Page 17 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

All night, Genevieve tossed and turned, listening to the rain pelt the windows and the thunder rumble. It was not the storm that kept her awake but worry that the morning’s race would be canceled either because it continued to rain or because the path was too muddy. The first race of the competition was the forest run through Stonebriar Woods. She had helped mark the racepath with pennant-waving stakes and decorate the trees with streamers. Would all that work be ruined? A streak of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder, sent her burrowing beneath her covers with a groan over the ill-timed weather.

She need not have fretted. Morning arrived to clear, albeit cloudy, skies. In the distance, she swore she could hear the rhythmic beat of drums, the pre-race festivities already in full swing, the drums marking the heartbeat of Grant Lindis. By the time she joined her family to set off for the first day of the Fracas Frolic, she was positively giddy. Neither she nor her sisters could stand still. They fidgeted. They squealed. They skipped. None knew what to expect, which intensified the anticipation.

As they entered the village and fell into step with others heading for Stonebriar Woods, Genevieve searched the crowd for Rafe. Was he already at the starting line? Of course, he would be racing today. That was why he had returned to Grant Lindis—to race. An oversight they had not planned to meet at the Priory and walk together.

There was no place for decorum today. Unruly children darted unchecked through the streets, brandishing handmade flags and dragging suspiciously familiar streamers behind them. Everyone, it seemed, was singing, only no one was singing in unison, each group of friends or family in harmony with no one except themselves, the tunes discordant with other passersby, the lyrics disjointed, yet every broken refrain or croaked chord was music to Genevieve’s ears. She did not know any songs about racing, but not to be outdone, she cleared her throat and began bellowing a nonsense tune of her own. And why should she not?

Cecilia and Theia stared at her as though she had sprouted two extra heads, but not for long. Establishing a simple enough melody and a rather silly chorus, Genevieve goaded them into joining her.

The air was muggy, but no one cared. Only a mild trace of a breeze whispered from the east. Had she thought ahead, she could have painted a fan to match the race day flags. Next year. She could paint one each for her sisters and—next year? But she would not be here next year. Not unless…

As a sharp pain squeezed her heart, she spotted Rafe waving over the crowd.

His face lit with a smile to have spied his quarry. He stood at the edge of the copse, the crowd dispersing every which way, some heading into the woods, some heading south along the forest edge, others northwest. Beside him stood Mr. Headley and Mr. Thorpe. As Genevieve’s family approached the group, Miss Headley appeared from behind two burly men, effortlessly coiffed and as giddy as Genevieve.

“Miss Slade!” She reached Genevieve before anyone else. With a quick nod and smile to Cecilia, Theia, and Papa and Mama, she said to Genevieve, “You must join us. I won’t accept no for an answer! Rafe has chosen a perfect location for us to view the race.” Without waiting for a response, she turned to Genevieve’s parents. “Mrs. Fitz-Stephens insists you join her at the finish line. May I steal Miss Slade to have to myself? I promise not to allow her out of my sight.”

With a laugh, she dragged Genevieve towards Rafe before anyone could answer. There was little else Genevieve could do except laugh with her, although she had a few more reasons to laugh, such as Mrs. Fitz-Stephens inviting her parents to join her—now that was as likely as pigs flying over Grant Lindis.

Genevieve’s first words to Rafe were, “I worried all night rain would cancel the race.”

She promptly blushed to have implied she had done anything at night, least of all because anything she had done at night would have been done in his bedchamber, in his bed, and while she was fashioned in her nightrail and curlers, just as he had seen her that first night.

Unfazed, Rafe looked to his companions, then said, “ Nothing cancels the Fracas Frolic.”

Messrs. Headley and Thorpe took the opportunity to shake her hand. She felt ever so guilty about Mr. Thorpe. He seemed in good spirits at least. But he had come all this way for her, and she had not once had the chance to speak with him. To see him now, she would never guess him lamenting his journey or regretting his decision, for he was smartly, if not a trifle modestly, dressed, a friendly curl to his thin lips, and an eagerness about his person, as though he, like her, was caught up in the gaiety of the day.

