Page 30 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Rafe read the brief missive more than a dozen times. With each read, his grin broadened.

Mr. Fitz-S tephens,

I hope you’ll excuse this breach of decorum, for it is improper to correspond with a man not one’s betrothed. Read that again, and you’ll understand the reason I am writing. My father has agreed to dissolve the betrothal. We have succeeded! I cannot speak to what changed his mind, but I believe my willingness to face him and share my sentiments has moved his sympathies. We are free! I thank you for being a consummate gen tleman.

Your friend,

Mi ss Slade

She did not shoo him to London, mention choosing someone more suited, or any other possible point that might have persuaded him away from her. This was not a dismissive letter. On its face was a notice to quit, her official cry off. But Rafe read much more into the letter, and what he read pleased him.

He had a plan. A dashing plan. A plan to have her swooning into his arms by the end of two weeks. Whatever apprehension he had after the interview with Slade relaxed. Now to put his plan into action. Oh, what a devilishly splendid plan!

Monday morning, Genevieve tripped down the stairs with gay abandon. Well, the descent was far more sedate to observant eyes, but from Genevieve’s perspective, she held a distinct pep in her step. Freedom felt glorious! Like a hot brick on a cold day or the sun on one’s cheeks after a swim. For the first time in her life, she could choose . If she did not wish to marry a stranger, she was not obliged. If she wished to marry for love, she could do so, and now she would know it was love, true rather than manufactured.

And so, down the stairs she flew, a cageless bird, on the romp to the lake. Hand on the banister, she pivoted towards the entrance hall, bumping headlong into Cecilia.

“Where are you bound, and may I join?” Cecilia asked, looping her arm around Genevieve’s.

“If you wish. I’m for the lake.” Flashing a mischievous grin, she added, “If I don’t return with a fresh row of freckles, I’ll have failed my mission.”

“The lake ! But that’s nearly five miles away!” Slipping her hand free, Cecilia tutted. She turned towards the stairs only to spin around to face Genevieve, her lips curling into a smirk. “If I wish? Think you’re so clever. You knew I would say no but invited me to divert suspicion. You’re meeting Mr. Fitz-Stephens! A lover’s tryst! I should have known. No one has the right to look so provokingly happy unless they’re bound for a lover’s tryst. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Returning her sister’s smirk, Genevieve corrected, “You are not . For, you see, dearest sister mine, Papa has absolved me. I’m free to do as I wish.”

With narrowed gaze, Cecilia eyed Genevieve queerly. “What are you saying?”

“I’m no longer forced to marry Mr. Fitz-Stephens. Granted, I can , if I wish, but Papa will not force me.”

“Piffle. Papa did no such thing. If he did, he’s fooling! And what daft cow would cry off with Mr. Fitz-Stephens as the bridegroom?”

“No fooling. I am free .” She took two steps towards the entrance hall before Cecilia caught her arm.

“You mean Mr. Fitz-Stephens is free. Free to look about him? Is he really?” Cecilia’s eyes twinkled. “ You may walk to the lake, but I’m walking to the dower house. And don’t you dare say I can’t, or I’ll call your bluff about Papa.”

Lifting her hem, Cecilia skipped past Genevieve, her destination, presumably, the dower house. Genevieve shrugged. She waited a few minutes to avoid bumping into her sister again, using the time to don her bonnet and tie the ribbons beneath her chin.

When she stepped out of the house, none other than Cecilia caught up to her, having stalked the front door to pounce.

“Why?” Cecilia questioned. “Why would Papa break the betrothal?”

“Because I begged him to. It was a farce from the beginning, and I finally had the courage to stand up to him and tell him that very thing. He listened because he knows I’m right.”

“Right? About what ? It was a brilliant match!”

“But it wasn’t my choice,” Genevieve defended. “I think we should all have the courage to stand up to him. We always do what he wants. We obey his every order. How many more times is he going to drag us across England because he wants it? We’ve been his marionettes too long. I consider my defiance in your favor and Theia’s because he’s not likely to compromise either of you into a match now.”

A frown tugged at Cecilia’s expression of curiosity. “You’re the most selfish person I know.”

