Page 33 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Rafe surveyed the lay before him. A veritable feast, really. Fit for a fairy queen. Cook had done right by him today. Propped on his elbow, one leg stretched, one knee bent, he lounged on the picnic linen and waited, poised in his second finest riding attire. A few yards away, Alfgar grazed at the edge of the woods. There was no way to know how soon she would happen by, especially if she extended her ride, but he was certain of her destination. To occupy himself, he flipped through the bird book.

Less than half an hour later, he heard the unmistakable thunder of hooves. Alfgar’s ears perked, as aware of their prospective company as his companion.

After snatching a biscuit, Rafe trained his attention on the book. Just on the edge of where clearing met forest, the new arrival snorted and shook her mane—the horse that was, although Rafe would not be surprised if the rider’s reaction was similar. He nibbled the biscuit and turned a page.

“You can’t be here!” exclaimed his guest.

Shifting his eyes forward, he nodded in greeting. “You’ll find, upon further enquiry, this is my family’s estate, and thus, I can be here.”

Genevieve, mounted side saddle atop Philomena and looking most fetching in a rose riding habit, scoffed. “Impossible man. I meant this particular location. This is my place. Find your own spot to sprawl.”

Stretching an arm across his bent knee, he said, “I claimed it first. Before you were born, I’d wager. Therefore, dibs.” He popped the remainder of the biscuit in his mouth and returned his attention to the book.

Philomena pranced, indicative of her impatience for her rider to dismount or resume the ride.

“My father has let the entire estate,” Genevieve said. “By that legality, this spot is mine until the lease ends.”

Casting a wounded frown, he asked, “Would you so callously have me abandon my picnic?” Before she replied, he sat up and slipped a hand into the picnic basket with a gasp of surprise. “Oh my! We’re in luck.” Out he drew a second glass, into which he poured the sherry.

Genevieve harrumphed but did him the honor of preparing to dismount. He rose to offer his aid, but she was grounded and gathering her habit’s train over her arm before he was halfway to her. She eyed the feast and him dubiously. With a nod, she accepted his hand to help her sit. At least she allowed him a few courtesies, he thought ruefully.

“One might suspect you of spying, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. How else would you know I was coming here? Hoping to antagonize me, I’m sure.”

“Need I point out the obvious?” Returning to his side with a raised elbow and bent knee, he invited repose. “I was already here. It is you who have interrupted my picnic. By that token, you’re the spy come to harass me.” He saluted her with his sherry before taking a sip.

“You should be so fortunate.”

“Your recalcitrant tone tells me you think my head is turned by… spirited women.”

She huffed. “Why should I care what sort of woman turns your head? We’re no longer betrothed; in case you need to be reminded.”

“The more you protest, my darling girl, the more convinced I am you’re here to charm me, however unorthodox your methods.”

The blush on her cheeks belied her intentions. In brisk tones, she snapped, “You mistake my motive with your own. Why you think my head should be turned by sandwiches, cake, and biscuits is a mystery, for do you not know young ladies are far more swayed by aristocratic titles?”

“Just as gentlemen are most moved by demure young ladies. We love to be fawned over, complimented, plied with fans and batting eyelashes, the more simpering the better.”

“And there I know you are wrong. I offer Diana as an example. She would never fawn or simper, and yet she secured her match in under a week.”

“By that same token, you are wrong, for Mr. Thorpe has no aristocratic title.”

“Yes, well, there are always exceptions, I suppose. She can be the exemption to the rule.” Her cheeks still reflecting the shade of her riding habit, Genevieve tried one of the sandwiches.

Rolling onto his back, he stretched out both legs to cross his ankles with a creak of his calfskin boots, and then laced his fingers behind his head. Above him, a bright but cloud-covered sky speckled light through the canopy of leaves. He dared not glance her way. He need not even if he dared. That her gaze swept over him beneath her sooty lashes was a certainty. Her silence confirmed this.

Rafe questioned, “Which of us was more shocked about that pairing, do you think?”