“Follow me,” Rafe said, exchanging places with Miss Headley so smoothly, it was as though Rafe had been beside her the whole time.

Without a by-your-leave, Rafe led her into the woods, leaving everyone else behind. She glanced back as the trees closed in to block her view.

“I’ve chosen the best vantage point.” When he saw her glancing back again, he added, “They’ll join us soon.”

“Where are we going?” She asked, but so delighted by the pre-festival excitement, she would not have minded if the best view were from the inside of a barn.

He did not immediately answer, but that was not avoidance on his part, she realized, rather because he was choosing their path with care. The forest bed was far drier than she would have expected after the evening’s storm, but there were muddy patches that would not have done her half-boots a kindness. How thoughtful of him to ensure her hem did not catch on underbrush or soak in an inch of mud.

At length, he said, “Many believe the finish line is the best position, but where’s the fun in that? The best part is watching the racers. There’s a bird’s eye view ahead. We won’t be able to see the full path, of course, but since it turns back on itself, we’ll be able to see at least three of the obstacles the racers must traverse.”

“You’ll need to hurry if you’re to make it to the starting line in time,” Genevieve said as they reached a curious collection of tree stumps overlooking where the forest’s terrain sloped steeply towards the valley.

When she turned, she squealed to see the flags she had positioned, or at least some of them. The race path went past the stumps, down the slope, and then circled back up before dipping again to continue around and out of view. Oh! This was a perfect position! One of the obstacles she would be able to see in action was the log climb.

Ignoring her comment about the starting line, he said, “Behold. The best vista for the race. I wager I’m not the only one with the idea. Wait and see. Before the race begins, others will gather en masse .” Even as he said it, voices from elsewhere in the woods called to each other. “The racers for Grant Lindis will wear red armbands, the Eurwendins yellow.”

“Where’s your armband?”

He grimaced a grin. “Not racing today. Instead, I’m your escort.”

“You’re not racing? But… but pray, I thought that was the whole point of returning from London. To race.”

“And scuff my boots?”

“What happened to you marching across Devonshire in the dead of winter and all that claptrap?”

He barked a laugh. “I’m saving my strength for tomorrow’s regatta.”

She harrumphed and eyed the stumps.

Rafe tugged a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and spread it across the stump. “For you, my lady.”

Accepting the offer, however small the linen square, she sat, thankful not to have a repeat of the damp derriere, one of the many memories that plagued her—all of which involved Rafe.

He joined her. “My brothers are racing. This run is most enjoyed by the younger men, namely those under twenty.”

“Are you saying you’re too old to race?”

“I’m saying I wouldn’t want my experience to dampen their fun, seeing as how I would all too easily win.”

Genevieve laughed so jovially, she had tears in the corners of her eyes, not so much because of what he said but how he said it, with tongue-in-cheek arrogance so sardonic as to beggar belief. He smirked at her response.

“I suppose,” Genevieve began, fluttering her eyelashes with angelic innocence, “that means neither Mr. Headley nor Mr. Thorpe will be racing this week. We wouldn’t want them to be disheartened by your superhuman athleticism.”

“I promise to curb my skills, moderate my epic strength, and curtail my stamina, all to provide them a chance at saving face.” Rafe raised his beaver hat to comb a hand through his hair, slowing the movement to casually flex for her.

“You, sir, are incorrigible,” she chided.

The rustle of branches being brushed aside and the murmur of voices proved Rafe correct—their privacy was soon to be interrupted by others who wished for a bird’s eye view of the race path.

Rafe said, “As it happens, Headley will be joining in several of the races, but I could only convince Mr. Thorpe to swim. We’ll see how well he paddles on Wednesday.”

