Page 21 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Feet propped, fingers laced behind his head, Rafe drifted in and out of consciousness, light snores waking him long enough to shift his position on the settee before he began the whole process of nodding off again. To say he was exhausted was an understatement. A little rain would not be remiss, anything to cool the air, which was stuffier and more oppressive by the hour, aiding his exhaustion. Elsewhere in the house, his family’s voices drifted into the parlor. The rhythm of their muffled words lulled Rafe back to sleep.

In that strange realm between wakefulness and dream, he relished the feel of Genevieve’s fingers massaging his scalp. He should not encourage this sort of behavior. Was he not trying to convince her parents to consider a better match, anything to tempt them away from forcing the betrothal, to give her the choice to walk away without damage to either of their reputations? If he was trying to extricate them both from the situation, why was he allowing her to run her hands through his hair? Mmm. Those soft hands traced the curve of his neck, pure velvet against his skin, and then across his shoulders, kneading the sore muscles. Keep doing that , he mumbled, and I’ll have no choice but to k eep you.

The parlor door opened to a thunder of voices, his family talking over each other as they entered. Rafe jerked awake. With a swift glance around, he reassured himself he was in the room alone. Only a dream.

“Up, Fitz-Stephens. Dinner at the tea garden.” Headley swaggered to the settee and knocked Rafe’s feet to the floor so he could sit down.

Gran sat in a chair by the window. Reaching into a nearby basket, she retrieved her embroidery. “Good choice. I’ve given the cook the day off.”

“The day off?” exclaimed Rafe’s father. “What will we eat? I don’t fancy dinner at a tavern, garden or no garden.”

Mother smirked. “All part of your plan. Now we must ingratiate ourselves with the Slades.”

“That’s likely,” said Otis. “You only want Cook’s frolic menu.”

“Can I be blamed if she’s spoiled me over the years?”

Gran grumbled about allowing strangers to eat their own food in their own house.

Rafe looked around. “Where’s Diana?”

“With your one true love,” Headley said, “pretending she has a sister rather than an odious brother—her words.”

Noel and Otis snickered, but Rafe suspected it was to the first part of Headley’s reply rather than the last.

“Right.” Rafe sat up. “If I want food, my choices are dinner with the Slades or dinner at the tea garden. My my, what delectable choices you offer.” Standing, he nodded to the door. “To The Dragon’s Breath we’re bound.”

His stomach grumbled in agreement. Manly company over meat and ale was what he needed. That would cleanse his daydreams of sultry fingers. Grunting and monosyllabic conversation awaited.

Half an hour later, they were seated around a table in the tea garden, speaking only of manly pursuits. Thorpe tried to keep pace but was out of his element. Rafe suspected the poor man did not have much in the way of male companions. Outings like this would do him good.

Thorpe dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the linen. “You’re saying he was a spy who became a privateer, or a privateer who became a spy?”

In contrast, Rafe made a show of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. This was a man’s dinner! Did Thorpe not see that? No women or thoughts of women allowed, and most definitely no hair fondling or shoulder kneading. To make his point, Rafe took a hearty mouthful of his mutton before answering, his words muffled.

Thorpe watched him with curiosity.

So did Headley.

Swallowing, Rafe tried again. “Or he’s the son of a duke in hiding. Perhaps a former circus performer. Could be a foreign prince. No one knows.” He elbowed the table and took another bite much too big to chew with any grace, willing juice to dribble down his chin—that would surely mark the end to tantalizing daydreams!

“And he leads this band of merry polymaths?” Thorpe stared in disbelief. “How can he be trusted if you don’t know his past?”

Headley leaned back to cradle his mug. “He’s proven himself. I’d trust him over my own mother if it came to it, and I would never doubt her, so consider that.”

Pushing his plate away after another curious glance to Rafe’s manhandling of the mutton, Thorpe asked, “Why do the Society members not dominate the Fracas Frolic? Would that not ensure easy wins for the competitions?”

“The Society isn’t just about physical training,” Headley said. “We spend as much time debating, philosophizing, reading, studying. It’s not all fencing bouts.”

“Yes, but—”

Rafe interrupted, “Members are from all over, not solely Grant Lindis or Eurwendin, as it happens. Don’t think many members even know about the frolic or care. As to the frolic, it isn’t about winning or competing. It’s fun. To come together and pretend for one week that life isn’t knocking at the door. For one week, there are no scandals, there is no poverty, there is simple village fun. I think the history is darker, a feud between the two villages, but no one knows the origin beyond hyperbolic fairytales. More to the point, no one wishes to remember. We only want to have fun.”

“Too right,” Headley agreed. “Not that long ago, it was exceedingly competitive. Participants would train for weeks, forming winning teams. Now, people can volunteer the day of the event if they wish. No skill required.”

Rafe raised a finger to his mouth, about to lick the grease. Blast. His pursuits into manliness were not working. The back of his hand felt gritty from using it as a napkin. Admitting defeat, he dipped his fingers into the provided water bowl and used his linen like the gentleman he was. If he could not drown his desires in grease, how else was he to free his memory of those roaming fingers? She would laugh him out of the tea garden if she knew he had been dreaming about her.

“What we need, Headley, is a day of mischief.” Rafe ignored the niggling recollection that the last time he thought a little mischief would be fun, he had ended up in a woman’s bedchamber being challenged to a duel or the altar, in whichever order necessary.