“Most certainly I was. I concede I don’t know Diana well. Perhaps I should not have been surprised had I known her better? But Mr. Thorpe took me quite by surprise. He’s not an assertive gentleman, meek, really, so I can only assume it was Diana who pressed her attentions.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her sampling the sherry. “Headley and Diana were convinced Thorpe was here to steal you from me,” he said. “They tried to intervene, the interesting consequence being Diana thrown together with Thorpe, all under our nose. Headley mistrusted Thorpe so deeply, I’m shocked he accepted the man’s suit for his sister. But we can’t know what was or was not said when our attentions were… otherwise engaged.”

Genevieve tittered. “They thought Thorpe was trying to steal me?” Her titter increased to a bold laugh.

“Hardly a laughing matter. He was .”

“Well, not quite. I was trying to convince him to steal me. He was less than cooperative.”

“Ah, see? Proves my point.” He waited for her curiosity to build. “Gentlemen prefer batting eyelashes to insolence.”

A gurgle of anger bubbled across the picnic linen from him. Rafe held his composure for precisely twenty seconds before he lost it to mirth, tears welling from his laughter. Although she pouted and grumbled, she soon joined his laughter.

“It’s for the best,” she said. “I don’t think I could ever marry someone like Thorpe. He is the kindest of men, but….”

Intrigued, he rolled back onto his side, resting his temple on his open palm. “You desire someone more assertive? More…”

“More skilled with a whip.”

He choked as he swallowed and had to thump his chest to recover. Eyes watering, he coughed hoarsely, “Begging pardon?”

“You know, a good horseman. Handy with the ribbons and that.”

“Ah. Mmm.” With a grin, he said, “You should have fallen for Headley, then. I’m no slouch with the ribbons, but Headley could beat me in a race blindfolded. Exceptional rider and driver.”

“But it is not Headley’s seat I have been admiring.”

Rafe’s eyebrows shot up at this flirty admission. His grin deepened into vain smugness as he met her gaze and held it.

Although her gaze did not waver, she began to giggle. At first he thought it a shy affectation, part of her flirtation, a mock simper, in fact, but the more she giggled, the more self-conscious he became. His smugness shifted into a half-hearted chuckle before dipping into a frown. She soon covered her face with her hands and began laughing with far more hilarity than he thought reference to his seat warranted.

And then he felt it.

A nip at his hair. A soft tug. At first a coquettish bit of friskiness, but after a couple of caresses, the tug stung his scalp. Ducking with a swat of his hand, he turned to see what the devil was behind him. Genevieve’s hearty laughter did nothing to help.

Standing over him, her muzzle nudging towards his hair for another go, was Philomena.

He dodged the nip and tried to shoo her away. She ignored him, enamored by his golden locks.

“Help?” Rafe rose to kneeling.

“Here’s your chance,” Genevieve said between hysterics. “You can prove to me what a dashing horseman you are.” She squealed with laughter.

“Against this she-devil? I’d as soon pit my skills against an angry bull.” He dodged the muzzle again. “Next time, I’ll convince Lord Karras that Philly’s the one for him. Would serve him right.”

“She heard that. If you don’t wish for a bald patch, you should apologize.”

“I’m not apologizing to—” He tried to move the nibbling muzzle away with a gentle caress, but she shook him off and snapped at his hand. “My humble apologies, fair goddess. How fortunate am I to have my hair mistaken for fresh hay. You have done me the greatest honor.”

Still enjoying the show, Genevieve clucked her tongue. The mare responded immediately, walking over to Genevieve to nuzzle her neck.

Rafe clasped his hands in a sign of gratitude before trying to comb his hair with his fingers. Genevieve spoke quietly to the horse. Whatever she said, Philomena appeared to understand, as the horse made her way to stand near Alfgar. With his picnic not turning out as he had planned, he settled back onto the linen and hid his chagrin behind the glass of sherry.

“How did your brothers fare?”

A change in subject. Good. He had little doubt his face now reflected the rose of her riding habit.

“I left Otis with a vial of smelling salts and Noel with a chamber pot. Young fools. If they’re anything like their older brothers, yours truly included, they’ll only do it once and learn their lesson. I’m thankful their once was in the company of Father rather than young lads who might make merry of the experience.”

“I’m sorry they’re suffering today.”

