Page 19 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

The mirror’s reflection never lied. It flirted. It winked. It complimented. Rafe angled to admire how expertly the cut of the coat framed his breeches. Best dressed gentleman of the evening? Yes, he believed he would be. The reflection agreed.

Someone knocked on the dressing room door.

“Come.”

Rafe tousled his hair for the finale.

Headley stepped in with a sweeping gaze over Rafe’s preening. Rather than tease or expostulate, he nodded his approval.

Fingers combing through the unruly locks at his crown, Rafe’s hands stilled to spy Headley’s coat in his reflection—the shade of Headley’s superfine was perfection . Blast. Was it too late to change his own attire? His jeweled blue could not compete.

With a flick to his tails, Headley took a seat. “Ready? Or are you going to change two more times?”

Grunting, Rafe gave his waistcoat a firm tug before turning to his table to gather his handkerchief and little gold box. On second thought… Opening a drawer, he selected two different fobs, then spun around to face Headley.

“Left fob,” Headley said without hesitation.

Rafe nodded. Excellent choice. He made quick work of adding the fob.

As he slipped the other back into the drawer, he hesitated, rubbing a finger over the gemstone.

“You don’t need both, Fitz-Stephens, not this evening. Close the drawer.”

He closed it. Should he bring his card case? A flask? Quizzing glass? What about—

“No,” answered Headley to Rafe’s unvoiced questions. “Whatever it is, you don’t need it. Supper with tea, a card game if we’re fortunate, and ample opportunities to steal kisses from Miss Slade behind the curtains—what more does one need for so simple an evening?”

“More mint.” Rafe retrieved his gold box from his pocket to refill.

“Ah, now you’ve mentioned, I’ve been meaning to ask. Any chance I could beg more of your toothpowder? I can’t replicate the recipe to save my life, and my valet is threatening to quit if he catches me mixing herbs again.”

As Rafe secured a jar for Headley, the pounding of feet could be heard on the stairs, his brothers descending with the grace of hippos. “You saw one of the new Vitruvian members at the run, yes? Pity he only observed. Could have made an impressive performance of the forest obstacles, I’d wager.”

Headley chuckled before saying, “I didn’t think you noticed. You were too busy disappearing into the woods with Miss Slade.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Do you need a chaperone? I’m not altogether certain you can be trusted with a beautiful lady.”

“And give you the chance to work your charms? It’s bad enough your coat this evening makes you look taller. I can’t compete with your charms and your coat.”

“It’s not me you have to worry about.”

Rafe arched a brow.

“Tell me about this Thorpe character. A friend of Miss Slade, you had said.”

“That’s right. She had written to him about the betrothal. He’s here to… approve the match.”

Headley’s pursed lips told Rafe he did not believe that for a second. “If so, why did you introduce him to her parents as your friend?”

“Because he is. Any friend of hers is a friend of mine.”

Eyes narrowed over the pursed lips. “Whatever your motives, Fitz-Stephens, I’m not convinced Thorpe isn’t a fox in the hen house. The more innocent the face, the less I trust it. Di and I were talking—”

“Woah now. No need for you or Diana to worry about Mr. Thorpe. For that matter, if Miss Slade decided she preferred Mr. Thorpe to me, I would give them my blessing, for he is a good man, and I wish for nothing except her happiness.”

Of all the reactions Rafe least expected, laughter was the one.

Headley threw back his head with a laugh. “What a tale of cock and bull. You win this round, Fitz-Stephens.”

They left the dressing room with Headley still laughing and Rafe feeling smugly victorious at sidestepping, although he doubted he would have a better excuse next round.

The Fitz-Stephenses, as well as the Headleys and Mr. Thorpe, assembled in front of the dower house as several manservants readied the lanterns. The evening was dark, the stars hidden behind cloud cover, and the air was warm, but that did not deter anyone from the brisk walk from the dower house to the main house. The Slades, in their defense, had offered to send the carriage. With spirits elevated from the first day of the frolic and three additional guests in tow, no one wished to cram inside a carriage for such a short journey.

