, a test, one of strength, endurance, and intelligence. Trials are held twice per year, and the tests endured change each time, so there’s no way to prepare. Candidates must perform mental and physical tasks under duress, such as swimming in an icy lake in the dead of winter and, upon surfacing, have to solve a complex riddle, all while half frozen and trying to build a fire using only nature’s tools. Or engaging in a thirty to sixty-mile roundtrip race only to be given, immediately upon return, an ancient language to decipher rather than sustenance or rest.”

“For fun ? Who would do any of that to join a club? You’re teasing me.” She laughed with abandon. “To think, I believed you.”

Straight faced, he said, “But it is true.”

“If you were in the Army, perhaps. I don’t believe you. And any matter, who would pass so foolhardy trial?”

“It’s all true. Those were off the hip examples, not necessarily real trials, but they capture the heart of the trials.” He rubbed his chin in thought, feeling rather defensive of his Society and his idea of what was fun , while trying to understand why someone might view the whole of it as half-hinged. “It’s not about passing the trial. Candidates don’t know that, of course. They believe it is about passing, but it’s not. There is no ‘pass’ or ‘fail.’ It’s a personal journey, this trial. You learn your limits, as well as what you’re capable of. You learn your breaking point. In this way, when you become a member of the Society, you have a fixed mark of your limit and can then train to become unbreakable. The trial is about you , not about the Society.”

“Oh, I see. That makes much more sense. Everyone ‘passes’ in the end and becomes a member, everyone who wishes to, that is.”

“On the contrary. Less than a quarter of the candidates who begin trial week finish. Most quit.” He recalled his own trial and the myriad times he had wanted to quit. Knowing his brother was watching, and wanting to make Giles proud, he had persevered. “Once in the Society, true training begins, as members craft themselves into the ultimate polymath. We learn and practice every subject. Philosophy, poetry, music, science, mathematics, history, politics, languages, geology, biology, humanism, physics, architecture… I could go on, yes? Riding, fencing, pugilism, rowing… I could continue there, as well, you see. We become limitless. Vincit qui se vincit , Genevieve. He conquers who conquers himself.”

He said the last with a hypocritical air that he hoped she did not notice. A man who conquers himself would be master of temptations, able to control himself and his urges, and yet he sat here in a room with a beautiful woman, alone, unguarded, a woman he inexplicably desired to kiss. That her eyes roamed over him, as though determining how well he had succeeded at becoming a polymath, did nothing more than fan the flames. Although he sat, perfectly respectable in a visiting suit, he suspected his athleticism was on display. At least he did not wear padding. And if it was not arrogant to boast, he thought his calves looked rather fetching in the clocked stockings he had chosen. No riding boots today to hide the musculature, not when making formal calls.

He flashed her a smile when her gaze returned to meet his. “Do I meet with your approval?”

“I… I don’t know what you mean.” A blush of deep crimson crept from the fichu tucked into her bodice, up her neck, and into her cheeks.

Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his ankles, and folded his hands over his middle, still thumbing the twig—the last, only to antagonize her. “And that, my dear, was what I was doing this morning. Enjoying the company of other crazed individuals who take pleasure in debating while fencing, playing a piano blindfolded, or perhaps retelling Plato’s allegory in ten languages. Backwards. While balancing a pineapple on one’s head.” When she did not laugh, he said, “That was a jest, by the way.”

Her silence was discouraging. Was he boasting? He was. He must be. She thought him vain.

Sitting up again, now self-conscious, he moved the topic back to her. “Will you compete in the archery event?”

Genevieve’s eyes widened, obviously surprised to have the tables turned. “I… I’m out of practice, as I said.”

“All the more reason to devote this week to familiarizing yourself with the bow again. I’ll speak to Mother as soon as I return to the dower house. We can arrange for the two of you to meet as early as tomorrow.”

She looked down at her hands and laced her fingers. “I’m undecided. I was never good at it.”

“This is an opportunity to improve yourself. Be the best you can be? Mother will be delighted to help, although she may not admit it.”

Shifting in her chair, she averted her gaze. “Let me think on it. I need time to consider. I… I don’t want to humiliate myself.”

“Come, there’s no reason not to. I won’t take no for an answer,” he insisted jovially. “No one will judge you. It’s about having fun, practicing a skill, improving oneself, improving one’s village. You can’t say no.”

He could not understand the hesitation. Why would she not want to hone a craft, any craft? Why would she not want to join in the fun? Rafe had no bean in this battle. It did not matter to him if she participated or not. But he could not understand why she would say no.

“I’ll think about it,” she repeated.

“Genevieve. Come. Why the reluctance?”

“Stop being combative,” she snapped at him.

He inched further back in his chair, surprised by the harshness. “‘Pon my honor, that’s not my intention. I only wish to encourage you to want more for yourself. Why settle with ‘out of practice’? Why settle for anything? We should always ask more of ourselves.”

Rising from her chair, she said, “Not all of us are interested in swimming across icy lakes to see if we can solve a riddle or build a fire with frostbitten fingers while freezing to death.”

Rafe swept a hand over his face. Where had he gone wrong? Why was she so emotional?

Tossing the twig in the empty hearth, he said, “Please, Genevieve. Sit down. Accept my apologies.” He could not say what his apologies were, for he could not see what he had said wrong, but experience had taught him women responded well to prostration. “ Mea culpa , Genevieve.” He held out his hand palm up as a peace offering.

She stared down at it, her expression stony. At length, she took his palm in hers and allowed him to guide her back to her chair.

“We can watch the archery from the sidelines. Together.” His smile was tentative.

With a sigh, she said, “No, I’ll participate. I want to participate. But I want to because I want to, not because you’re browbeating me into it.”

Had he? He did not believe he had. Recalling his words, he was positive he was encouraging, thoughtful, rational with his explanations. It was only the silly archery event at the festival, after all. She was the one being defensive and emotional, beating the old brow, as it were. Rafe knew better than to say anything further. That he was frustrated by her reaction, he also kept to himself.

Instead, he adapted his approach. “If I were a betting man, I would wager you’re goddess-like with a bow, although I’m certain you are as fetching without one as with, but with a bow, you would inspire Artemis herself in your majesty.”

Her reply was a scowl.

He smiled a toothy grin, hoping to diffuse her ire. Hoping, as well, she would not screech rogue and storm out.

Inch by blessed inch, her scowl softened until she parted those cherubin lips and laughed. Rafe would not wager she laughed at the flirtation so much as laughed at him. He could accept that. At least he had won a laugh. Of all the opponents he had faced in the Society and in his training at Gray’s Inn, he had to admit Miss Genevieve Slade was proving to be his most formidable.