Page 31 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)
Tuesday brought no occasion to enact her plan. The rain showers did little to help. Now it was Wednesday, and already her splendidly dashing plan was failing—how could it be otherwise when her first encounter with Rafe had been so disastrous? She must, must, must initiate the next meeting to gain advantage.
A fine declaration but not so easily seen to fruition.
Genevieve glanced sidelong at Viscount Karras and exhaled her boredom.
“And then, Miss Slade, I said to him, ‘My good man, that is not the Karras Fold. To master this delicate work of art takes subtle nuance which you do not possess.’” Karras chortled with a flounce of his hand to invite Genevieve to share his laugh.
“A witty rejoinder, my lord, to be sure,” she said flatly.
When Papa granted her freedom, she had not expected him to invite a suitor in replacement. Sneaky of him. Then, she should have known better. This was Papa, after all. He had cleverly disguised his scheme by entertaining Lord Karras. But who should he ask to join them in the garden room before inconveniently being called away? Genevieve. Of course. Show him the garden , Papa had prompted, promising to return post-haste.
Right. This was a coup if ever Genevieve witnessed.
His Lordship’s voice drifted into her thoughts. “Are you aware if Mr. Fitz-Stephens—second son, not Squire—is due to the Priory soon?”
Jerking her attention to her companion, she stuttered, “I… I… pardon?”
A flick of the wrist towards the garden room windows. “Mr. Fitz-Stephens. I had hoped to discuss with him the procurement of a horse.”
“I’m not privy to the gentleman’s plans, I’m afraid.”
He croaked a laugh. “I should hope not. How droll you are, Miss Slade! His card, rather. Has he expressed his intention to call?”
“Papa would know better than I.”
“I should not have troubled you. The anticipation has me forgetting my attentions to you. You, and only you, should receive my undivided conversation. You’ll forgive that I’m excessively diverted by a horse? It’s a deliciously handsome beast, I’m led to believe—strong bones, smooth lines, flawless flesh.”
Ignoring whatever the dip in his voice insinuated, Genevieve turned her attention back to the garden as she assured, “There is nothing to forgive, my lord.”
The sad truth was she would love nothing more than to talk about horses, but not with Lord Karras.
“Ah, too right, but I dare say it is in poor taste to divulge my lust for horseflesh to a young lady who must know nothing of sport or animal. Now, let us speak of more personal matters. I fear I only have the pleasure of your company for a short breadth. Tell me, do you paint?”
His tone implied paint was something more suggestive than watercolors. Genevieve bared her teeth in a grimaced smile. Where, oh where, was her father? And for that matter, where was Mama or Cecilia or Theia or anyone ? She would trade places in a heartbeat.
As she thought this, relief was in reach—one of the garden room doors opened.
Papa stepped out, followed by Rafe. Her heart skipped a beat.
He was as majestic as he had been during their previous encounter, dressed for riding again, not for a social call, the ensemble different, the buckskins a slightly darker shade, but the effect was no less startling. She knew her face was flushed. Thankfully, she could blame the garden sun.
Next to her, Lord Karras whisked a vial from one of his pockets and nudged it towards her. Perplexed, she stared at the vial in his hand.
“The sun, Miss Slade. I dare say I’ve been remiss. I’ve kept you overlong out of doors. Have a whiff to restore your nerves before you swoon. I shall see you into the garden room.”
Had he not been so earnest, she would have cracked a laugh. He offered smelling salts to revive her from the heat-induced blush. Oh, for heaven’s sake! It was too much. Genevieve bit her bottom lip to keep from cackling.
Oh… Oh! Oh, but wait. Oh, Genevieve, where is your head! Her plan! Her splendidly devilish plan!
She seized the moment. Clawing at the air, she clasped Lord Karras’ arm with one hand and flung the other to her forehead—knocking her bonnet askew. “Lord Karras. I fear I shall faint! Will you catch me if I—” She softened her knees into a carefully maneuvered swoon—directly into his arms.
With her eyelids fluttering closed, she could not see what happened around her, but she could hear all too clearly the voices of Papa and Rafe closing in. Lord Karras held her so awkwardly, she suspected he might drop her. She clung to him.
A jocular voice jested, “Hands full already, Karras? Vigorous business, the petticoat-line.”
“A little help, please,” Lord Karras supplicated. “I’ve readied the hartshorn, but I can’t shift her. She’s fainted dead away.”
A chuckle drew near her before supple arms encircled her waist, replacing those of Lord Karras. Minty breath tickled her ear. So arousing was the caress, she nearly forgot herself and leapt away. By sheer will, she held fast to her charade. Nevertheless, the minty breath was not fooled.
As Lord Karras fumbled to open the vial, the breath whispered, “If your intent is to seduce with feminine wiles, it’s working.”
