Page 29 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Dawn’s rays stretched across the desk in the study. Rafe watched the light’s inching progress as the clock on the mantelpiece ticked. He had been waiting for Mr. Slade for the better part of half an hour. Understandable given both the early hour and the late evening, but it was imperative Rafe speak to him before Genevieve requested an audience.

If he had followed his intuition rather than open his big mouth, he would not be in this sticky wicket.

His only hope was Slade’s sympathy—which he did not hold in high esteem—for if what Rafe had to say met with an unsympathetic ear, Mr. Slade was more apt to demand the banns be read immediately than offer the aid Rafe needed to ensure Genevieve had the freedom of choice. If Genevieve spoke to her father first, the demand for banns was certain. The responsibility weighed on Rafe’s shoulders to help her win her freedom of choice so he may then win her heart without reservations.

The study door opened, then closed. So anxious, Rafe jerked in surprise. Without acknowledging the guest, Mr. Slade grumbled his way to the desk. Eyes averted, he lowered into the chair, shifting his weight to find comfort, then drummed his fingers on the desktop. Rafe waited, still standing, invisible to his host. The clock continued to tick.

At length, the door opened again, this time to the butler carrying a tray. On it perched one steaming coffee cup.

Once the butler bowed his way back out the door, Mr. Slade took three healthy pulls of coffee, then turned his attention to a gilded snuff box. A flick of the lid. A pinch of snuff. A sniff with each nostril. A flick of the lid.

The only muscle on Rafe that moved was a tick in his cheek as he clenched his jaw.

Without looking up or inviting his guest to sit, Mr. Slade murmured into his coffee cup, “No.”

Rafe waited for more. The clock ticked.

When nothing further was forthcoming, Rafe cleared his throat and asked, “Begging your pardon, sir, but to what do I owe this answer?”

The man’s eyes met Rafe’s over the brim of the cup. Another swig.

Setting down the coffee, Mr. Slade laced his hands over his paunch, twiddling a button on his waistcoat. “I’ll tell you what I told my daughter last night: no . I will not release either of you from the betrothal. You gave me your word as a gentleman to honor the match. She gave me her word as my daughter to obey. Seems to me the calling of the banns is overdue. Allowed too much time for her to ruminate.”

Rafe let the words sink in rather than jump to respond. He had not anticipated her to seek an audience following the assembly. Later this morning after a proper lie in, yes. Last night, or rather in the wee hours, no. This changed everything Rafe had planned to say. A new plan… he needed a new plan. Think .

“You’re exactly right, sir, except for your assumption of why I’ve requested an audience.”

Mr. Slade knit his brows.

“I assure you I’m a man of my word. I’ve no wish to be released from the betrothal. On the contrary. As to why I’m here, I… I arrived early to invite you for a ride. Sir Courtney is an early riser, as am I, and I thought you might care to call on him with me.” Rafe grimaced inwardly at the impromptu invitation.

The crease between the brows softened as they rose, wrinkling Mr. Slade’s broad forehead instead. “Is this so?” He rubbed his chin, either pondering if he wished to ride or if Rafe was honest. “Chose a dashed, poor day for it, boy. Sleepless night, what with the assembly, and now this nonsense with my daughter. You’d no notion she came to me, fit to be tied?”

“I did not, sir. If I may be so bold to admit, I’m only partially surprised. I may have overstepped at the assembly. I never expected her to cry off, but in hindsight I can better understand my error. Ubi amor, ibi dolor , as they say. Where there is love, there is pain.”

“Is that so? Pull the rope, if you please.” Mr. Slade waved a hand to the bellrope behind Rafe.

Obediently, Rafe turned to give it a tug, then accepted the chair Mr. Slade offered, thinking this bode well for the conversation. He was improvising and uncertain of Slade’s reactions. If his improvisation failed, he and Genevieve would be heading for the altar with bared teeth rather than fluttering eyelashes.

When the butler peeked in, Mr. Slade asked for a cup of coffee for Mr. Fitz-Stephens. They waited for the deed to be done before ought else was said.

Fueled with a cup of coffee he did not particularly want but was obliged to drink, Rafe initiated, “About that ride…”

“Yes, yes, inconvenient timing but I’ll have the horses readied in a few—dash it, I should have said something when he brought the coffee. Could you pull the—ah, never mind. We can see to it shortly. I’ll need time to prepare, as well. Now. I have a bone to pick with you if you’re to blame for my daughter’s tantrum. Tell me why she hurled herself at me like a feral cat, hissing and spitting.”

