Page 28 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)
Mr. Proudie, a gentleman from Eurwendin, and from what Genevieve recalled from their brief introduction earlier in the week, an acquaintance of Rafe’s, led her to one of the benches following their dance. He promised to return with a glass of Madeira while she rested her feet. She never dreamt she would dance every set at an assembly. During her one and only previous assembly, she had sat with the spinsters and wallflowers and, alternately, hid behind her mother. It was not that gentlemen did not wish to dance with her, she did not believe, rather the Slades did not know enough people to make the appropriate introductions.
Tonight, she had danced every dance so far. Her feet ached. Not that she would complain. She did not care if she ever walked again—let her feet throb! Curling her toes in her shoes, she searched the crowd for Rafe. Was the supper dance soon?
Mr. Proudie weaved his way to her, two glasses in his hand and a tall figure in his shadow. Her heart skipped a beat. She smiled as she accepted the wine from Mr. Proudie with a word of gratitude.
The shadow emerged from behind him. “Miss Slade,” greeted Mr. Headley.
However crestfallen that he was not Rafe, she held her smile, hoping her disappointment did not show. “How are you enjoying the evening, Mr. Headley?”
“Not as well as Proudie. He’s had the honor of taking you for a twirl.”
Exaggerating the batting of her eyelashes, she offered, “If that’s a solicitation for the next dance, you’re in luck.”
Before she lost her opportunity to quench her thirst after so many turns about the floor, she took a few generous but not unladylike sips.
Proudie bowed to them both. “I believe that’s my cue. Miss Slade. Headley.” He offered to take her glass as he departed.
“You know each other,” she observed.
“Since our youth. He’s a member of the Vitruvian Society.”
Had Rafe not mentioned that during the frolic? She recalled meeting Proudie, but all the faces and names blurred after so eventful a week. She flexed her feet with a wince.
“Not too sore, I hope?” Headley enquired, nodding to her shoes. “We could sit this out if you’d prefer. Gossip like old maids instead.”
She shook her head. “I would not miss dancing with you for the world.”
As they joined the dancers, Diana and Mr. Thorpe squeezed in beside them.
Diana, holding tight to Mr. Thorpe’s hand, squealed her delight. “We’ll all be able to dance together!”
Just as the music struck, a pair of latecomers darted in at the bottom of the set. Genevieve’s breath caught. Rafe. She could not catch a glimpse of his partner but wished they could have joined the quartet of her and Mr. Headley, and Diana and Mr. Thorpe.
They waited for the dance to reach them, the top of the set enjoying lively figures first. Conversation kicked off around them.
“Di and I leave tomorrow,” Mr. Headley said.
“So soon?” Before he could answer, she realized the rush given they could not travel on Sunday and would be too exhausted after the assembly to travel tomorrow. “Oh, I understand. If you wait, it will not be until Monday before you can depart. I wish we all had more time together. You’re not so very far away, are you?”
“Not at all. The northernmost village in the deanery. At most an hour, but that’s only if taking a leisurely pace and going through Sidonia.”
That Diana would be leaving was disheartening, but there had never been the expectation the Headleys would stay long once the frolic ended.
“While I have the chance,” Mr. Headley ventured, “I want to express my relief you’ll be marrying Fitz-Stephens.”
“Relief?” Genevieve echoed with an unrepressed laugh.
“I feared he would die a bachelor, most certainly in a mad-cap, reckless scheme, either from his misguided sense of adventure or to prove himself.”
“You’re provoking me, Mr. Headley, and I shan’t listen to a word of this slander!” She laughed harder still at his long face, the twinkling in his eyes belying his mischief.
“Oh, but it’s true, Miss Slade. I was certain no woman would agree to marry him. Women have far more sense.”
“Are you implying I’ve lost my senses?”
The dance made its way down the line to them, their conversation delayed.
Genevieve knew Mr. Headley jested. Rafe could have any woman he wanted, and yet he was, presently, trapped with her, the last woman he could desire, for even if she were the prettiest and wittiest girl of his acquaintance, no man wanted to be forced into marriage. She felt one part proud to be his temporary betrothed, one part defensive at any insinuation, jest or not, that a woman could reject him, and two parts melancholy to think of the betrothal dissolving once they convinced her father to give her a choice.
When the dance provided them with the next opportunity to speak, she chided Mr. Headley. “As his closest friend, you should praise him to me, convince me I’ve made the best match, not tell me I’ve taken leave of my senses.”
“Must I convince you?”
“No, I’m perfectly aware of how remarkable he is.”
Mr. Headley cracked a sly smile. “You should tell him rather than me.”
“Don’t be absurd! He’s perfectly aware of that fact already.”
“I don’t disagree, but is he aware you think so?”
