Page 26 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

The gentle sway of lanterns cast a prismatic glow over the flowers, the dance held not in the assembly rooms of the tavern but in the new tea garden. Ah, the perfect ambiance: a soft breeze and a cloudless summer sky, light despite the sun having set.

Diana tugged at Rafe’s sleeve, eager to see everything and everyone. The hand not dragging Rafe was tucked under Genevieve’s arm.

“When does the dancing begin?” Diana prodded for the fifth time since they had arrived. “I vow to dance every dance, and if no gentleman asks me, I will ask you, Genevieve, so I do not miss a single step this evening. I would ask you, dear Rafe, but that would not be at all the thing, as I daren’t make your ladylove jealous.” She said the last with a shrill, tickling laugh. “Would it be a terrible faux pas to dance with Rupert? I know husbands should never dance with their wives, but what of siblings? I’m unfamiliar with Society rules, and what a shame to waste a dance when, in a pinch, I could press Rupert to dance with me. That would be superior to missing a dance, don’t you think?”

Sharing a wink with Genevieve as Diana rattled, Rafe tried to guide them towards Headley and Thorpe, who were talking near the nasturtiums. No luck. Diana ignored his nudge and tugged again at his sleeve as she threaded the garden paths.

When Diana took a breath to say more, Genevieve asked, “If Eurwendin had won, would we have been in the assembly rooms of their tavern instead?”

Both ladies looked at Rafe.

“Possibly. The Winsome Wyvern is a coaching inn. Much larger than our humble tavern.”

“Oooh, so we would have had a grand ball, then?” Diana interposed.

“Not quite,” he said, his shoulders shaking with a chuckle. “Last year, rather than an assembly, they hosted an afternoon fête to outdo ours—and succeeded. Their Punch and Judy Show is first rate, I admit. There was a medieval tournament for our amusement, as well. They do love their reenactments. And to end the fête, country dancing. As you see, we do things a little differently from them in Grant Lindis.”

As they took a turn about the golden blossoms of the calendulas, a commotion on the outdoor dance floor drew their attention and stilled their steps. The dean of Hartminster was beginning his presentation of the winning cup, which, much to Rafe’s companions’ amusement, was a wassail bowl.

Rafe lowered his voice to say, “It’ll be passed around for everyone to sip, and then displayed in the tavern for the year.”

Genevieve wrinkled her nose. “Must we?”

“Of course, we must!” expostulated Diana, aghast. “I’ve been waiting at least ten years to attend the frolic. I refuse to miss any part of it.”

Leaning behind Diana, he caught Genevieve’s attention with an expression he hoped conveyed the answer she had wanted to hear.

“We should move closer,” Diana urged. “I can’t hear anything he’s saying.”

Rafe rooted his stance when she tried to tug again. “He gives the same speech every year, and since he doesn’t attend the frolic, just the celebration, he only knows who won based on which village he’s in. ‘Good people of… er… let me eyeball my notes … Grant Windis… er… Lindis, rather, I present to thee a bowl of gold… er… wood….’ yadda yadda.”

“How do I tolerate you, Rafe Fitz-Stephens?” Diana asked with a disdainful sniff. “You’re odious. The dean’s words must be wise. And I’m missing them.”

As she pouted and Genevieve stifled a laugh, Rafe continued in his nasal imitation of the dean’s voice, “‘Imbibe, my good people of Brant Gindis, to restore vitality and share glory. May your drunken steps prove you as foolish as your brethren in Dimwiener, er, Eurwendingy, uh—’”

Diana punched him in the arm.

“Ow.” He rubbed his embroidered sleeve with a playful wince.

The speech, thankfully, was not long. They waited for the crowd to mill again before making their way to Rafe’s parents, who were standing with Genevieve’s parents, something they never would have done voluntarily before the frolic, or at least his mother would not have. As they drew near, Rafe slowed his steps to linger behind Diana so he could slip closer to Genevieve. If he did not say something now, he may lose the chance. Seeing his intention, she, too, stalled, allowing Diana to proceed ahead of them. Genevieve raised inquisitive eyebrows.

“I’m hoping for the supper dance,” he said. “Before the queue of lovestruck swain forms, all pleading a dance, I want to express my hope you’ll save the supper dance for me.”

“We’ll see,” was all she said before skipping ahead to join Diana.

Had it not been for the gleam in her eyes, he would have been tugging at his cravat.

For the first dance, Rafe was safe from envy. His father escorted Genevieve to the floor, just as Rafe did with Mrs. Slade, in turn. The Fracas Frolic Assembly was a gay affair, lively country dances the score, clapping and whistling not uncommon, a lifetime away from London ballrooms, stately balls, and courtly dances. Reels ruled the realm. Figures were simple, no complicated steps requiring dance masters. The dress of the evening was Sunday best.