Rafe outwardly flushed but internally chuckled, not so much at the visual but knowing Genevieve did no such thing. More accurately, she would have been the submissive daughter he recalled when he first proposed, begging her father for pity with downcast eyes. The only person he suspected she would unsheathe her claws for was himself.

“I tried to kiss her,” he confessed with a boyish grin, even if that was not how it had happened. If he judged Mr. Slade correctly…

Slade frowned for fifteen seconds before guffawing. “My daughter’s missish, is she? Now I see. Oh yes, now I see all too clearly. Next time, don’t try , if you take my meaning. Women need firmness.”

“Yes, sir. I take your meaning.” Schooling his expression to be one of a devoted pupil, he leaned forward with interest and nursed the cup of bitter. “She’s not likely to be receptive now. I wish I had enticed in her the desire to embrace me rather than enforce my will. You know how she is.”

It was not lost on Rafe they were discussing the intimacy of a first kiss when the betrothal itself had been manipulated from the accusation of there being far more intimacy than kisses, but such appeared to be lost on Mr. Slade.

“Nonsense. Take her in hand, boy. She’ll learn her place quick enough.”

“Indeed, sir, I suspect she would. But with all due respect, I’d favor a more delicate approach after seeing her reaction. Don’t fancy being set upon by a hissing puss. You know how headstrong she can be. Take her request as evidence. Res ipsa loquitur. The evidence speaks for itself. So opposed to having a kiss forced on her, she was compelled to cry off. I’m not of a mind to try again for fear I’ll meet the feral side you mentioned.” He affected a fearful shudder.

Mr. Slade’s mood had shifted from gruff to amused, the corners of his mouth quirking as he chuckled. “We’ll speak with the vicar. The sooner the banns are read, the sooner she’ll be a pliable bride. The two of you are well matched; I saw to that. She will realize it, too, in time.”

“However uncustomary, I’d favor her choosing me rather than being forced. Don’t fancy dragging an unwilling bride to the altar any more than I fancy sharp claws. Force is what has her reacting violently. She wants the choice, I gather.” Gazing at his cup, forlorn, he said dejectedly, “Drat if I know how to give her choice .”

“To choose you, eh? Most asinine idea I’ve ever heard.”

“I rather think I cut a dashing figure, not that she’s noticed with her heels dug into the ground. If she could see me as a friend rather than foe, I could woo her into falling head over heels for me. I’m afraid I’m forever a foe now. I’m the man who trapped her into marriage. She’ll never forgive me, not with the trappings cinched.”

Mr. Slade tipped his cup towards him with a grunt, confirming it was empty. “You’ve had time enough to woo her.”

“I’ve had time enough to fall for her . I’m at a loss for how to remove her veil of resentment. If she could but see me without the bindings of the betrothal…” Rafe affected his best lost boy impression, followed swiftly by a wistful, wide-eyed plea. “Do you have any suggestions, sir? Some way to convince her to choose me rather than forcing my attentions?”

Slade harrumphed. More to himself than to Rafe, he mumbled, “Don’t much care what she wants when I know what’s best for her. The sooner she recognizes that, the better, but she’s stubborn to a fault. Didn’t know you were a green lad. More’s the pity.” Harrumphing again, he stared into his empty cup, lost in thought, making inarticulate murmurs before muttering, “Hard lot in life, she proclaimed. Painted me a right villain. My fault she never took in society, befriending no one ‘cept that milksop Thorpe. My fault she’s dragged here, forced there.” His next words were grumbled with such unintelligible ferocity Rafe could not make them out. Then louder, he said, “S’pose I could grant her request.”

With all the alarm his words could muster, Rafe exclaimed, “To sever the betrothal? No, sir, I’ll not have it. Gave you my word.”

“No, no, you’re not following me, daft article. If I granted her request in theory , you could have, let’s say, two weeks to win her favor. If you can’t do that in two weeks, I’m having the banns called, and that’s that.”