Headley’s brow furrowed. “Not to be insensitive, Fitz-Stephens, but did I miss an important turn of events? The last I heard, you had forsworn mischief making. I believe the rationale was you needing to be a good boy to meet the Inns of Court’s moral conduct requirements. ‘Nothing reprehensible for old Fitz-Stephens, not any longer,’ you had said, and I quote.”

“Yes, well, I don’t mean anything nefarious. Something simple. A jest amongst friends. Eggs on Proudie’s carriage seat—that sort of thing. You have nothing holding you back.”

“Correct. I can be as naughty as I like. Are you certain you should be associating with a rogue?” Headley bowed his head to hide a grin.

Thorpe looked from one to the other, concern etched in his features. “You’re both having me on. Neither of you are… rogues .” Fidgeting, he glanced to ensure no one was overhearing them.

Rafe leaned closer. “Ask Headley about the time he was almost caught sneaking out of Lady Pennyworth’s private parlor.”

“I’m fortunate the bushes were below the window to catch my fall.”

“Her husband almost caught them in flagrante delicto ,” Rafe added.

Shrugging a shoulder, Headley said, “Nothing so sordid. She had agreed to teach me to waltz so I would not make a cake of myself at the assembly. If memory hasn’t failed me, that was when I was hoping to make a good impression on Miss Jocelyn.”

With a slow wink, Rafe said, “There’s a euphemism if ever I heard one. Teach you to ‘waltz.’”

Thorpe’s face resembled a ruby. “What’s… what’s a waltz?”

Simultaneously, Rafe said, “A euphemism,” while Headley said, “A dance.”

Headley said to Thorpe, eyes trained on Rafe, “ Risus abundant in ore stultorum . Laughter is abundant in the mouth of fools.”

Rueful, Rafe raised his cup and said to Thorpe, returning Headley’s gaze, “ Castigat ridendo mores . Laughter corrects morals.”

“Touché, Fitz-Stephens. Now, what about you, Mr. Thorpe? Are you Sir Galahad or Sir Bors?”

Thorpe’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon.”

Rafe signaled for Thorpe to have another round. His tankard was looking far too dry. “What Headley The Waltzer is asking is if you’re a good boy or bad boy, chaste or a little saucy.”

“I gathered.” Thorpe nodded thanks to the barmaid, then waited for her to leave before answering. “I believe a man’s best quality is loyalty. I flatter myself by saying I am, above all things, loyal.”

Rafe and Headley exchanged glances.

“I’ve been informed by a somewhat reliable source,” Headley began, “that your being in Grant Lindis for the frolic is a display of loyalty. Is that so?”

Sitting up straighter, Rafe reached for his tankard.

Without a single stutter, Thorpe said with confidence, “It is just so. Miss Slade informed me of her betrothal, and I arrived in short order to assess for myself the gentleman in question.”

Grimacing, Rafe tucked his expression behind the brim. How had everything seemed so easy at first? Have Genevieve’s true love arrive and claim there had been an understanding already established, so Rafe could slip away into the night a free man, Genevieve to wed her rightful beloved. How had it all come to this? A friend arriving to support the betrothal rather than contradict it. Rafe dreaming of Genevieve’s tender fingers. Conversations over ale about loyalty . At this rate, he might as well have the banns read. The noose was tightening a little more every day.

“And?” Headley probed. “What is your assessment?”

“A finer gentleman I’ve not met. Er, that is, until I met you, Mr. Headley. Two of the finest gentlemen I’ve met. I dare say Miss Slade is fortunate. As is Mr. Fitz-Stephens, of course, I hasten to add. Yes, fortunate, as well, for Miss Slade is a fine woman, a finer woman I’ve not—er, until meeting Miss Headley, who happens also to be a fine woman.”

Headley waved away whatever obsequiousness Thorpe was going to say next.

“Look who we have here,” rang a feminine voice from behind Rafe.

He froze, his tankard held midway between mouth and table. Headley and Thorpe eyed over his shoulder.

Only Thorpe reacted, his face returning to a normal shade of pale, and his expression one of both relief and welcome. “Miss Headley, Miss Slade,” Thorpe said, rising from his chair.

Rafe mumbled an oath under his breath, then whispered to Headley, “ Lupus in fabula .”

“Speak of the devil, indeed.” Headley rose in greeting.

Try as he might to appear nonchalant, Rafe could not meet Genevieve’s gaze when he rose and turned around. His scalp remembered all too well her gentle caress.

“Come to join us?” Thorpe asked, digging Rafe’s hole deeper.

Diana blushed. “We had planned a far cleverer way to steal a seat at your table, one to emphasize the sheer coincidence of us bumping into the three of you, but now that you’ve called out our true intentions, I suppose we can’t hide behind subterfuge. Yes, we’ve come to join you. Do you mind?”

She nodded for two chairs to be added to the garden table before anyone could answer one way or the other.

“We were expecting dinner at the Priory,” Diana continued, “but Mrs. Slade dragged away a certain gentleman’s mother and grandmother to gossip in her apartments over a tray. Enter the perfect excuse on a silver platter for the Misters to have a fathers-without-hovering-wives dinner in the billiard room. The last we saw of the pair of gigglers—Genevieve’s sisters, not the fathers—was when they slumped away in utter devastation that Rupert was not joining for dinner. And so, here we are! Now, is someone going to offer me a tankard of ale and leg of mutton, or will I have to order for myself?” She tittered as she tugged off her gloves.