Rafe had not noticed what Diana was wearing, nor his mother, nor Mrs. Slade, never mind the latter partnered with him for the dance. He could, however, recite without another glance what Genevieve wore: Silk. Lavender. Embroidered hem. Plumes.

Her eyes reflected the hue of her gown, giving the illusion they, too, were lavender. The cut of the gown schooled Rafe’s gaze on those lovely lavender hues so reflected because he could not bring himself to make the same mistake twice, i.e. allowing his gaze to travel below her chin. He was a hot-blooded man, after all, and knew his weaknesses. Her figure in the gown being one. The lavender waterfalled, form perfect, a flow of silken grace. Likewise, the neckline dipped far too low for the tightness of his cravat to bear. Rafe kept his eyes forward, still oblivious to what Mrs. Slade wore but aware of the owner of the dancing plumes at the top of the set.

When the dance ended, he escorted Mrs. Slade to the perimeter—near an herbaceous parterre improved by a swaying stained-glass lantern—his attention riveted across the garden on a young Eurwendin who was asking Genevieve for the next set before she had left the floor from the first. Given how much she wanted to be part of village life, this boded well for her having a full evening of dancing. Only a pity it could not be Rafe soliciting every dance.

As a distraction, he turned to Mr. Slade. Over the man’s shoulder, Rafe spotted Sir Courtney, arriving fashionably late. Perfect timing! He could make the introductions—and distract himself further.

The best description of Sir Courtney was convivial. He held no objection to being introduced to Mr. Slade and devoted more than half the next dance doing his poor best to recruit Mr. Slade for his rambling group. Caught in his own sycophantic trap, Slade had no choice but to accept, at least until he could think of an excuse to share a brandy regularly with Sir Courtney without the need for adventure, or so Rafe surmised from the trapped-rabbit expression Slade bore.

As they talked, Rafe watched Genevieve from the corner of his eyes.

He almost missed Sir Courtney’s departure, the man having spied Rafe’s mother and wishing to request the next dance. No sooner had he departed than Lord Karras stepped in, blocking Rafe’s view of the dancers.

Quizzing glass raised to one eye, Karras spared Rafe a cursory glance, looking away as he asked in his supercilious voice, “Sir Courtney?”

“Missed him by mere seconds. I shall benefit from his misfortune, as I wish to introduce someone to you.”

Slade sucked in his paunch and straightened his shoulders, recognizing an aristocrat without a word from Rafe.

Karras turned languidly to study the man standing beside Rafe. “Must you?” Dropping the glass by its ribbon, he sighed with boredom.

Rafe chose to take that as a yes, namely because Karras waited for the introduction rather than walking away.

The two men did not move in the same circles, but Rafe believed they respected each other, if for different reasons, Rafe admiring Karras’ exquisite raiment, a dandy of the first water, this evening being no exception—the intricate weave of the cravat, the diamonds in the folds, oh, how superbly the linen wreathed the man’s neck in a trone d’amour knot—and Karras admiring Rafe’s reputation for being one of the best whips—a curiosity, Rafe had always thought, because he believed it was his reputation admired, not the skill itself.

“May I introduce Mr. Roland Slade? New to the area, but with a salver topped daily with cards, including that of Sir Courtney.” A slight exaggeration given the introduction had only now been made to the latter.

Karras sighed again, swinging his glass as a pendulum. “Slade, you say? Of the Somerset Slades?”

Mr. Slade’s forehead wrinkled a smile. “Why, yes.”

“Mmm.” With the noncommittal sound, Karras graced Slade with a slight nod.

As Slade doubled over in an obsequious bow, Rafe completed the introductions with a simple, “Viscount Karras.”

Before more could be said, the dance ended, and Genevieve’s partner escorted her to her father’s side before taking his leave. Her eyes met Rafe’s first, then moved with interest to the stranger.

The quizzing glass stopped swinging. The frown pinching Karras’ brow softened as he swept his gaze over Genevieve.

Rafe’s fingers involuntarily curled into his palm.

Without missing a beat, Slade waved a hand to his lordship. “If I may, my new acquaintance is Viscount Karras. Your lordship, this lovely dove is my daughter, Miss Slade.”

Rafe cleared his throat, waiting for Mr. Slade to add the all-important on dit about his daughter being Rafe’s betrothed.

Instead, Karras bowed, a hand over his heart as though struck by Cupid’s arrow. “I will not allow you to dance the next with anyone except me.”

Slipping her hand in his, Genevieve allowed him to escort her to the dance floor.

Rafe flexed and folded his fingers.

His memory recalled Thorpe’s once-upon-a-time praise singing of aristocrats in his efforts to tempt the Slades to angle for a larger fish by freeing Genevieve of the betrothal. They had not listened at the time, not when they already had Rafe, but had Thorpe’s words made an impression, nevertheless? Surely not. It would negate his theory of their fathers’ matchmaking. It would turn Mr. Slade into a far more unscrupulous character. It would…

He shivered. It chilled him to see Slade so dazzled. Was Genevieve dazzled?