And so, in all their finery, they walked, enjoying their own company.

The only word of complaint came from Gran. “It’s our village’s competition and our right to celebrate,” she said. “The Fitz-Stephenses should be hosting in their own home, not attending as guests .”

To Rafe’s surprise, his mother did not echo Gran’s sentiment, as she usually did, rather she said, “I’m attending for the sake of Miss Slade. She has far more sense than I’ve heretofore given her credit. In truth, I believe she won my favor at first loosed arrow.”

Rafe prepared to remark, but Diana touched his elbow and said in a low voice, “The archery lesson went exceedingly well. Miss Slade is not exactly the most talented archer, but she is an apt pupil. We’ve another lesson planned tomorrow.” Lowering to nearly a whisper, she asked, “Are you going to confess to me why your mother thought her insensible? I’m all ears.”

“Genevieve declined lessons at first. Mother dislikes being told no,” was all Rafe said, his tone serious but his wink teasing.

Diana tittered but said no more on the subject.

Rather than meet in the drawing room, the Fitz-Stephenses and guests joined the Slades in the games room. Along with the card tables, ready for play, was a sideboard of various foods, from cheeses to fricassee. Congenial company, oysters, cards, a beautiful lady—what more could a gentleman wish from his evening?

As everyone chose their table, Rafe nudged Mr. Thorpe to partner with Genevieve. The disapproving gaze of Mrs. Slade was not disguised as she joined their table, partnering Rafe.

With another nudge for Mr. Thorpe to shuffle the cards, Rafe said, “Have I mentioned, Mrs. Slade, my friend Mr. Thorpe will be competing in the swim relay the day after tomorrow? I hope you’ll join me in cheering him as he takes on the Eurwendin team. If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Thorpe will surprise us with his swimming prowess.”

Mrs. Slade eyed the man doubtfully.

Mr. Thorpe dealt the cards. “I will represent Grant Lindis to the best of my abilities, Mr. Fitz-Stephens, but I could never hope to gain the praise of persons of quality . Only a true athlete could do that, like… like an aristocrat.” He nodded sagely to Mrs. Slade, then looked to his companions around the table.

Mrs. Slade stared, perplexed.

Rafe scratched his chin and quirked a brow at Genevieve.

“What are you on about?” Headley asked from one table over.

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop,” Rafe said, leaning back in his bergère chair to see Headley past Diana’s ostrich feather. “Pay attention to your own game before your sister wins your inheritance.”

Mrs. Slade chortled before turning her attention to Mr. Thorpe. “What are you on about?”

“The allure of aristocrats. They’re superior in all ways to us humble gentlemen. They’ve the leisure to pursue athletic endeavors, thus winning the approval of parents and young ladies alike.”

Headley interjected again from his table, “Are you saying aristocrats are attractive suitors because they enjoy foxhunting?”

A smattering of laughter circled the room.

Rafe had no idea what Thorpe was trying to say or accomplish, but a rescue was in order before Thorpe made himself even less attractive in Mr. and Mrs. Slade’s eyes.

“I see your point,” Rafe said, “and I raise you your own athleticism. How much more impressive is it to compete in a swim race than to pursue those activities popular amongst aristocrats, which are rarely challenging, nothing akin to a race? Between caring for your grandparents and calling on your friends, you expertly navigate the waters. What woman could resist you?” Turning to Mrs. Slade, he added, “More to the point, what wise guardian could deny their daughter so fine a gentleman? Is this not what every parent wishes, Mrs. Slade? An able-bodied man with strong familial ties and a competitive spirit. Why, I would go so far as to say there is an ambitious streak in him.”

Mrs. Slade opened her mouth to reply, but Mr. Thorpe spoke over her. “No need to deflect, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. You’ve described the sort of aristocratic bachelor I had in mind. There are no stronger familial ties than those of bluebloods. Ambitious socially, competitive politically. Am I right?”