Genevieve’s smile faltered at the edges. “That point does not signify, sir.”
“Wouldn’t want him to become too conceited? To have won the lady’s hand and her affection. Could go to his head. We’d never hear the end of it.”
“You’re still teasing me, confounded man.”
The dance swept them away again, the conversation left to simmer. By the time they could exchange words once more, the dance was at an end.
Before Mr. Headley parted ways, he leaned closely with a whisper. “Tell him how you feel. Even a lovestruck fool needs reassurances now and again.”
She smiled but said nothing, thinking that if Mr. Headley knew the truth of the situation, he would not call Rafe a lovestruck fool nor would he recommend she share her feelings one way or another. Mr. Headley still thought them a love match. A knot tightened in Genevieve’s stomach that it could not be further from the truth.
Diana clasped Genevieve’s hand, Mr. Thorpe by her side. “You’re going to dance with Alan next. I insist. He has something wonderful to tell you. And so you know, we have you to thank, you and Rafe. Love at first sight agrees with you both. Who could not fall in love, as well, seeing the two of you together? You inspire the muses!” Placing Genevieve’s hand into Mr. Thorpe’s, Diana squeezed his fingers around his new dance partner. “Now you can’t be jealous if I steal a dance with Rafe.” With a giggle, she disappeared between people, presumably to find Rafe.
Genevieve looked wide-eyed at Mr. Thorpe. “What on earth was that about?”
Her companion’s cheeks flushed. He did not immediately answer the question, rather he slipped his hand free of hers and asked instead, “May I have the next dance, Miss Slade?”
“It would be my pleasure. Besides, if we chose not to dance, I daren’t face Diana’s disapproval.”
“Nor I,” he said, the flush creeping along his neck.
Their dance was more sedate, ample opportunity to talk, although neither were overly eager to do so, not because they did not wish to, but because there did not seem an immediate need to. Genevieve enjoyed dancing with a trusted friend. His presence was calming. She recalled why she had entrusted him with her unusual situation to begin with—he was the most level-headed, trustworthy, and stalwart person she had met. With him, there was no need for nervousness or worry, no confusion about what he was thinking or might do or say next. With him, she could simply be .
At length, Mr. Thorpe said softly, “I must offer my apologies, Miss Slade. I fear I’ve failed you. You asked for my aid, and I’ve been unable to help your parents see things differently.”
“Oh, good heavens. You have not failed me! You have been the dearest friend I could wish for.”
“If that were so, I would have been able to succeed in either convincing your parents as you had wished or convincing you.”
Her steps fumbled. “Me? Whatever do you mean?”
“It’s my opinion you and Mr. Fitz-Stephens are well suited. I approve of him, Miss Slade, wholeheartedly, and think you would both regret not taking advantage of the situation, if for no other reason than to see if I’m correct.”
“No! You’re quite mistaken! We do not suit at all. And if we did, which we do not, we cannot simply forget the situation. No gentleman wishes to be forced into marriage. There are far too many complications.”
Mr. Thorpe shrugged his shoulders. “The situation, as I see it, is an opportunity. Rather than ask why you’re being punished, you should ask what you’re meant to accomplish. It’s not my place to say, but it is my humble opinion that the good Lord does not present trials to punish rather to strengthen, even to reward. Take my traveling here to aid you, Miss Slade. The situation presented an opportunity of a lifetime—the chance to meet Diana Headley.”
Genevieve stumbled again, making quite the cake of herself in the dance, thankful it was sedate enough no one appeared to notice her missteps. “What about Diana?”
“She’s asked me to be the one to tell you, seeing we’ve known each other longer. We have an understanding. More than that. I must remember I’m speaking with you , and thus, I may be honest to the point of vulgarity—we’re in love, Miss Slade!”
Had Genevieve been taking a sip of wine, she would have choked. Thankfully, she was on a dance floor, which meant her only sin was another stumble, this time right into Mr. Thorpe, who gallantly caught her and righted her, the sole witness being Diana—and, oh dear, Rafe, as well, who eyed her with a quizzical lift of his brow. What a clumsy oaf! But… Diana ? And Mr. Thorpe ? In love? Preposterous!
“It’s been but a week!” she protested.
His smile was full of guilty pleasure. “When a gentleman knows, he knows.”
“But… but…” she stuttered, not knowing how to respond to the news.
Diana and Mr. Thorpe were so different. How had Genevieve not realized they had been making eyes at each other all this week?
After struggling to understand, she finally said, “It is my turn to apologize. You’ve announced the happiest news I could possibly hear, and all I’ve done is sputter in shock. What a terrible friend I am! I am so happy for you and certainly for her, although she must already know what a gem you are, the luckiest of ladies, to be sure. When is the wedding? Oh, I couldn’t be happier, truly.”