Genevieve looked in the direction of the voices, trying to appear nonchalant at the mention of Mr. Thorpe. She did not wish to discuss him until she had spoken to him herself. They needed a game plan, she and Mr. Thorpe.

If Rafe noticed her reticence, he gave no indication. On the contrary, he pressed the issue. “Speaking of the noble Mr. Thorpe, who traveled a great distance to appear at the side of his ladylove and rescue her from the dastardly deeds of this roguish scoundrel, I was under the impression the two of you were deeply in love, a love never to be torn asunder, by bumbling lotharios or otherwise.”

His words jested, his tone light and airy.

Genevieve, however, went still, her eyes dragging from the depths of the forest to her folded hands. How. Utterly. Mor tifying.

In her defense, she said, “I never led you to believe anything of the sort.”

“Hmm. So this… ‘understanding,’” he said, waving a hand as if to emphasize the word, “was of… convenience… or… contr ivance ?”

“I resent that remark!” She shot off the stump and drew herself up, shoulders back.

When she looked upon him with a quelling glare, he looked back with raised brows and nothing short of amusement. He did not rise from his makeshift chair, as would have been appropriate, rather he crossed one ankle over his opposite knee and grinned.

“I mean no offense, my darling betrothed. I merely wish to understand the nature of your relationship with Mr. Thorpe. Such would aid me in… er… aiding you.”

Genevieve continued to glare at him. Her mind whirled. She did not know what Mr. Thorpe had said, but in all likelihood, he had expressed the truth, which was not what he needed to have said to Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens, who would now comprehend her trifling faradiddle.

She heaved a sigh and slumped back onto the stump with a none-too-gentle flop. “He’s a friend . A good friend. I have moved too frequently in my life to make friends, lasting ones anyway, but he is a good man who offers nothing but goodness to everyone he knows and comes from a good family, and we established a remarkably good friendship in our brief acquaintance.”

“ Good enough that you believe he would marry you to save you from marrying me?”

“Yes. Possibly. Wait. No. I mean…”

“Mmm hmm. And… you believe all a good marriage needs is a good friend, nothing more?”

“It’s a start!” She spoke so brusquely, the group passing nearby in search of a stump of their own looked over at her. Lowering her voice, she said, “I didn’t know you, as you’ll recall. You were a burglar who stole into my room in the middle of the night, and suddenly Papa saw it as the match of the century, which made no logical sense—you could have been a highwayman for all we knew, never mind your lineage. Obviously , friendship sounded a better basis for marriage than a stranger prone to tumbling into rooms and invading one’s privacy.”

“And now?”

She glanced up. He stared at her in earnest, all visible signs of jesting gone from his expression. She returned her gaze to her hands.

“You’re not a stranger anymore, I’ll admit. But I don’t want to be bullied into marriage any more than you do.”

“No one will bully you. We’re in this together, remember?” He reached over and rubbed a knuckle against the back of her hand.

So simple of a movement, so light of a touch, but tears welled in her eyes, thankfully not falling, for she would simply die if he saw them.

Had they not been talking about Mr. Thorpe? How had their betrothal come into conversation? What she could not understand was the sensation that it was becoming her choice to accept or deny him rather than their mutual mission to end the betrothal no matter what. He could not wish to marry her. All his teasing and flirting aside, he could not wish to continue with this. No, he must be gauging her feelings for Mr. Thorpe to better plan how to make that match viable. Yes, that was it. She had misunderstood his tone, his questions, and his everything in her muddled state.

The mellifluous voice of an angel interrupted her thoughts.

“There you both are!” Miss Headley led her brother and Mr. Thorpe towards Rafe and Genevieve. “Sneaky of you to steal a moment alone.”

Rafe intimated an affront to his gentlemanly manners. “Oh, I say. ‘Pon my honor, I would never!”

Miss Headley shared a knowing look with Genevieve, one that offered all the conspiratorial plotting of a young lady who suspected her friend wanted alone time with her betrothed. Genevieve could feel her cheeks burning.

