Page 22 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)
The next morning saw everyone returning to the riverbank for the relay swim. Well, almost everyone. The steady rain kept many spectators at home, but none of the racers backed down, not even Mr. Thorpe.
“We’re with you, Mr. Thorpe! You’re almost there!” Genevieve cheered him on as he swam.
Ahead, Rafe’s brothers treaded water, waiting for Thorpe to pass the baton so they could have their turn to swim the distance for the team. Mr. Thorpe was not a half bad swimmer, as it turned out. With practice, he could gain speed, but Genevieve was relieved by his performance, considering there was little doubt Rafe had volunteered him—he could not have known if Mr. Thorpe could swim!
Rafe shadowed her. “Thorpe, Thorpe, Thorpe!”
His chanting matched the drumming of her pulse. Since their arrival at the riverbank, she could not meet his eyes, not after spending much of her evening in the hidden snug he had shown her.
Something unnamable had compelled her to go there last night. Rather than take the route he had shown her, she made a mission to discover the hidden panel in the billiard room. Giddiness had been her reward when she realized mission success. With her, she had brought a book and a candelabra. The snug had seemed the perfect place to hide from her sisters and enjoy a moment’s peace. The trouble was rather than read, her mind had wandered, recalling when she had shared the room with him, seeing him in the chair, feeling his presence. It was ludicrous. Yet she could not get him out of her head.
He brushed against her when he raised his hands to clap in time with his chanting.
So innocent of a touch, his forearm grazing her elbow, but her breathing shallowed. Giving her umbrella a twirl, water droplets flying around her and undoubtedly onto Rafe’s sleeve, she stared ahead, refusing to look over.
She blamed the Headleys. It was easy to despise Rafe when her family pressed the match, her father forever hanging over her head the words “compromise” and “ruination,” amongst other less savory ones, her mother gushing about it being the match of the year, and Cecilia elbowing her about evening assignations. The more they pressed, the more she resisted, blaming Rafe for trapping her in this situation, while feeling guilty for trapping him . But then, there were the Headleys.
Both Mr. Headley and Diana believed it a love match. Their every word, their every action strengthened that belief, to the point that when talking to Diana, Genevieve was almost convinced of it herself. Preposterous to think Rafe would fall for her.
If they had not been forced by her father, would they have considered each other? She did not think so. Oh, she could not convince herself she would not have noticed him, for she was positive she would have, but he was a man in demand, a man with a never-a-dull-moment life, surrounded by friends and family; he would not have looked twice at her.
Genevieve glanced in his direction. He caught her gaze and winked. Her heart fluttered. How had it come to this? She was in trouble. The worst kind: infatuated . It was unfair! If he found a way, as he had said, to prompt her parents to offer her a choice, how could she choose against the betrothal if she were besotted with him and knew the heartbreak that would follow? In good conscience, she could not choose for the betrothal. He needed to be a free man to make his own choices.
She had done him a disservice when they first met, thinking him reckless, a libertine even, for climbing into a window, and then assuming him weak to allow her father to subject them to this unwanted match. Rafe was none of these things. He was what he said he was—a gentleman. Gentleman or not, she could not disillusion herself that if she chose to maintain the betrothal, they would rub well together. Likely, they would realize too late how different they were.
Braving a glance from beneath her umbrella, she narrowed her eyes at his profile. If she focused on all his pesky traits, all the things she disliked, she could remind herself they would never suit.
“Noel has the baton,” Rafe said. “The team will make good time while he has it. Once he passes it to Otis, however, all wagers are off.”
Searching the river, she spotted them a good distance away. Poor Mr. Thorpe. So lost in thought, she had forgotten to watch his swimming efforts.
“Care for a walk?”
She jerked her attention to Rafe. “A walk?” She almost added in the rain , but she was more shocked to be invited for a walk, never mind the weather.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he looked around at the crowd. “Unless you’d rather see the end of the race. I thought after yesterday’s excitement, it might be a welcome retreat to… walk. Steal a rare moment alone. A ramble to the woods’ edge and back?”
