Page 23 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

The tavern teemed with frolic attendees. Diana spotted Genevieve shortly after arrival and stole her from Rafe, escorting her to the table her family had secured. By the time they reached the table, Rafe had slipped into the crowd. Genevieve craned to find him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he? Will he be able to find us?” she asked Diana.

“He’s probably already left for the dower house. The Fitz-Stephenses made for home, Rupert along with them. I’m only the teensiest pouty that Mr. Thorpe isn’t here, not that I don’t find your sisters congenial company, but I wanted to ask Mr. Thorpe about the race, namely what it’s like to compete, for this is his first competition, as well as mine, and yours for that matter, so perhaps he has suggestions for how to overcome nervousness. Are you as nervous as I am? Mrs. Fitz-Stephens says it is anticipation not nervousness, but how does one discern the difference?” With a glance to the stairs in the far corner, she added, “I hope Mr. Thorpe will join us after he’s refreshed. If you thought Rafe looked like a drowned rat, you can imagine Mr. Thorpe’s state after swimming!”

“Did we win?” Genevieve nodded to her parents and made a face at her sisters, all of whom were absorbed in their own conversations.

“Eurwendin took this win, sadly. I only hope the egg and spoon race isn’t canceled. Will it ever stop raining? More importantly, will you partner me for the race? Oh, but then who will partner Mr. Thorpe? Oh dear.”

Genevieve let Diana rattle on, her attention on the crowd. Had Rafe returned home? That gave her no opportunity to tease him back to a real smile. Part of her wanted to explain to him her defensiveness, how what he said, even in jest, was true, and that it was her own doing for not making each residence her home. But what would be the point? All excuses. Excuses for snapping at him when he had not deserved it.

She could tell him the truth, if she were brave: she had snapped because she feared her feelings for him. By that same token, she could not admit the truth, for she feared more his rejection.

“When did you know?” Diana asked.

Blinking, Genevieve stared at Diana, at a loss as to what Diana had been saying or to what she now referred.

“I hope you don’t think me impolite,” Diana continued, unperturbed by Genevieve’s blank stare, “but I simply must know. Was it love at first sight? Rupert says it must have been for Rafe. What about you? What was it about him that struck you?”

“I… He…” Genevieve looked down at her hands, at a loss for how to answer. “Must it be sudden? Like a lightning strike? Or for some does it take more time?”

Diana tapped her mouth with her forefinger. “I don’t suppose it’s the same for everyone, no. For some, it’s sudden, yes. I’m not one to know, but from what I’ve observed, some are slower about it, a gradual realization. Was it that way with you? Oh my, that means Rafe fell first! Head over teakettle at first meeting! It must be so. I wish I had been here for your courtship. A whirlwind romance, was it? It would have to be. How did he charm you?”

Blushing, Genevieve thought, He did fall first, head over heels in the literal sense, directly over my windowsill. She gurgled a laugh aloud. Diana mistook the laughter for Genevieve recalling her first swell of love and joined with tittering and hand squeezing, as though they both recalled in unison that magical moment. It all made Genevieve laugh that much harder.

“I can’t pinpoint a moment,” she confessed at last. “Somewhere between him knocking over the washbasin and revealing the box of mint in his pocket. Must it be one aspect? Like a smile? Or can it be a combination, innocent flirtation complemented by Latin ramblings?” She did not bother to hide her blush, not from Diana.

With a sigh, Diana said, “That’s the best way to fall in love. Then you know it’s real. You’ve not been taken in by a handsome face. Oh, I’m so happy he’s found you!” She squeezed Genevieve’s hand again, this time with a little bounce.

As far as Genevieve was concerned, the day’s festivities had come to an end. She was ready to return home, change, and find an excuse to make her way to the dower house. What she would say or do remained to be seen, but she wanted to smooth over her ill-mannered behavior and ensure all was right between them, regardless to what end that led.

Alas, the day was not over. The rain lightened enough for the egg and spoon race to be held as planned, the muddy green making it all the more fun, at least for some. Genevieve did not participate. As the race began, she cheered Diana and Mr. Thorpe, along with her sisters, and her parents, who were having the most fun she had seen them have, and then while everyone shuffled their way to and fro, she slipped away, her final destination the dower house.

The walk was long and lonely, more so because of the rain, which at least had softened to a mist. She wanted to reach the dower house before her family returned home, so she would only have long enough to change into dry clothes and attempt to tame her hair, which she suspected had become a country unto itself with the rain and humidity. For the walk, she tried to plot an excuse for calling on the Fitz-Stephenses. She could not call on Rafe, betrothed or not. The best plan was to say she had arrived for the archery lesson exceedingly early to take advantage of the mist in case the rain returned. A silly excuse. She did not want to start the lesson early, nor did she wish to have it without Diana. But what else could she say? Then, regardless of what she said, Rafe may not join to greet her, much less find an excuse of his own to sequester her.

A foolish plan. She should have stayed for the race.

Defeated and soggy, she reached the Priory. When she stepped into the entrance hall, she started.