Mr. Thorpe accepted the seat next to Genevieve just as a bugle trumpeted in the distance.

“The race has begun,” Rafe said. “It’ll be a few moments before the racers make it this far. Headley, sit. I can’t see anything with your shoulders blocking my view.”

Mr. Headley turned to choose a stump. In a sweep, his gaze caught Mr. Thorpe.

Mr. Thorpe looked back at him, questioning.

Mr. Headley’s eyes narrowed.

Mr. Thorpe shifted on his stump.

Genevieve looked from one to the other, unsure what sort of exchange was occurring.

Rafe waved a hand. “Sit already.”

Whatever silent communication occurred, Genevieve was unsure—then it could have been her imagination after the awkward exchange with Rafe. In the work of a moment, Miss Headley reached out for Mr. Thorpe’s hands and tugged him to stand before stealing his stump, sitting next to Genevieve in his place. She then patted the stump next to her. Mr. Thorpe accepted. Mr. Headley then sat on the opposite side, boxing in Mr. Thorpe. It was the most absurd game of musical chairs Genevieve had witnessed.

She did not linger on the peculiarity for long. Cheers filled the woods, echoing off the trees. The sounds of a stampede came barreling towards them. Miss Headley clapped her hands. Mr. Headley whistled. Rafe stood and cheered just as the first set of racers crested the hill and began to descend the slope, their red and yellow armbands bright against the green foliage and brown tree trunks.

A handful of racers passed, a couple slipping in the mud, the rest clamoring to climb the logs blocking the path. Shortly following was another set, close on the heels of the first racers. Genevieve forgot to make note of what color the armband was of the racer in the lead. It was all too thrilling to care who won. The racers were, as Rafe had said, young, but the ages were varied, from young boys to a few men who were surely older than Rafe and Mr. Headley, and certainly Mr. Thorpe.

Before she realized Rafe had moved, he clasped her hand in invitation to join him. “Move closer?” he asked, nodding his head towards the path.

She joined him at the edge of the flags, nearly within arm’s reach of the racers, just as his brothers came into view. So pleased, she waved and cheered them on.

“Is that Mr. Fitz-Stephens?” she asked, incredulous to see Rafe’s father not only keeping pace with his sons but about to take the lead before them.

“Ha! I hadn’t expected that.”

“Oh, can we please meet them at the finish line? I want to see them cross it! But we can’t possibly beat them there, can we?”

“ Au contraire, mademoiselle . We’ll take the direct route, if you’d like, while they’re still traversing the obstacles and doubling back for more.”

The Headleys and Mr. Thorpe brooked no argument as they left the stumps for the finish line.

Around the finish was the most populated, but not many people were standing, as tables and chairs had been scattered for comfort, the chairs having been hauled from people’s homes, the tavern, the tea garden, and every which place, as far as Genevieve could tell. She caught sight of Rafe’s mother and grandmother before she saw her family seated with them. Nudging Rafe in that direction, they joined them but remained standing.

Behind her, she could hear Miss Headley talking a mile a minute to Mr. Thorpe and her brother. Before her, Rafe’s mother was chittering almost as animatedly to Genevieve’s mother, a sight she never thought to witness. The snippets she could hear were about Mr. Fitz-Stephens’ determination to beat his sons’ race time. A pity Papa had not joined the race. Maybe she could convince him yet, even if the foot race was not an option.

A great cheer roared through the crowd as a young man with a red armband came loping out of the woods to cross the finish line with a win for Grant Lindis.

Genevieve gave a little jump and hugged Rafe’s arm. “We won! We won!”

Rafe, wearing a humored smile, said, “Only this race. We need a majority this week to pocket the competition.”

She paid him little mind, too delighted over the win and the whole of the event to care about details. Repeating, “We won!” a few more times than necessary, she forgot to release his arm.