Page 25 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Ball in hand, Rafe pivoted, then threw it to Johnny Smith, the blacksmith’s son. Smith arched his arm towards the wickets, but the ball missed and rolled away. Rafe groaned with a tug at his sweaty hair.

The final cricket match of the Fracas Frolic had begun early that Friday morning. It was now well past noon. Rafe’s stomach grumbled. They were so close. So were the Eurwendins. The second inning, eleventh batman on the pitch, Rafe’s team fielding, Grant Lindis held the lead, barely. Two runs and the Eurwendin team would win, but one out, and Grant Lindis had the trophy.

When Noel tossed the ball to Headley, Rafe shouted the final war cry, “ Carthago delen ta est !”

Headley cradled the ball.

The crowd held a collective breath.

Rafe eyed the two umpires—Father and the rector of Eurwendin. He eyed the two batsmen on the pitch. He eyed the sideliners and caught a glimpse of Genevieve, her hands pressed to her bosom. His attention returned to Headley.

With finesse, Headley bowled to the batsman.

A crack shattered the air, and the ball arched in flight. As Rafe’s gaze followed it, the Eurwendin crowd erupted in celebration, realizing, along with the fielding side, this was an easy four run win. Dropping his chin to his chest, he accepted the loss.

Just as he expected the crowd to storm the pitch with congratulations for their sons, husbands, brothers, fathers, and so forth, a deafening silence descended. He looked around. All eyes were on his father. Mr. Anthony Fitz-Stephens had lifted his forefinger. Rafe’s jaw slackened, his mouth hanging agape—the batman was out ? But—then he saw the reason. Running towards the pitch, hand raised high, was Smith. The boy had caught the ball midair.

The shift, as everyone realized the implication, was palpable. Rafe whooped and jogged to Headley for a hearty handshake. With the last batman out, the four runs were forfeited, and the Grant Lindis team won by the skin of their teeth.

While the crowd did not exactly storm the pitch, an impressive number walked purposefully to their loved ones with congratulations or commiserations, as appropriate. Genevieve was no exception. She hurried to Rafe. For a brief heel to toe lean, he thought she was going to embrace him. Pity she changed her mind.

“Our first win in three years,” he admitted.

His shirt clung in damp discomfort, his waistcoat dusty, his boots and buckskins conspicuously muddy—even the hair at the nape of his neck dripped with shudder-inducing perspiration—yet he willed her to step one foot closer, close enough for him to grab her and pull her to him in what he could excuse as a celebratory embrace. Within the next twenty seconds, he wagered he could acquit his impropriety with the excuse of the win. Rafe inched closer in invitation.

“Three years? Oh my!” Genevieve’s nervous laugh accompanied a hasty step backwards—away from him.

Twenty seconds elapsed while he pleaded with her grey eyes to be daring.

“Will you join us?” she asked, taking another step back. “Diana and Mr. Thorpe were lucky enough to secure a table for the game. Diana will want to tell you in detail that we stayed for the entirety. I can’t say the same for my family, I’m afraid, as they left after the first inning to enjoy nuncheon at the tavern. I hope they returned in time for the win, but I’ve not seen them.”

She rambled. She rambled as she took yet another step away. Rafe had not moved, hopeful that his disappointment was not written in the exhaustion of his face. He had not wanted her to wrap her arms around him, not until she had come close to doing so. Now he could think of little else. Had they won? Had they been playing a game? For all he could remember, he had been standing in this same position for the whole of the morning, waiting for her, waiting to know the sensation of her cheek against his, her sigh near his ear.

Audentes fortuna iuvat , he thought. Fortune favors the bold.

“Headley will listen to Diana’s myriad observations. Thorpe will compliment them. I wish only to listen to you. Walk with me andante to The Dragon’s Breath?”

More’s the pity the fête had been yesterday, otherwise he could have walked her about the green at leisure. Now, the cricket pitch was fast emptying, some still milling, most returning home to prepare for the assembly that evening. With an indecisive glance at the sidelines, presumably where Diana and Mr. Thorpe, and likely now Headley, as well, were sitting, Genevieve looked at Rafe with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

And he wanted to be a barrister? Not only could he not read the meaning behind her expressions or guess her thoughts, he could not think of a single witty word to say. Where had his confidence gone? Had he not but a few days earlier boasted to himself about how easy it would be to win her over? Now, he was an inexperienced boy kicking the dirt, bashful in the presence of a beautiful lady.

The longer he stood, waiting for her reply, the more aware of his shabbiness he became. He ran a hand through his damp locks, grimacing with regret before his fingertips reached the ends of his hair.

“Perhaps we’ll see my family,” was her long-awaited answer.

Yes, perhaps. His shoulders rounded.

Rather than offer a sweat-soaked arm, Rafe clasped his hands behind his back and proceeded towards the tavern, his pace slow, his steps measured. He wished he had his walking stick, something to busy his hands and give him an air of importance, at least a slight appeal to vanity.

“I plan to introduce your father to Sir Courtney at the assembly this evening,” he said, in want of conversation.

“You can’t possibly think Papa will be induced to purchase a house if he joins this rambling group,” she said with a playful tut. “At least, I assume that’s your goal. Papa will not be so incentivized.”

“He wishes to be introduced to society—or as he thinks of it, society with a capital S, Society —and that is precisely what I plan to do, starting this evening. Lord Karras never misses an assembly—he being Eurwendin’s resident blueblood. Ample opportunity to make introductions.”

“You’re so well connected? I hadn’t realized.” Her expression was hidden by the brim of her bonnet, not that he could have read it had he seen it, but her tone was surprised, if not a little in awe. But then with a contradictory laugh, as though to call out his jest, she asked, “You actually know aristocrats?”