“An illusion?” Rafe asked dumbly. Tricky business, this. If he failed to win her affection…

“Genius of me, if I do say so myself. Frankly tired of her playing me the villain. I sympathize with you there, young Fitz-Stephens. Don’t mistake my meaning—the betrothal is rock solid. Only my daughter will think otherwise.” Grumbling, Slade added under his breath, “Chance to choose. Daftest notion I’ve ever heard.” Then aloud, “Two weeks. If you can’t win her favor by then, you’re dimmer than I thought. Point of fact, if you’re that dimwitted, I may change my mind altogether and call on Lord Karras.”

Taken by surprise yet again, Rafe gulped the coffee.

Before he could reply, Mr. Slade trumpeted a laugh. “Only jesting. I wouldn’t have that dandy for all the titles in England. Prissy tulip, that one. Now, about this ride to call on Sir Courtney.”

The walk back to the dower house was overlong, his feet taking him a circuitous route to give him more time to think. As it was, this was the only time to himself he would have now that he had promised to ride with Mr. Slade to Eurwendin. He had half an hour to change into his riding raiment.

With only a sleepless night to fuel his day, his focus waned. After the assembly ended, he had devoted much of the night hours to preparing his request to Mr. Slade, which had been a fruitless waste of time, as it turned out. Then he had risen early, and despite the light drizzle glazing the windows, he had attended to a morning jog to clear his thoughts, the mist carrying the earthy tang of wet grass. Throughout his jog, he had oscillated between brokenhearted and confident he could mend this. All he had to do was convince Mr. Slade to offer her the freedom of choice, and then Rafe could prove to her he loved her with sincerity, not reluctance, and hopefully vice versa. He had seen infatuation in her eyes. He was confident she felt, at the very least, romantically inclined towards him. Now, he needed a new plan. If he had misjudged her, the noose would tighten at the end of two weeks. Amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus . Love is rich with both honey and venom.

He returned to the dower house in perfect time to bid Headley and Diana farewell, along with his expressed hope that Thorpe liked dogs—which awarded him a playful punch in the arm.

The house was quiet when Genevieve returned after a morning in the village. Had she known the evening would run so unexpected of a course, she would not have promised her sisters to help with the post-frolic cleanup, not that either of her sisters had been of much service, Cecilia spending the time whinging with new friends and Theia wandering off to pluck tree leaves for her journal.

What Genevieve wanted now was to wash, change, and rest.

The evening had gone from bad to worse. A moment of romance, the moment of romance when she was positive Rafe would confess his love for her, had turned sour, his confession being of resignation rather than words of affection to match her own heart’s desires. Then the disaster of begging her father for sympathy. She should have waited until morning. The memory of his flared nostrils, his heavy eyebrows, his flinging accusations of her being a disloyal daughter, all rushed back with a heavy weight to her chest.

With hand over heart, she slumped up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Genevieve had not been disloyal. Was pleading for a reprieve so that she might know Rafe’s true affections evidence of disloyalty? What did he care if there was genuine affection or not, he had put to her. It was the match that was important, and besides, if he did not do his duty by affiancing her to Fitz-Stephens, the two maids who had witnessed a gentleman in the bedchamber would be all too happy to wag tongues about Miss Slade’s loose morals. With spilled tears, Genevieve had spit back at him that her reputation did not matter when they would move again to yet another village with nameless faces.

She had meant the last, and yet she had not. She wanted to marry Rafe. But not by force. Not if it meant marrying a man resigned to like her, never to love her genuinely.

Genevieve sighed.

Papa was right. She was disloyal. Her saving grace was that Rafe did not know the depth of her affection nor did he know she had gone to her father. He need never know. With this advantage, she could turn the tables, pretend her reaction at the assembly had been but a trifle. Now, they could move forward with resignation . In time, she could hope his love would grow, not because he forced it but because she would be the best wife, the most obedient wife, and he would become fond of her, more so over the years. Yes, this was the right course. Was this not the way of most marriages? At least she had the advantage of being a little in love with her bridegroom.

A knock on her bedchamber door disrupted her woolgathering.

“Yes?” She had not washed yet, not changed, only made it from the door to the bedside, where she now sat, staring at the wall opposite.

The door parted, and a maid’s cap appeared. “Mr. Slade’s sent for you, miss. In his study.”

Her pulse thumped erratically. The banns . Now that he had thought over her pleas, he would demand the banns.

Voice cracking, she mustered, “I’ll be there promptly.”