“You unnecessarily cast yourself in the shade, Thorpe,” Rafe countered. “I see before me the best of men. I could only wish to be half the man you are, seizing the noble qualities every aristocrat strives for—you have them in abundance! A man of virtue, loyalty, admirable connections with friends in multiple counties, humor and wit—why, you’re willing to aid friends on a moment’s notice—you, Thorpe, are the man to have by one’s side. If I had a daughter, I would be fortunate to invite you as a suitor.”

“Me? Oh no, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. You should aspire for a far greater match for your daughter, a viscount at least.”

Intercepting the volley, Diana said from the table she shared with her brother, “Too lofty, Mr. Thorpe! I would never wish to seek the attentions of a nob. I grant you, there are some who would, but not all women are so singularly minded. I ask you, what are the advantages? Some of us wish only for a gentleman who will think the world revolves around us . Praise and the occasional new bonnet are what some of us dream.”

“Someone tall ,” said Miss Cecilia, who had been invited to join for the evening. Eyeing Headley across from her, she fluttered eyelashes, “I prefer tall and handsome. Who cares if he bears a title?”

Poor Headley stared at his cards and cleared his throat.

Rafe drew the attention away from Cecilia’s childish flirtation. “Stability is of the utmost importance, never mind height. London, for instance, is hardly the place to bring a bride or raise a family, rather within the family home in the rural countryside, now there is perfection on a tray. Is that not something you can offer, Mr. Thorpe? You live in the family home, do you not, caring for your grandparents? The noblest task I could imagine of any gentleman.”

Gran raised her voice from the sideboard. “That eliminates you as a desirable suitor, Rafe. Mr. Thorpe, you have my permission to move into the dower house and wait on me hand and foot. You’ll be the catch of Devonshire.”

The room filled with laughter, and to Rafe’s relief, the subject changed without any effort on his part.

His attempt to sing the praises of Mr. Thorpe could only be described as a failure. Was Thorpe not on his side? Were they not working together to convince the Slades to free Genevieve of the betrothal? Granted, Rafe’s plan was to convince them Thorpe was the best replacement for Rafe, and Thorpe had confessed he was not romantically interested in Genevieve, but it seemed so easy to help them fall for each other while also convincing her parents. Or at least it had seemed easy. Not so easy when Thorpe was undermining him.

He glanced at Genevieve. She was watching him. Was it the stuffiness of the room, or were her cheeks rosy? Ah, it must be a residual glow from the frolic. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, her lips curved in a playful smile. Even he could not deny it had been an enjoyable day, more so with her by his side, but that was simply explained—he had experienced the frolic anew, seeing it vicariously from her perspective.

It took at least an hour to steal her away from the others for a semi-private discussion. Nothing was private with so many eyes watching them but grazing at the sideboard with voices lowered was as secluded as Rafe could achieve. His invitation for a game of billiards had resulted in Miss Cecilia harassing poor Headley again, so he had abandoned that avenue. His gaze flicked to the curtains over Genevieve’s shoulder. Curse Headley’s teasing. On second thought, he was tempted to allow Miss Cecilia to pursue the man out of revenge for slipping into Rafe’s head the thought of kissing Genevieve behind the curtains. Temptation to lead her that direction had him reaching for the sweetbread instead.

Between bites, Rafe asked, his voice as low as possible, “Your conversation with you-know-who—successful?”

She grimaced, inching her fingers towards a glass of Madeira, then pretending to change her mind, only to return for the Madeira, anything to extend their time at the sideboard without raising suspicion. “Mostly. His idea of helping is to convince them a better match could be had.”

“A better match than me? That’s unlikely.” Rafe snorted.

Genevieve pinched his arm. “It’s more help than you’re offering. What was all that about him being so great?”

“I was under the impression we were trying to swap beaux. Him instead of me? Yes? Is that not the goal?”

She looked down at her glass, failing to meet his eyes. “Past tense.”