“Not for four to six months, I would assume. If I could marry her tomorrow, I would. The families must meet, and I wish to court her properly, nothing so havey-cavey as a week’s romance to make her parents think ill of me. Once I have her father’s permission, there will be the banns.”
“If we weren’t in the middle of the dance floor, I would hug you!”
“I might know someone more deserving of that embrace.”
“Yes, I shall wrap my arms around Diana’s neck the second the dance ends.” Her gaze sought Diana and Rafe as they skipped in a merry circle with the other dancers of their set.
“Oh no, you mistake me, Miss Slade. It was not to Diana I referred.” Mr. Thorpe’s mouth contorted into an expression Genevieve had never witnessed him bear before—a roguish grin.
Realizing he had meant Rafe, she tried for a sulky huff but could achieve no such reaction, not in the presence of that roguish grin, so out of character for Mr. Thorpe. Instead, she pulled a face before breaking out into a grin of her own.
Following his bow, Mr. Thorpe rose, his eyes trained over Genevieve’s shoulder. Her breath caught. Rafe must be approaching.
Heart in her throat, she pivoted.
A burly fellow drew near the edge of the dance floor, the wassail bowl in his hands. Genevieve squeaked, darting for an escape path. Only vaguely was she aware of Mr. Thorpe laughing at her and Diana’s mellifluous voice, elated to have found the bowl at last.
Slipping between two would-be dancers, she halted face to chest with a silken waistcoat. A lift of her chin proved what she anticipated most. Rafe.
Smiling coyly, he urged, “This way.” His gloved hand palmed her elbow, and he guided her to the other side of the dance floor. “Safe from the bowl. For now.”
Eyes level with his neckcloth, she said sardonically, “My hero.”
“No need to shower me with gratitude. Rescuing damsels in distress is a pastime of mine, you know.”
So languidly and so prosaically were his words spoken, Genevieve could not disguise her gurgle of laughter. “Do you often meet damsels pursued by wassail bowls?”
“You would be surprised. Left unchecked, they’ve grown brazen—the bowls, not the damsels.”
“Fortunately for me, then, the mighty bowl hunter is afoot.”
“Impeccable timing, as always.” Winking, he clarified, “The supper dance is next.”
“Oh,” was all she could muster, gooseflesh kissing her arms. Was it overly warm? The breeze chilled her feverish skin.
As an excuse to avert her eyes from his regard, she turned back to watch the bowl’s progress, Diana and Mr. Thorpe having a sip before passing it on.
His voice closer than it had been before she turned, he said in low tones, “ Nemo saltat sobrius . Nobody dances sober.”
“The wassail?”
When she risked a glance, he shook his head, a secretive smile playing his lips. “I wasn’t referring to wine.” Leaving her to decipher the meaning, he reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “I have a different dance in mind for us.”
A trifle distressed, but mostly piqued, she allowed him to lead her away from the dancers and into the garden. Down a narrow path, they passed two benches but did not stop at either, then slipped beneath the thatched eave of the tavern to follow the side of the building until the lantern light gave way to quarter moonlight. Only then did he stop, their location secluded from the garden.
Her emotions warred between scandalized and tantalized. “What game are you playing, Rafe?”
“No game. I wish to waltz with you. The music doesn’t matter.”
“But… I don’t know how to waltz.” She knew of this dance, at least, but that did not assuage her of his intentions. “This is all too irregular. We should join the others.”
Shocking her to the tips of her stockinged feet, he drew her against him, their bodies only separated by their intertwined hands. In a sultry voice he said, “ Nitimur in vetitum . We strive for the forbidden,” then stepped back just enough to guide for a turn under his arm.
She gasped a laugh at the turn only to have her breath stolen when he drew her once more against him.
“A variation of the Duke of Kent’s waltz,” he said. “I hope it’s saucy enough to embolden but not to insult. How is it so far?”
With a breathy chuckle, she was swept into another turn. It did not matter that she did not know the steps, for he guided her with expertise, nor did it matter that the music had not begun to play in the tea garden. She felt the music rather than heard it. In only a few turns, she forgot their friendship was conditional, forgot their relationship was temporary, forgot their betrothal was manipulated, and above all else, forgot her attraction was unrequited. Sinking into his embrace, she followed his lead, intoxicated by the intimacy of the dance.
Oh. Nemo saltat sobrius. Oh ! She understood what Rafe had meant now.
“You’ve taken my breath away this evening, Genevieve. To say you’re the handsomest woman present would be an understatement.”