“Oh. Um. Yes. That would be lovely.”
The pitter-patter overhead mocked her choice of descriptors.
As she took his proffered arm, she rebuked herself. Pull yourself together, Genevieve, or he’ll know you’re having second thoughts, then he’ll feel more trapped and more manipulated than he already must feel. Pull. Yourself. Together. Standing a little straighter, a little more rigid, she bore her stodgiest expression.
He guided her around the mud puddles and through the crowd, which was nowhere as dense as yesterday’s. “Are you ready for the archery event?”
A safe topic. Good. It was difficult to concentrate with the sweet aroma of his perfume and the warmth of his arm beneath her glove.
“I have no preconceived expectations of hitting the target, but it will be the most fun I’ve had in an age, I believe. I’m curious to see who competes. I might learn a trick or two from watching them. Oh! Oh no. The weather. Will we not have lessons today? I wonder.”
“Considering it could rain during the event, I doubt my mother will cancel the lesson if you’re willing to attend. She’ll think it good practice. I suggest the widest-brimmed bonnet you own.”
She glanced at him from beneath her umbrella and laughed. Rain dripped from the brim of his beaver hat, soaking the shoulders of his caped greatcoat. “Would you like to share my umbrella?”
“And admit defeat?”
Genevieve raised it to tempt him.
He looked from it to her, pensive. “A gentleman is never afraid of rain; thus, he need not seek shelter beneath a lady’s parasol. However, I believe this one time we may make an exception.”
Covering her hand with his to clasp hers more firmly on his forearm, he tugged her closer, pressing her against his side. She gasped at the sudden contact, only distantly aware his damp coat wet the side of her gown.
“Ah yes, much better,” he said, ducking his head under the umbrella. “Far more intimate, don’t you think? I can whisper roguish sentiments into your ear and admire your blush from a more advantageous angle.”
“Rafe!” Genevieve tugged her hand to free herself only to knock the umbrella akilter, sending a river of cold water over the oiled silk and down her neck, where it promptly trailed along her back.
She shrieked.
Pulling her closer, he said, “My greatest pleasure this week will be seeing you handle a bow.”
The way he emphasized pleasure and bow had her blushing, predictably, no doubt, more so than what he likely intended considering she replaced bow with beau in her mind, namely the gentleman caller kind whose name rhymes with chafe, which was precisely what same-said gentleman was doing to her state of mind.
Breathing deeply to steady her nerves, she said, “If you’re fortunate, you’ll see me handling a sword with more finesse.”
Rafe coughed a tremulous laugh. Now was his turn to flush pink, although she could not understand what she had said to embarrass him.
Continuing, she added, “Your mother is going to teach me how to fence.”
“Ah. Yes. I understand now. For a moment I thought you were whispering roguish sentiments into my ear. Yes, fencing. Mmm.”
Genevieve eyed him askance. It was unconventional for her to learn to fence, being a woman, but she would hardly call it roguish.
Rafe guided her towards the woods, then turned so they could walk alongside the tree line. “I could teach you.”
“Would that be appropriate?”
“If it’s our secret.”
“My sister has teased me relentlessly about our trysts, disbelieving you accidentally chose my window to tumble into. After all my claims of innocence, here you are proposing a tryst. How would I ever face her in the morning room?” Genevieve teased but only to disguise her desire to accept his offer, assuming he was serious and not teasing her himself.
“Better not risk it then. Miss Cecilia—I assume she’s your accuser—seems relentless. Let’s not give her any ammunition. At least not yet. My mother can train you, and then I can challenge you. At least then you’ll be a worthy adversary.”
“Oof!” Genevieve tipped her umbrella to shower him with rain. “I’ll show you a worthy adversary, Rafe Fitz-Stephens.”
“I surrender!” He lifted her hand to kiss her gloved knuckles. “Have mercy. I’m already drenched.”
“Good.” She raised a defiant chin.
“Now, to my more pressing question of the day. Are you so in love you’re ready to stay here forever?”
Taken off her guard, Genevieve stumbled. Rafe clasped her arm, steadying her.