“Ah.” He took a few more bites to mull that over.

He still thought it the most likely of their options. A ready gentleman? What more could the Slades want? And if he could entice the two to fall in love, as he had once thought they already were, all the better. Alas, if Thorpe would not have her, and if she only saw in him friendship, there was not much Rafe could do.

Dusting his hands with his handkerchief, he said, “All we need to happen is for them to give you a choice. There doesn’t need to be another suitor.”

Rafe knew her parents would do nothing publicly if he recused himself from the betrothal, but he had not known that upon first meeting, and at this point, he could not do so without damaging Genevieve’s reputation. He had given his word and would not retract that or risk casting a shadow on Genevieve—everyone would wonder why she had been rejected by a suitor, never believing the break was amicable. No, if this betrothal was to end, she would need to end it, and the only way that would happen is for her parents to offer the option.

Convincing her the threats made by her father were all for show was unlikely. She believed them enough never to risk uttering the emphatic no . Was this not how young ladies were brought up? To obey their parents without question? The concept was foreign to Rafe, having not only been brought up in a house of boys but also taught to question everything, namely authority. Unquestioning obedience was a lady’s plight and one he abhorred and did not comprehend.

“What if…” she began, eyes remaining downcast. “What if we could tease them with a different suitor, someone who would play along since Mr. Thorpe will not?”

Hmm. That had been the purpose of Thorpe. Did the man have to be so difficult? Why had he bothered coming all this way if he was not going to sacrifice himself for the cause? Hmm. Whoever would play along would need to be able to tempt her parents away from Rafe while simultaneously avoiding parson’s mousetrap. Rafe did not trust Mr. Slade not to trap a second suitor. The only person—

“No.” Rafe stared at Genevieve’s unruly curls. “ No .”

“He wouldn’t agree?”

“No, I—” Rafe stopped and reached for a glass of wine, his gaze falling on Headley faking a losing hand so his sister would win.

There was nothing Rafe could say that would not make him sound a jealous fool. The thought of Headley flirting with Genevieve, even as a playact, had Rafe’s fingers biting into his palm. Rationalizing the reaction was beyond his faculties at present.

If he was jealous over the thought of Headley flirting, how the devil was he going to feel when they succeeded in convincing her parents to offer her the choice… and she rejected him as a result? The betrothal would be severed. She would move with her parents at the end of the lease. Or marry someone else.

He shuddered, pushing from his mind what could be and focusing on how relieved he would be not to be tied to someone who did not want him.

Genevieve said, “I only thought of him because he’s your friend and would be discreet, as well as more convincing than Mr. Thorpe without the risk of him taking advantage of the situation. Our goal, after all, is for us both to be free, not compromised twice over.”

“You needn’t explain. I understand. He is a good choice, except for one snag.” That Rafe was on the verge of jealous outrage. Instead of admitting that aloud, he said, “He believes the betrothal is real. Love at first sight and all that.”

She looked up in surprise. “But… I thought…”

He raised his glass. “A gentleman through and through.”

Genevieve mouthed oh and flushed pink in the candlelight. He watched her as she thought through what that meant, not least of which was the devotion of his family by proxy. If he did not know better, he would assume she was accustomed to the London crowd and their tireless need for gossip and drama. No, dear Genevieve, you are witnessing centuries of good breeding, gentility at its finest.

She bit her bottom lip, then questioned, “How will you explain the split?”

“Ah, he’ll have to nurse my broken heart. He and Diana both. Worry not, my darling. I will never paint you as the villain. Irreparable differences? We did not suit despite undying attraction?” Hooding his eyes with a sultry gaze, he whispered, “Confusing lust for love.”

With an oof , Genevieve turned to face the sideboard. “You’re insufferable. A gentleman—my left foot.” Setting her glass on the discard tray, she abandoned him to stand behind Diana.

Rafe chuckled, feeling the green-eyed monster slip back into hiding and his jovial self returning.