Genevieve’s mouth fell agape. “I’m what ?”

“Selfish. Do you ever listen to yourself? ‘Oh, woe is me, forced to tour the countryside, forced to live a life of luxury, forced to see England from one end to the other, forced into an understanding with a Nonpareil, forced—’”

“Stop,” she interrupted with a quelling glance. “You paint our life in watercolor, Cecilia, and that is not how it has been. We move into houses not our own, living like veritable gypsies, never staying long enough to befriend—”

“No, that’s you . You never bother. You’re too busy pouting to befriend anyone. I, on the other hand, have the pleasure of not one or two friends but dozens. I love living like a gypsy, as you say. And if Papa’s choice for you, regardless of his reasons, is an Incomparable Nonesuch of Quality, then I shall beg him to compromise me into a match by whatever means necessary.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were forced to marry a stranger.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cecilia conceded. “I would most assuredly feel persecuted, then I would pout about it, blame Papa, and cry off.”

Bristling, Genevieve retorted, her voice tremulous, “I’m sorry you think me so horrid a person.”

Cecilia sighed. “I don’t. You know I don’t. I simply don’t understand you. If the sun were shining, you would portend rain. From my purview, we should enjoy the sun until it rains, and when it does, we may dance in Heaven’s waterfall.” With a look of pitying condescension, she offered, “I’m happy for you if you’re happy. After all, now I can hope your loss is my gain.”

On that, Cecilia turned away and headed for the dower house, leaving Genevieve to her thoughts.

Genevieve did not begin her journey back to the house for some hours later. The lake water had been cool to her bare feet, the perfect juxtaposition to the warm sun on her skin. The bonnet had been tossed aside, along with her fichu, stockings, and shoes. Her only regret was not bringing a linen sheet on which to lie, for the grass had been damp from Sunday’s rain. It did not matter a whit, though. She expected no callers and would not see a soul on the walk home.

Her intention had been to celebrate her freedom. The actuality of the outing, however, had been meditative. Cecilia often spouted silliness, and if that silliness antagonized her sisters, all the better, and so nothing Cecilia had said should have troubled Genevieve. Spoken, then forgotten.

Except one trifling fact.

What Cecilia said recalled something Rafe had said. At the time, she had thought him blaming her for her unhappiness and friendless state, but now, she did not believe that was what he meant, not at all. He had tried to prevail upon her a different kind of choice, the choice of clarity, propitiousness, the ability to see in every moment an auspicious opportunity.

After a morning’s meditation, she understood, or thought she did.

Understanding and accepting were different beasts, however. Knowing she must make the best of undesirable situations did not make them any more desirable, but there was so little in life of which she held control. Thus was the lot of the female sex, she supposed. But did that lack of control dictate her sensibility? Must it? She had thought herself fighting the control, the warrior who refused to be cowed, but on reflection, she saw it quite the opposite—she allowed herself to be stripped of happiness. And who cared if she was happy or unhappy? No one except herself. Hitherto, that thought had always contributed more unhappiness. If she and she alone could allay unhappiness, why not do it ?

Had she drawn this conclusion earlier, she would not have gone to her father. She would have accepted Rafe’s offer. At this moment, they could have been riding together across estate grounds, him courting her favor. What a fool she had been! There was no use boohooing over her decision now, nor of all the friends she had missed meeting over the years by not exerting herself. The way forward was what mattered.

She had broken the betrothal not to split from Rafe, only to give them the choice to fall in love, or not, and she had hoped he might wish to pursue her with genuine adoration. Cecilia’s words haunted her, though. Her actions might have unintended consequences. With his freedom, he could look about him. Who could blame him if he did? She had not made herself appealing. She had made a point to do quite the opposite to repel him. Who wished to pursue a prudish and combative woman? Oh, Genevieve, you fool! Not once had she given him a reason to love her .

Well, she had a plan now. The cool waters of the lake had set her right. She had a plan. A dashing plan. A plan to have him swooning in her arms! She need only put the plan into action. Oh, what a splendid plan!

With these happy aspirations, she set off back to the manor.