Through the drawing room doors, filtered by way of the Great Hall, then filling the entrance hall, resounded the majesty of the pianoforte. A sonata. She racked her brain. Haydn. Yes, his sonata in C minor. Or was it… no, that was the piece. She had never played it, but Theia had an impressive repertoire. How had Theia returned home before Genevieve? Her sister had been hobbling across a muddy field the last Genevieve saw her.

Rather than proceed upstairs to change, she followed the music. It compelled her forward. Muddy footprints across the floor, she could not stop her progress through the entrance hall and into the Great Hall. The drawing room doors stood open. They invited her to creep closer. The music swelled, echoing through the hall, impassioned. No plodding fingers, only a graceful cadence of expression. Genevieve’s steps slowed until she stood, dripping on the floor, too overcome to proceed. She did not recall the sonata being so exquisite.

Who was turning the pages? She did not hear the rustle of paper. Mesmerized, she willed herself to move.

Inching past the drawing room doors, she leaned to spy the piano while remaining unseen, not wanting Theia’s concentration broken. When she glimpsed the player, she gasped aloud. The music stopped.

Rafe turned from the keyboard to see her half hidden behind the door. “My apologies. I thought you were in the village.”

She parted lips to speak, but he rose and raised a staying hand.

“That’s a lie,” he said. “Yes, I thought you were in the village, but that implies I had sneaked in for my own amusement. In truth, I had hoped to time my arrival with your return. I would have waited outside except…. I am unforgivably rude, explaining myself when you’re dripping on the rug.”

Genevieve knew by the warmth of her face she was flushed. What a terrible state she must be in!

“Stay. I won’t be more than a moment.” She spun around, ready to rush upstairs, only to turn around again. “I didn’t know you played.”

Only now did she notice there was no sheet music. He had played from memory. As if his skill with ivory and ebony was not extraordinary enough.

“ Dulce est desipere in loco ,” he said. “It is sweet on occasion to play the fool.”

With a lift of her mud splashed hem, she darted in the direction she had come. Rafe watched her depart, disappointed she would change.

Sodden and frizzy. Her disheveled imperfection was most becoming, reminiscent of when he had first come upon her in the woods after riding. In this state, she seemed more herself, less constrained. While he had little on which to base the theory, he suspected she was more at home in nature than a drawing room, someone who preferred to ride like the wind or walk barefoot in a beck.

Looking about him, he tried to recall what he had been doing moments prior. Ah, the piano. He returned to the chair, his fingers stroking the keys. What had he been playing? Depressing a chord, he let his hands choose a tune.

So lost in thought, he could not say what he played now, much less prior. This daze had held him captive for the past couple hours. To win her or to release her. His hesitation centered on whether winning her was the best for them both, or if this sudden attraction was from proximity alone, no substance beyond convenience. She did not love someone else. That had been his original catalyst for disentangling them from the web her father had weaved. She still blamed him, he believed, but he could remedy that. He was confident he could. But should he? That question circled and circled and circled.

“I hope you’ll forgive me. It was the best I could do in a hurry.”

Removing fingers from piano, he turned to see Genevieve standing in the doorway again, this time in a simple muslin gown the color of daffodils, a modest fichu tucked into her bodice. Her curls had been hastily wrapped with a turban. Rafe tried to swallow, his throat dry, his tongue heavy.

They began speaking simultaneously, her with, “I had hoped to see…” and him with, “Will you save me a dance?”

They waited, then tried again, her with, “What dance?” and him with, “To see what?”

Genevieve bit her bottom lip, then waved a hand to one of the chairs. “Will you join me? I could ring for a tray.”

Rafe shook his head. “I only called to ask you the one question. I won’t linger.”

“There’s no rush. Everyone is at the race. No one is here to catch us alone.”

A slow smirk lifted the fog of his daze. “No one to compromise us? Force me to declare myself?”

A smirk of her own reflected his. Whatever she had been wanting to say, she kept to herself, waiting for him to speak next. He did not hesitate.

“There will be an assembly Friday. The winner of the frolic hosts it, so I cannot say if it’ll be in Eurwendin or here, but there will be an assembly. Will you save me a dance?”

If she was surprised to hear of the dance, she did not show it. Instead, her smirk became a teasing grin. “Only one dance?”

Pulling his shoulders back, he said, “As your devoted bridegroom, I would expect two.”

“Staking your property?”

“Precisely.”

“And if an aristocratic bachelor begs for my hand? Am I to favor you over him for a second dance?”

“Unless you wish to be tossed over my shoulder.”

“Why, Rafe Fitz-Stephens, I never knew you were possessive. Only two dances? Not a third?”

Rafe crossed to her in seven strides, stopping inches away. He did not miss the frisson of surprise in her expression, one mingled with anticipation and uncertainty.

Capturing her hand, he brought it to his lips. “With you, I claim every dance.”

Before she could answer, he kissed the air above her knuckles, then swept from the room in what he hoped was an air of intrigue and irresistible masculinity.

With one leg stretched on the settee and one knee bent, shoes abandoned on the parlor rug, Rafe beheld an Old Bailey transcript. Early evening was settling in, but the curtains remained open, and the setting sun provided enough light without the aid of candles—yet.

