Page 18 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Following the forest run, participants and spectators alike joined together on the village green for a different kind of racing, a series of sack and three-legged races.

“These don’t count towards the competition points,” Rafe explained as he escorted Genevieve, their families ahead of them, and the Headleys and Mr. Thorpe behind. “After every competition event, we celebrate before returning home to recover for the next day, when we do it all over again.”

Today had already offered Genevieve enough excitement to last a lifetime. There was a full week of this ahead? She may well expire from overstimulation.

By the time they reached the green, the first set of racers for the three-legged race were already preparing. She laughed to herself to see Papa trying to convince Mama. The Fitz-Stephens had no such hesitations. Mr. Fitz-Stephens was tying his leg to Mrs. Fitz-Stephens’, while Mr. Otis Fitz-Stephens was collecting rope to race with his grandmother.

Mr. Thorpe sidled next to Genevieve and Rafe. “You’ll be wanting to join in the fun together. I’ve brought extra rope.” He handed a piece to Rafe, who stared at it rather than take it.

“Nonsense, Thorpe. We’ve reserved this race for you and Miss Slade. Don’t you recall us agreeing to that earlier? You were wishing for a chance to talk about your previous acquaintance.”

“Was I?” Mr. Thorpe looked between them with a blank expression, as though trying to remember a discussion Genevieve suspected never happened.

“Undoubtedly!” Rafe slipped Genevieve’s hand from his arm to Mr. Thorpe’s forearm.

Behind Genevieve came a squeak. They turned to find Mr. Headley and Miss Headley, the latter wearing the most heart-wrenched, crestfallen expression, worthy of a stage actress.

“You promised the three-legged race to me , Mr. Thorpe,” Miss Headley insisted. “Am I to compete with my dearest friend for your favor? She has her betrothed, and I have….” She choked a sob when she looked over at her brother.

“Now, now, Miss Headley,” Mr. Thorpe reassured, dropping Genevieve’s hand to take Miss Headley’s instead. “I’ve not given away your race. Have I, Miss Slade?”

“Mr. Thorpe was only now saying how much he looked forward to racing with you,” Genevieve confirmed.

As soon as Mr. Thorpe turned his gaze, Miss Headley winked at Genevieve with the same knowing look from earlier, as though to say she had come to save the day from this trouble-making interloper who meant to come between the betrothed couple.

Rafe hummed in thought as Mr. Thorpe and Miss Headley joined the starting line to tie their rope and as Mr. Headley sought her sisters, presumably to ask one or both to race. “My efforts are being undermined,” he said.

“Try harder,” she teased.

“Yes, well, when the world is determined to match us , it’s an uphill battle, isn’t it?” He squatted on his haunches to secure their rope, never mind they were ages away from the starting line and still had to reach it before the race began.

“I should think a member of your Vitruvian Society would only accept uphill challenges, otherwise, what’s the point? It would be too easy .”

He tightened the rope with a tug of his hand.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Cecilia storming in the opposite direction, Mr. Headley escorting Theia to the starting line instead. Genevieve was about to suggest they hobble to her until she spotted Mr. Noel Fitz-Stephens block Cecilia’s path, a rope in his open palm.

Rafe rose and swept a hand before them. “Shall we practice with a sedate walk to the starting line?”

The race was ridiculous fun, beyond Genevieve’s imagination, more cause for laughter than competition. Bodies tripped and fell around them, couples clung to each other, some marched with a steady rhythm, counting aloud their steps, while others could not match gait or speed. Unabashedly, Genevieve clung to Rafe, his strong arm holding her steady as he counted off their steps with a one-two, one-two. Even after they returned to the starting line, she could not say who had won or how they ranked—she was far too busy enjoying the whole affair.

By the time Genevieve exhausted herself, she had participated in four more three-legged races—one with her father, one with Rafe’s father, one with Mr. Otis Fitz-Stephens, and one with a village boy who blushed when he asked her—and one sack race—which she vowed never to do again since the hopping had quite jarred her senses. The festivities remained in full swing even after the races had ended. Children flew kites, a few families picnicked along the perimeter, and the tea garden opened for business.

A world away from genteel society, from the decorous expectations of the beau monde and those fashionable members of Society with a capital S. This was, she decided, the best day of her life, better still than the day she helped stake the race path through the woods. Would she feel this way about every day this week? She thought she might. No one treated her as an outsider. Although she did not know many names or faces, and certainly none of the villagers from Eurwendin, they all accepted her as a part of Grant Lindis, as though she had lived there for years. Everything felt right . This was the beginning. Of what, she did not know. But it was a beginning. A beginning of belonging? Of securing lasting friendships? Of making happy memories to take with her wherever she went next? Throughout it all, she found her gaze wandering back to Rafe.

“We’re returning to the house, love,” Mama said, interrupting the direction of Genevieve’s gaze, which predictably was on Rafe once more as he laughed over whatever Miss Headley had said to him. “Are you joining us, or is Mr. Fitz-Stephens to escort you?” The or portion of her question was emphasized to the point of encouraging that choice.