She would need to sneak through the hidden passage Rafe had shown her to avoid Mama’s censure. In one hand, she carried her shoes, stockings, and fichu, in her other, her bonnet. Her walking gown was hopefully not beyond repair, however noticeable the grass stains and mud-coated hem. It was all so freeing . How glorious was life! How bountiful nature! The earth squelched between her bare toes, downy soft.

Ahead, the Priory came into view over the brow of the hill. Blithely, she ascended the gentle slope, invigorated by the walk, not all of which had been traversed barefooted, but here on the well-scythed lawn, indubitably. Her thoughts turned to Mr. Thorpe and Diana.

Just so, the silhouette of a horse and rider crested, approaching from the Priory.

Papa would lecture her for traipsing the countryside as she was, but not even accusations of being an urchin could ruin her mood. In anticipation of his mortified expression, she swung her bonnet with glee and quickened her pace to greet him. Only when it was too late to divert her path did she realize the rider was not Papa.

The expression she had expected Papa to wear overcame her features instead: sheer horror tainted her brow. Rafe Fitz-Stephens trotted towards her.

In all his majestic glory, he slowed his horse, came to a prancing stop, and doffed his beaver hat in greeting. “You’re looking in rude health, Miss Slade, in fine fettle.”

Genevieve mouthed a silent reply, her jaw working as a fish out of water. Good Lord in Heaven! What had happened since Friday? Had she been this blind, or…

Mounted on his trusted steed was an Adonis. Never in her life had she beheld such magnificence, nor buckskins quite so snug. Her eyes bulged. His buff buckskins hugged his thighs like a second skin, leaving no doubt to the strength and musculature beneath. His top boots shone with a reflective gleam, so well fitted about his calves, one knew with certainty the gentleman would never require padding for evening attire. His waistcoat and coat were molded to his frame, accentuating powerful shoulders and a broad chest, the ensemble quite point-de-vice , especially the meticulously knotted cravat. She knew little of cravat tying, but she knew enough to recognize a superior neckcloth and the expert hands to have wielded it.

His golden curls were windswept into luxurious temptation, seducing one’s fingers to feel their silken texture. And while she admired those locks, they were tucked away beneath the curved brim of the hat as he returned hat to head.

Genevieve’s eyes met Rafe’s. His Nordic blues flashed mischief. Patiently, he awaited her response, a deepening smirk drawing ample attention to the naughty cleft in his chin.

Mortification of all mortifications! She had not replied! Like a tongue-tied green girl, she stood gaping at him. Her cheeks warmed.

His horse blew a snort, impatient, unlike his rider.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded querulously.

With a flash of pearly whites, he said, “I live here.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t signify.” Her cheeks emblazoned from warm to inferno.

“I rather think it does.” His voice trembled with a repressed laugh.

“Oh! You are an insufferable man. You know perfectly well what I mean. What are you doing here ?”

“Riding, my good neighbor. Alfgar fancied a stretch of his legs, as did I.”

Her pulse raced at the attention he drew to his legs, the muscles flexing as he kept Alfgar steady.

“Tetchy today, Miss Slade?”

“I—well—I—of course not! I’m perfectly content, I’ll have you know. More than content. Deliriously happy. I am merely caught by surprise.”

“Mmm. Yes, so I gathered.” The playful arch of a brow spoke volumes as his gaze swept over her. “You’ve been kissed by more than the sun today, I see. How envious must be Helios.” With that cryptic comment, he tipped his hat, bid her a good day, then waltzed off.

In high dudgeon to be caught so unawares, she marched to the house and up to her bedchamber by way of the front door, entrance hall, and main stairs, not caring if she met Mama on the way. With a toss of her limp bonnet and fichu onto a chair and her shoes and stockings onto the floor, she plopped into the chair before her dressing table.

One look in the mirror sent her shrieking into her dressing room and tugging at the bellrope. A thick streak of mud marred her cheek from one corner of her lips up to her temple, disappearing into her hairline where a rogue leaf burrowed into her curls as ostentatiously as an ostrich plume.

Burying her face in her hands, she laughed herself silly.