“Only enough to make an introduction. My father could, instead, but my understanding is your father wishes for me to introduce him. An opening, I suspect, for him to present me as his intended son-in-law, or merely an opening , full stop.”

“Since when have you become so accommodating? You must recall, Rafe, Papa is the villain in our tale. You really should not encourage him. The more he thinks you have something to offer him, the stronger his hold on this situation.” Hesitantly, turning her head to look askance at him, but not enough for him to see past the dreaded edge of the bonnet, she added, “We are trying to find a way out, are we not?”

Rubbing the back of his neck with his handkerchief, he ignored her question and said, “I have a theory.”

It had not been his intention to mention this. However much the theory amused him, it held no bearing on his increasing attraction. The conversation’s direction was outpacing him. He looked around to ensure no one was in eavesdropping range and that they still had enough distance to the tavern to make espousing his theory possible. Dash it. He had not planned on confessing this. What would it achieve? Alas. Alcea iacta est . The die was cast.

“I suspect our fathers had planned all along to introduce us, and I don’t mean for the purpose of family dinners.”

It took ten slow steps for Genevieve to react. At first, she remained silent, pensive, but finally, she laughed a sharp ha . “Don’t be silly. Papa could never have guessed he would find you… um… where he found you.”

“That’s not quite what I mean. I think that particular incident was a matter of convenience, too perfect for him not to take advantage of. It’s my theory that our fathers had wished to match us, marriage on their mind, but in a more subtle way, beginning with an introduction, followed by contrived seating at dinners, encouraged pairing during cards—you know this game as well as I do—all with the hope we would… suit. My theory further posits that with the disappointment at my not returning to Grant Lindis, your father grasped at the presented opportunity when I suddenly did arrive, however unexpected the manner.”

And the further he thought about this, the more Mr. Slade’s initial reaction made sense. He had demanded satisfaction , not knowing Rafe was Rafe, rather thinking Rafe either a burglar, as Genevieve had, or thinking exactly what he had claimed to be thinking—Rafe was a rogue caught in a clandestine tryst with the sweet Miss Slade, who Mr. Slade had already quasi promised to the second son of Anthony Fitz-Stephens. The demand changed from a duel to declaration only after Rafe’s identity was made known. Yes, Rafe was positive of his assertion.

Genevieve’s pace stalled. “It was planned from the start? Whether or not you played the burglar? They were going to force us no matter what?”

“Er, I wouldn’t say force , no. I believe, had I not ‘played the burglar,’ the match would have been more… how to say… organic.”

“But if they had already decided, then we had no choice. Partnering at games or otherwise, they would have forced us.”

Rafe twisted his handkerchief one way then the other. Not only had he not planned to broach this, it was not going in any way how he would have expected had he indeed planned to broach this. Her tone was caught somewhere between defensive and accusatory, not in the least seeing the humor as he did or, to a greater extent, the relief.

“I think you’re looking at this from the wrong perspective, Genevieve. Or I’m explaining my theory poorly.”

“I do beg your pardon.” Her tone, affronted, bit the air. “I’m looking at this incorrectly ? It’s my view, is it not?”

“That’s not what I mean. Dash it. Hear me out?” He swiped his brow with his handkerchief. “First, this is only a theory . My belief does not make it true. Second, if true, it offers a logical explanation for your father’s behavior and choices, legitimizing them, really.”

“That does not make what he did any more acceptable!” She caught herself as her voice rose, lowering when she said, “We should have the choice, not be tossed together, two strangers with different plans. Did they consult us? Did they ask us our wishes?”

“I believe they would have. I believe, if they had been given the chance, their intention had been to see if we suited, to hope we suited, and if nothing came of it, no reason to mention their matchmaking.”

Her laugh cut at his esteem. “Oh no, if my father set out to match us, we would have been matched. Just as he ensured when circumstances changed.”

“I think he deserves the benefit of our doubt, Genevieve. When he caught me in your—er—in the compromising situation, he spoke out of turn, not knowing it was me to whom he was speaking, and only when he realized—oh dash it; why am I explaining this? Does it matter? I ask you, pray, would it have been so terrible for them to match us, had I not blundered through the window?”

She stared at him as though a second head sprouted from his neck. “What are you asking, exactly?”

“Do you suppose their matchmaking would have worked, had I arrived in respectable fashion, as they had hoped and planned? Introduction. Dinners. Cards. No direct interference from them.” His words edged with desperation, or so they sounded to him. Could she hear the pounding of his pulse?

“I—I—this is silly. It did not happen that way. We can only face how it did happen and handle accordingly with the situation as it is now.”

He considered his options. The outlook was not promising if he chose to continue the conversation. Rather than seeing the situation from his perspective, she was stuck in the rut of her father’s manipulating a single incident. Or she was pretending to be. He could not say. To continue was futile, and he had no wish to dig himself a deeper hole. What should have been a lark, them both laughing at the possibility and how it could have gone, had become a row.

With a faint smile, he said, “You’re right. Shall we part ways here? Miss Cecilia has been trying to capture your attention from the tea garden, and I suspect my brothers need supervision if they’re to find their way safely back to the dower house—and I refer to everyone else’s safety from the pair of mischief makers.”

When she glanced around to see her sister waving some distance away, she nodded. She seemed on the cusp of saying something, but he did not wait to hear it.

Rafe had the last word. “Remember you’ve promised me a dance this evening.” Then, with a gallant bow, he took his leave of her, biting his tongue when he wanted to add, actually, three dances . The levity, he feared, would have been unappreciated.