“I—I beg your pardon,” was all she could muster.
“The Fracas Frolic. Has it won you over? Are you in love with Grant Lindis?”
“Oh!” To cover her misunderstanding, she laughed gaily. “Grant Lindis. Yes, quite. I was thinking only the other day how pleasant it would be for Papa to settle somewhere nearby and for us to make this our home, permanently. I don’t see Papa ever settling, but a girl can dream.”
“Not to disappoint you, but the frolic is only one week. For the rest of the year, all is quiet. It could be perceived as dull by some, although I’ve always found ample to occupy my time.”
Relaxing against him, she asked, “What is life like in London? I’ve been to York and Birmingham, but after all these years, I’ve never been to London. I expect it’s one entertainment after another, easier to make friends than in the countryside.”
“On the contrary, or perhaps because it’s so crowded, a city that never sleeps, one finds more strangers than friends and no real entertainment, at least not the kind I enjoy. The entertainment in London is where someone or something humors you while you remain passive. The theatre, the opera, the pleasure gardens, the horse races, the park—there’s no end to what you can do to be entertained. I prefer to be the doer. I would rather be the chap on the horse, not watching someone else race. Or be the pugilist in the ring rather than cheering on another gentleman. All I enjoy is in the countryside.”
“And yet you wish to be in London for your profession?”
Rafe shrugged. “It’s an option.”
She waited for him to say more. When he did not, she said, “I, too, find the countryside more pleasurable. I don’t, however, understand how someone befriends anyone when there are so few choices. Let us suppose my family has just moved to a new village. We cannot call on anyone to introduce ourselves, rather we must wait until neighbors call on us, and then amongst them, there are only a few who offer desirable companionship. One neighbor may be too high in the instep, another too chatty…. You see what I mean.”
He took his time in answering. When he did, he had to speak a little louder to be heard over the rain, which had worsened from a steady drizzle to a determined patter, soon, she feared, to become a deluge from which an umbrella could not save them.
“Have you tried to make friends?” he questioned.
Taken aback, she stammered, “I—of course I have!”
“What I mean is previously, as you’ve done here. Did you join committees? Did you initiate calls after introductions? Did you offer the neighbor too high in the instep a chance to reveal the warmth beneath the frost or the chatty neighbor the opportunity to be heard?”
Genevieve huffed. “If you’re insinuating I’m at fault for not making friends, you are mistaken. I consider myself quite friendly.”
“Mmm. Case in point.”
“I do beg your pardon, sir.” She removed her hand from his arm and raised her chin a fraction higher.
“In my experience, life gives what you offer. Si vis amari ama . If you want to be loved, love. No matter the location or the neighbors, it’s my choices that determine how enjoyable the experience. If company is unpleasant, it’s on my shoulders to turn it into a pleasant encounter.”
Genevieve heard the wisdom but felt the sting of accusation—was it she who interpreted it that way or he who meant it? It stung because it was true. “Am I to understand you’re attempting to make the best of this unpleasant companion, or that I should be making a more concentrated effort to find you more pleasant?”
Her words were harsh. She had intended to tease, to turn her inner outrage into something they could laugh about, goad him into a roguish reply, but her tone did not cooperate. Her tone snapped with steely teeth.
Rafe leaned away, studying her with his soulful blue eyes, the rain drumming against his hat as he moved from the refuge of the umbrella. Rather than reply, he smiled. The smile, however, did not envelop her with warmth. It chilled her. A cold shroud.
“I…” Genevieve began, wanting to grab his arm and pull him back beneath the umbrella. “I did not mean that how it sounded.”
The brittle smile remained. “You’ll be wet through if we don’t find shelter. To the tavern? Mr. Snawdune, the publican, has promised the first twenty patrons a round on the house. A glass of cider is perfect for this weather, don’t you agree?”
She wanted to protest, to stomp her foot and demand they stand in the rain until he smiled again, a genuine smile, not this diminutive, melancholic smile that set her teeth on edge. In the end, she walked alongside him to the tavern.