He scribbled along the corner of the transcript with a piece of twine-wrapped graphite. A little more shading, perhaps. Yes, that would improve his annotation.

His father was due to join him to discuss the case and offer his insight as a magistrate. A perfect time for the two to put their heads together. Everyone except Gran had plans elsewhere. Gran embraced the chance for much needed privacy, having grumbled most of the afternoon about the overcrowding in her house. Headley and Diana had agreed to celebrate with Mr. Thorpe after his first competition. Rafe ought to be with them. He felt a trifle guilty. Perhaps, if he and his father did not while away the hours, he would join them at the tavern. Or perhaps not. He would decide later.

Shading finished, he darkened the finer lines.

From behind him, his father asked, “Are we discussing the court case or your ode to Miss Slade?”

Rafe blanched at having been caught. “Do you think A Beauty Beneath the Oak will make me the next da Vinci?” Rafe admired his handiwork. The corner of the transcript had never looked so good.

“Heaven help us if you doodle Miss Slade’s likeness while in court.” Taking the chair across from the settee, his father crossed one leg over the other. “Shall we discuss the tactics used by the barristers in the case, or would you prefer to playact a case of my choosing instead?”

Her hair was not right. Not enough volume. Rafe added a few more curls, exaggerating the ones escaping the jeweled hairpins. Much better.

“Rafe?” His father waited before clearing his throat loudly.

Rafe raised his gaze. Father’s eyebrows were arched, a humored lift at the corners of his mouth. Feeling his face warming, Rafe tossed the pencil on the table.

“Do you think,” he began, not meeting his father’s eyes, “Mother would be disappointed if I pursued the circuit rather than the Old Bailey?”

A flick of his gaze spied the surprise in his father’s expression before he returned his concentration to the settee cushion.

With care, Father said, “She only wishes for your happiness. I believe her concern would lie in the challenge. In the circuit court, you will not find the level of challenge that would normally stimulate you. As an alternative, you could begin in London, and then request to work the Assizes, which allow for more time in the countryside while still seeing criminal cases. It would mean more travel, but it could offer the option for what I think you’re really asking.”

Rafe did not respond. Instead, he tucked the hand not holding the transcript beneath him to resist chewing on his nails, an old habit he had not acted on in years.

“Would you be disappointed,” Father continued when the silence was not filled, “not to reach the King’s Counsel? It was your hope for the distant future. The circuit courts are little more than misdemeanors. Would you not grow bored?”

Haltingly, Rafe said, “If I were concentrated on a different kind of challenge, the familial kind, how could I possibly grow bored?”

“Am I to assume Miss Slade would not wish to live in or around London?”

With a flinch to have her name brought into the conversation, his father essentially calling Rafe’s hand, he said, “ I do not wish to raise a family in or around London.” He paused to consider his next words, then said, “I have regarded my chosen profession as a means to happiness. It’s not, though, is it? A profession is never intended to be the means to happiness. If anything, it’s a way to fill time until one discovers the true meaning of happiness.”

Father released a low whistle. “Am I to take it that Miss Slade has turned from undesirable to a means of happiness?”

Was she? Rafe could not readily answer. All he knew at this juncture was he was more interested in winning her affection than losing her. He had not yet satisfied his question of if they would suit, nor if she could think of him beyond the catalyst for all her woes. And then there was the question of how to turn sardonic flirtation into genuine adoration without appearing disingenuous. Acta , non verba . Deeds, not words, or as John Pym and others preferred, actions speak louder than words.

His father again filled the silence. “I’ve noticed your mother is beginning to favor Miss Slade. She is an amiable girl. It has always been my hope that, with time, everyone would realize this to be the brilliant match it is. Roland had thought Giles would suit, but I warned him against the match, and that was before I knew Giles would leave for another harebrained expedition, which proved my point, I dare say. Took me long enough to convince Roland you were the man for Miss Slade. I’m relieved he saw reason, because here you both are, young love burgeoning.”

Turning to face his father, Rafe’s brows puckered. “You foresaw our match?”

“What’s there not to foresee? Your dispositions align well, something Roland led me to believe before I met her, and now something I see for myself since meeting her.”

“How… fortuitous.” Rafe said nothing further, not wanting his father to realize the slip and give up the game.

Although he shifted the conversation to the case in hand, Rafe’s mind whirred with the implications of his father’s words.

They had intended to matchmake their c hildren .

Rafe’s appearance that fateful evening had played agreeably into Mr. Slade’s hand, then, for it had already been decided the two would be matched once he arrived, or so his father’s confidence led him to believe. Much like the lease, Mother was not privy to Father’s matchmaking plans. How would it have gone had Rafe not tumbled heels over head into her bedchamber? Would they have ensured the two partnered for games? Sat together at the dinner table? Accompanied each other hither and yon? Or was it to be more direct, the two of them sitting in the study with their fathers waving the marriage settlement?

As embittered as Rafe thought he ought to be at this newfound tidbit, the shackle tightening about his ankle, he was relieved, relieved and amused. Retrieving the pencil from the table, he returned to his sketch while his father offered the magistrate’s perspective on the case.