She wanted to laugh at his silliness, call him out for being roguish, scold him for teasing her, but his expression was earnest, and she could not bring herself to break the spell. For a moment, she relished the sensation of sincerity. Lie or truth, she wanted his words to be ardent. Desperately.
“Have I mentioned how masterful you wielded the bow?” he continued, kindling the fire with every word. “Your arrow pierced my heart, dearest. I’m quite undone, besotted, truth be told.”
He did not appear perturbed she had not responded to his lavish praise. He drew her to him for lengthier embraces before relaxing and turning her again. As the music in the tea garden struck its first chord, at last, he drew her to him one last time, his breathing deep and steady, his eyes trained on hers, bright in the moonlight. She leaned into him, lightheaded by the heady sweetness of his perfume.
Rafe leaned closer, lowering until she caught the scent of mint. She felt his breath on her cheek. Her heart pounded erratically. Her eyelids fluttered.
Then he lifted her hand between them, and with his eyes still locked with hers, he kissed the knuckles of her lavender, kid gloves.
When he stepped back, a chill swept over Genevieve, sending a shiver from head to toe, her lips aching for what they had been deprived. Why had he not kissed her? She was certain he meant to. But then, she had never been kissed before—had she read too much into the moment? Her heart sank to realize he had only been playing the role of besotted betrothed. She blinked rapidly and turned away, not wanting him to see how much the moment had affected her—how foolish he would think her!
“I have a confession,” he said.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Without turning around, she nodded for him to continue. All she wanted to do was return to the assembly.
“I…” he began, his voice hitching. “I’ll understand if you object.” He cleared his throat, but his words came out hoarsely. “I want to court you.”
She spun around. “I beg your pardon—you what ?”
“It’s ridiculous, I know. We’re technically betrothed already, and I’m supposed to be finding a way to extricate us from the betrothal so you can choose, even if that choice is someone else. You’ll think me a traitor now. If so, I completely understand and will do as you bid.” He fumbled with his fob, fidgeting. “But… since we’ve become better acquainted, I believe we rub well together. I believe our fathers knew what they were about, if my theory rings true, and I think we would be better served to accept the situation than object. I speak for myself, in full disclosure, when I admit that I don’t want you to choose someone else. However unusual our circumstances began, I think it time we embrace this chance. If I could court you with full intention towards matrimony, not this betrothal game we’ve been playing, we might discover… we… suit.”
The spell he had cast with his waltz disintegrated. Pretending to brush an errant hair from her face, which in turn wet her gloves with fresh tears, she chortled mirthlessly. From seductor by moonlight to her father’s stooge in a single confession. And she had thought he had fallen for her! She had thought he wished to kiss her! A veriest understatement should her acceptance cross her lips, leastways while she was still tempted to fling herself into his arms. But his words… his sentiments… These were not words of affection, adoration, love , not of a man wishing to kiss a woman by moonlight. These were words of acquiescence. He was giving into her father’s manipulation because he did not know how to end the betrothal without the man’s wrath and threats to ruin reputations. She should be flattered, she supposed, just as she should have been flattered when he had been the consummate gentleman and proposed—he was willing to make the best of the situation, enough to say they rubbed well t ogether .
Hardening her heart, she took a step closer and reached for his hand to squeeze it. “No.” She let his hand fall back to his side as she stepped further away, putting distance between them. “I want my freedom. You do, as well—I know you do—although you’ve convinced yourself otherwise to make this situation tolerable. We have each played our part, but it’s time one of us defended ourselves. If it must be me, then so be it. I will request an interview with my father tomorrow and tell him to do his worst.”
Rafe stared at her in abject horror. “I misspoke. I chose the wrong words. Please, let me try again. Let me tell you how infatuated I am. Just as you think you know I want freedom, I know you harbor feelings for me, beyond playacting. If I did not believe so, I wouldn’t fight, but I know you feel what I do. I saw it now. I saw it in your eyes. I felt it in my arms when we danced.”
Genevieve backstepped, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter . Do you not understand? Whatever you’re feeling, it’s an illusion. You’ve convinced yourself because you’re a gentleman. Once free of me, you’ll have time to reflect and see it’s not real. You’ll thank me. You’ll be able to go to London and be a barrister at the Old Bailey like you planned. All your dreams will come true without this millstone about your neck.”
He strode towards her, arms outstretched to embrace her, but she sidestepped him. “Genevieve. Please. Let me explain myself better. Dash the circumstances that brought us together.”
“But they’re everything . I cannot disremember them. I will not. I will not be forced , no matter what our feelings may be, and I know your feelings are as forced as the betrothal. Give yourself time to meditate on them, and you’ll see I’m right. Let me go, Rafe. Oh, just let me go.”
Breaking free from his emotional hold, she tripped around the side of the tavern to return to the tea garden.