Just as the vial inched towards her nose, she swatted at the hands holding her and jumped to safety, ready to swing at the coxcomb that called himself a ge ntleman .
“Hurrah,” Lord Karras said, relieved. “Never leave home without hartshorn. A lady’s dearest friend, my mother always says.”
Genevieve reoriented herself. Her plan. Must stick to the plan. Do not allow him to knock you akilter, Ge nevieve!
One hand to heart, she reached the other to touch Lord Karras’ coat sleeve. “Oh, Lord Karras. How can I ever thank you? You are kindness itself, the best of men! The heat, as you said…. I was quite overcome. May I take your arm? For safety.”
Tucking away his vial and looking inordinately pleased with himself, he sneaked a smug smile before offering his arm to Genevieve.
Papa frowned his disapproval—curious since Genevieve thought he ought to be pleased with the turn of events. Rafe, that foul man, waggled his eyebrows. Oof! If she could punch his arm, she would!
“Lord Karras and I have been admiring the gardens,” she bragged. “So wonderful of a time we’ve shared together. Before I was overcome by the sun, you were saying something so witty I could not keep from laughing.” She laughed in demonstration. “What was it you were saying, my lord? You had me swooning from your wit.”
Chest puffed, the viscount said, “I was remarking my lust for Mr. Fitz-Stephens’ arrival.”
Genevieve spluttered a laugh and gripped the arm tighter. “Oh, there’s that humor of yours. Oh my. Yes, your interest in horses . And then , you shared with me how pleasurable was my company.”
“I dare say, I was thinking to myself I must invite the Slades, those same-said Slades related to the oh-so-respectable Slades of Somerset, to dinner—my parents are due in a sennight. My family has expectations, you must understand, and I would find the antithesis of those expectations the most diverting of all should we dine together with my father, in particular.”
Gritting her teeth, she eyed him. The antithesis? The ant ithesis !
Rafe cleared his throat and said, “I believe what our illustrious viscount means to say is he favors a spirited lady.”
“Too right,” agreed the viscount, raising his quizzing glass.
Papa tutted. “Too much sun affects the senses. If you’ll excuse us, Genevieve, Mr. Fitz-Stephens and I will escort Lord Karras to the stableyard. There’s a horse needing our attention.”
Her companion extracted himself from her grasp, then bowed. “A pleasure, Miss Slade. I hope to call again soon, should my company be welcome.”
With a darting glance to Rafe, she said to the viscount, “ Always , my lord.”
Rafe flipped his hat on his head and winked before setting off to follow the other two gentlemen.
Before they had reached the edge of the garden, she fled—with ladylike leisure until she reached the garden room—upstairs to her bedchamber to spy into her mirror.
Ah HA! About time!
She preened before the glass. Oh, she looked divine . He must have noticed. He could not have missed noticing. Her cheeks were rouged by a natural flush, her hair coiffed without a pin out of place, her bonnet angled just so—only teasingly askew from her faux faint—and her figure showing quite to advantage in her afternoon gown. No mud on her cheek today. No, sir. Today, she looked irresistible! She blew a kiss to her reflection.
One ankle crossed over the other, shoes tucked beneath the sofa, Rafe lounged in languor in Gran’s parlor. In his hands was a case transcript. In his mind was a vision of loveliness.
His grand plan had been set into motion, but it would take the full two weeks to see the effect. What he needed was more contact. Attraction was one thing, love another. Initiating encounters that were not overtly contrived was the challenge, but somehow, he needed to pick up the pace. One encounter every other day would not accomplish his goal, not within two weeks. Already Thursday, his time was running short.
If he was not mistaken, his prospective bride had hatched a plan of her own, although he was unsure of her intentions—induce jealousy? Unnecessary since Rafe was already invested. It was he who was trying to win her , after all. Still, her behavior had proved not only amusing but heartening. The show had been for his benefit, of that he was certain. Then, could he be so certain? Truly? She thought herself free to make a choice. Did it follow her choice would be Rafe? All his smug certainty dipped into doubt. He needed more encounters, and that was that.
Pencil in hand, he added to the sketch in the corner of the transcript—a leaf tangled in her curls. The parlor door clicked open. Rafe flipped the document over with a start. When he turned to see his visitor, he dropped the pencil.
Genevieve swept into the room.
The temperature beneath his cravat increased to volcanic, and his heart pounded.
A vision of loveliness.
Think straight, Rafe. Don’t be dis tracted .
Tucking the document beneath his glass of claret, he retrieved his shoes with languid movement, arranging his features as he did so to affect blithe confidence. Pity he was not attired smartly. Nothing he owned lacked quality, but he could not be sure a lamentable wrinkle or two had not pressed into the back of his coat from his lazy lounging, nor was his at-home raiment the first stare of fashion. This did not aid his plan. But what could he do?