“Actually, I’m supposed to accompany Mrs. Fitz-Stephens and Miss Headley to the dower house for the archery lesson.”

“Oh! Oh yes. I had quite forgotten.” Mama tried to appear nonchalant but could not hide the playful hop at recalling this tidbit. “A remarkable woman is your prospective mother-in-law. To devote her time to instruct you—it shows how dedicated she is to ensure you’re the perfect wife for her son.”

Genevieve cringed but said nothing.

“Do you think Mr. Headley will take to Cecilia? What a perfect match that would be. I regret sending her from the drawing room when he called. I shan’t make that mistake twice.”

“Mama! You will not matchmake Cecilia. She’s only a child.”

“It’s time she’s out in society. I’ve coddled her too long.” Pointing her fan towards Mr. Thorpe, Mama said, “I’ll not , however, have her in the drawing room with that useless article. I am surprised someone of Mr. Fitz-Stephens’ consequence is on friendly terms with the man. I wanted to be angry when Mr. Thorpe came to the house—the audacity to call uninvited! But to discover he’s a friend of Mr. Fitz-Stephens… well, I’ll be a gracious hostess, but only so long as Mr. Fitz-Stephens is present.”

Genevieve’s saving grace from hearing more complaints was Rafe heading in their direction, bearing the gait of a knight to the rescue of his fair maiden. Mama was not so terrible, but at present, Genevieve was all too happy to be rescued.

“Mrs. Slade, Miss Slade,” he greeted. “Would you grant me permission to—”

“Yes, yes,” Mama said with a wave of her fan. “Accompany her to the dower house for archery. I insist.”

Rafe offered his arm, which Genevieve accepted.

Once they were out of earshot, Rafe said, “If we go now, we’ll be too far ahead for a certain pair of siblings to interfere.”

She first caught sight of Mr. Thorpe waiting ahead of them, and then spied the Headleys on the other side of the green, talking with Mr. and Mrs. Fitz-Stephens. Ah. Rafe was quite determined, then. She had underestimated him. As relieved as she ought to be that he did, indeed, want to find a way out of the betrothal with Mr. Thorpe’s help, she felt anything but relieved. Her chest weighed curiously heavy. Was it the pang of rejection? So silly of her.

They joined Mr. Thorpe, and all three fell into step towards the estate. From the green until they reached the edge of the village, they held light conversation, remarking on the luck of the weather, the amusement of the forest run, even a squabble over who had been the muddiest racer crossing the finish line.

Once they passed the village, Rafe halted. “Blast and double blast!”

Genevieve and Mr. Thorpe slowed to look back in surprise.

“I forgot my handkerchief in the forest! I can’t leave it.” Hands held palms out in helpless surrender, Rafe pleaded with his eyes that they understand the enormity of the problem— his handk erchief !

Genevieve frowned. She recalled with perfect clarity his sweeping the handkerchief from the stump and folding it into his pocket before they moved closer to the race path.

“Mr. Thorpe,” Rafe said, “ Alan , can I beg you to look after her? Keep her safe in my absence? Guard her with your life? I shan’t be more than a moment. A quick jog. I’ll race the wind. But I can’t leave my handkerchief, you understand.”

“Of course, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. Never doubt my loyalty, not for a minute.” Mr. Thorpe stood straight. “I am your man.”

And with that, Rafe turned from whence they came and jogged away.

It was a kindness, she decided. Ensuring she and Mr. Thorpe had the much-needed time to speak. Long at last, they could formulate a plan, she and Mr. Thorpe. They could justify his traveling all the way to Devonshire to aid her. Every ill thought she had entertained about Rafe Fitz-Stephens was replaced with the recognition of his unselfish kindness. In his pursuit of the handkerchief she knew was safely tucked in his pocket, he thought only of her.

“Shall I speak first?” she asked. “Yes, I shall. Let me express how grateful I am you have answered my letter with your presence. I had hoped, but I was not disillusioned, you would. There were your grandparents to consider, the travel itself, the aid you could offer—everything! But here you are, my loyal friend.” Overcome, Genevieve hiccupped and struggled not to cry.

Why was she becoming a watering pot over Mr. Thorpe ? Her only relief was Rafe was not here to witness this.

Mr. Thorpe shuffled his feet, looking altogether uncomfortable. At length, he said, “I couldn’t not come, Miss Slade. Your letter communicated your desperation perfectly. I could never allow a friend to be so aggrieved.”

“Now that you’re here, you see my predicament.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his boots. “Not… precisely. Your letter implied… that is to say… I had expected to find the gentleman in question… oh, how to say…. Could you explain why you are against the match? Having met him, I don’t see—”

“My father forced this against our will, threatening to ruin one or both of us over what he knew was not true,” Genevieve pressed, her tone begging to be understood. “He used Mr. Fitz-Stephens’ gentility against him and my reputation against me. It was the worst sort of manipulation, so unlike Papa. I don’t know what came over him. But there stood a complete stranger that Papa insisted I marry. I can’t possibly marry a complete stranger. Don’t you see? And he’ll come to resent me, even if he convinces himself this is for the best. He has plans to become a barrister in London.”

As her excuses tumbled forth, pleading for Mr. Thorpe’s wrinkled brow to understand the seriousness of her plight, the desperation to rid herself of this betrothal, Genevieve wondered if anything she had said was true. It had been true. They had been strangers. He had wanted to practice law in London, criminal rather than civil, which was all the circuit could offer. Resentment was a real possibility. But now? Was any of it true now? They were no longer strangers. They were almost friends.

Mr. Thorpe began to pace. “Don’t take offense, Miss Slade, when I admit I… I find him to be the very best of men. Our acquaintance has been short, granted, but he is a gentleman. I struggle to see the problem. Have you tried to make him not a stranger?” When she did not respond other than to wring her handkerchief, he said, “I don’t see Mr. Fitz-Stephens resenting you. He is far too sensible.”

“We have become acquainted,” she admitted. “But only because we’ve been forced to. With this betrothal hanging overhead, how are we to develop any sort of friendship? Consider yours and mine. We have a true friendship. I could never have that with Mr. Fitz-Stephens, not with us both knowing we’re forced to marry, all because my father had a bee in his bonnet one day and threatened us over a misunderstanding.”

He stopped pacing and leaned against the fencing along the road. “I’m here to help, Miss Slade. I’m not clear what it is you wish me to do, however. If it’s within my power and within reason, I will do what I can to keep you from marrying into unhappiness.”

Genevieve twisted her handkerchief one way then another. She did not know what he could do. She had hoped he would arrive and… and what ? Convince her parents they had an understanding and demand she make good on the promise so they could marry instead? That this was exactly what she had hoped when she wrote the letter was not something she wished to admit, not with him standing a few feet away. How had she ever thought she could marry Mr. Thorpe? He was such a good man. His being here proved that. She cared for his grandparents, with whom he resided, and that offered a promising start to a marriage—family one liked. But…

She tried to imagine him taking seven strides towards her, wrapping his arms around her, and dipping her into a dramatic kiss. Not only could she not imagine it, she was a little ill at the thought. It would not be unlike kissing one’s sibling. She felt peaky.

Nothing against him, of course. He was the most amiable man she had ever known.

Mr. Thorpe studied her with his soulful brown eyes, reminding her of a faithful hound.

What a dreadful person she was. First, she thought of him as a brother. Then, she equated him to a hound! Poor Mr. Thorpe. And why should she not fancy him? He was handsome in his own way, predictable and devoted. She should fancy him. She could fancy him.

Pulling her shoulders back, she took one step towards him, her mind made up to try to kiss him and see if they could muster feelings for each other, enough attraction to fuel them both to think of a dozen ways and two dozen reasons to break this contrived betrothal.

“I have it!” he said, punching his fist into his open palm.

Her foot had not risen an inch from the ground for her second step. She relaxed, leaning a little away from him.

“I’ll convince your parents that Mr. Fitz-Stephens isn’t the best choice. I could never besmirch his name. Never that. But if I could help them consider other matches that would be better, more desirable, they might think twice about forcing the betrothal. If they could give you the choice , then you could walk away freely without repercussions. What might Mr. Slade think of an aristocra t , hmm?”

Genevieve blinked. “You don’t know any aristocrats.”

“Well, no, but that hardly matters. What matters is enticing Mr. Slade to a different type of match, set his eyes elsewhere in hopes of freeing you from this obligation.”

She frowned.

His expression had lit with the genius of his idea, but seeing her lackluster reaction, it dimmed again. “It’s all I know to offer, Miss Slade. Unless…”

“Unless?” She shifted her stance, hope rising.

“Unless I can convince you and Mr. Fitz-Stephens that the betrothal is precisely what you both want.”

“Arg!” Genevieve threw her hands up and resumed her walk in the direction of the estate.

Mr. Thorpe followed behind her but said nothing, the thunk of earth beneath his boots signaling to her he remained present, guarding her with his life, as he had promised Rafe. Thankfully, that task was not long at hand, for before they had walked a tenth of a mile, Rafe returned, jogging to them with a wave of his handkerchief and a jolly, “Success!”

Assuming his place by her side, Rafe secured her hand over his forearm. “Miss me?”

In answer to his smirk, she added with a sly smirk of her own, “I hardly noticed your absence, not with Mr. Thorpe to keep me company.”

“If you hope to make me jealous, it’s working.” Rafe lifted her hand and kissed the air above her knuckles.

Mr. Thorpe tugged at his forelock. “Now, now, I’ve no wish to cause jealousy. I merely did as I was bid, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. And since you’ve returned to your lady’s side, I best excuse myself to the tavern. Not that I don’t mind the exercise but, you see, I… er—”

Walking backwards as he talked, Mr. Thorpe shrugged, pivoted, and returned in the direction they had come.