Shoes returned to feet, he rose with a flourishing bow before flashing his guest a roguish grin.
Whatever he had just been thinking vanished with a poof .
His eyes widened.
His lips parted.
With supercilious ennui, she looked about the room, chin raised, mouth pouting in a moue. “Am I early?”
He waved for her to join him in the adjacent chair, then resumed his seat. “To quicken my pulse?” Leaning back, Rafe stretched his arm across the top of the sofa, taking her measure with a stroll of his half-lidded gaze. “I’d say you’re right on time.”
“You’ll not provoke me, Mr. Fitz-Stephens, not today. I’m quite impervious.” Curling her lips into a sardonic smile, she added, “Today is my fencing lesson.”
“Already en garde with a silver tongue. And if I should feint my advances?”
“No need to be coy, or you’ll find yourself outmatched with my parries.”
Tongue in cheek, he leered wantonly. “Am I to be your fencing instructor, then?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Mrs. Fitz-Stephens is to teach me. You’re merely my rehearsal match.”
“A practice engagement? How appropriate.”
“Touché, Mr. Fitz-Stephens.”
If she thought him in command of the situation, she gave no indication, nothing like when he took her by surprise on her return from a ramble, perfectly in control of the occasion, and she had known it. No prudish airs today, no gaping stares, no wandering eyes, not even vexation or exasperation; on the contrary, she met his gaze with challenging invitation, a knowing smile dimpling her cheeks.
He was undone, her obedient servant.
Even the prim miss he had met yesterday at the Priory, the delicate wisp in lilac muslin and lace who depended on a gentleman and his salts for revival was nowhere to be seen. In her place, perched on the edge of the chair was a vivacious nymph, her wild curls bound by a wide bandeau—the escape artists tantalizing and teasing as they traced the curve of her face in cunning coils—and her ensemble sumptuously sporting.
The gown itself was nothing unusual, peach with a high waist, punctuated by half-boots, but the spencer drew his attention and admiration. The worsted jacket hugged her figure, the sleeves trimmed short, just below her shoulders, with peach undersleeves reaching to her wrists in a loose, breezy gauze. The perfect spencer for a sportswoman to allow for freedom of movement while maintaining modesty.
A lump rose in Rafe’s throat at the word modesty when her curves tormented him. He rather thought that was the point. She had dressed in sporting provocation for him. But how selfish of a presumption. Naturally, she would wear sporting attire for a fencing lesson, nothing to do with him.
If , and this was a considerable if , teasing him was the point—wishful thinking—she may be disappointed to learn it was not the curves that most tempted him, at least not entirely. It was she who tempted him. She looked more herself than he had seen her yet. A woman ready to spar. That had him feverish beneath his cravat.
Under his breath, he said, “ Timeo Danaos et dona fe rentes .”
“What was that? You should not mumble in the presence of a lady, sir.”
“I fear Greeks, even if they bring gifts.”
Chortling, she said, “No need to fear, then, for I am neither Greek nor have I brought a gift.”
“Oh, I rather think you have.”
Her eyes flashed, but she did not give away her reaction. “Did Lord Karras purchase the horse?”
“I see what you did there,” he said with a chuckle. “ Ito vero . Yes, indeed, he did. My father was pleased. Another feather in your father’s cap for arranging the deal.”
“I gathered Papa was arranging a different bargain in the process.” One corner of her mouth dimpled at her cleverness.
“Bargaining in hearts or reputations?” He nibbled at her bait.
“As elegant a dresser as he is a dancer,” she said suggestively. “Lord Karras, that is, not Papa.”
“A shame he’s not as skilled a rider.”
“That is a bare-knuckled blow, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. Not everyone can have as fine a seat as yours.” With a little gasp at her slip, she pursed her lips and blushed.
Rafe assumed the memory of their mounted encounter was fresh in her mind. Although he wore linen pantaloons rather than his buckskins, he chose that moment to cross one leg over the other, satisfied when she stole a glance in her periphery.
“Should we search for your mother?” She looked towards the open door of the parlor. “I can’t think I was quite so early.”
“Early enough to apprise me of your presence,” he teased. “Now I’ll know you’re on the grounds wielding a sword. You expect me not to peek? If I’m to score a touch, I must learn when to recognize my adversary’s feints.”
“You are not a gentleman.” Two rosy circles rouged her cheeks.
He feigned an innocent look. “No parry? I’m disappointed.”
“To peek would be the height of impertinence. It is my first lesson, you understand.” With a bashful look beneath her lashes, she quipped, “A worthy adversary need not peek, for he would know to anticipate all advances.”