“I’m not.” Rafe tipped back his glass. “They’ll know their limits now.”

“Oh, but I thought Vitruvians preferred to be limitless.” The coyness of her words had him barking a laugh, forgetting his embarrassment with the horse.

“Ho ho! You remembered my waffle.” Wiping his glass clean, he tucked it back into the basket. “What would impress you most?”

She knit her brows. “What exactly are you asking? Between limitless and self-imposed limits?”

He shook his head, then with as playful a tone as he could muster, despite the gravity of the question—he still had a game to play, after all—he questioned, “More to the point, when are you going to admit you’re in love with me?”

Her face expressed a myriad of emotions as she studied him, as if searching for his intention. Jest? Earnest? Tease? Provocation? Admission? Her expression questioned all possibilities.

After a brief interval of silence, her features smoothed, and she dimpled a smirk. “When you can prove your worthiness.”

“Have I something more to prove?” He eyed the horses skeptically. “Handling temperamental mares aside, I’m quite the catch, you know. Wouldn’t want me to get away. Would you?”

Genevieve batted her eyelashes. “On the contrary. I rather think I’m the catch.” Rising from the sheet, she gathered her habit’s train over her arm and challenged, “The question is, can you catch me?”

She darted towards Philomena.

Rafe was slow to comprehend. When it hit him, he scrambled up and leapt from the blanket, rushing forward, only to turn back and try to throw everything into the basket, not wanting to leave it, then cursed his folly and raced towards Alfie, leaving the picnic behind. By the time he mounted Alfie, she had already cantered off. He gave Alfie a squeeze with his legs and a word of encouragement. Alfie took off in pursuit.

Over her shoulder, she laughed, leading him a merry chase.

Then, as adroit a rider as she was, it was no chase for Alfie. Rafe held back, enjoying himself too much to catch her, keeping the distance enough to be convincing. As she circled back towards the woods, her bonnet flew free, and her hair unbound from its confines, flowing freely behind her in a whipping array of glorious curls. He had nothing of the sort to worry about. His hat remained behind with the picnic. The moment she realized she had lost her bonnet was the moment he seized. She slowed to glance at it, dancing, caught on the wind. Indecisive, she eyed the bonnet, then Rafe. Quick in the saddle, she urged Philomena to escape, leaving the bonnet behind. Rafe bolted forward.

Alfgar sidled Philomena, then slowed her with a cutting maneuver before moving ahead to block her path. Genevieve turned her mare one way then another, trying to pass. Rafe blocked each attempt. When she settled back with a toss of her curls, conceding his win, he guided his horse next to hers, then shimmied until his calf brushed her legs.

Philomena shied sideways away from him. Alfgar moved closer.

Rafe leaned to capture Genevieve’s hands. “Gotcha’.”

Arching her brows, she said, “I beg to differ. You’ve caught my horse, sir, but not me.”

Freeing herself from his grasp, she urged her mare once more, leaving him in a cloud of her unruly laughter.

“That’s what we get, Alfie, for being gentlemen. I think it’s time we won this silly game, don’t you?”

Alfie snorted.

Rafe counted to ten to give her ample headway. At zero, he bellowed a war cry and launched his Andalusian forward.

Leaning into the chase, Genevieve sped into a gallop, leaving kicked up clumps of earth in her wake as she laughed into the wind, gleeful to be in the lead.

Her glee did not linger long. Behind her came no friendly hoofbeats. She glanced back. No one pursued her. Slowing Philly, she looked furtively around and strained to listen. Only nature met her ears. Where was Rafe?

Hardly a chase if he was not on her heels. Had he stopped to retrieve her bonnet? Surely not. Or… No, he could not know her destination was a return to the picnic by the tower. A gamble if he assumed so and chose a shorter route, for she could easily ride elsewhere. She had half a mind to leave him behind for presuming her actions, but…

“We can beat him there, Philly. If he’s taking a shortcut, it means he’ll go through the woods. That’ll slow his pace. Come on, girl!”

With a triumphant cry, she urged Philly forward in haste.

Not in a million years would she admit to Rafe this was the most fun she had ever had in her life, second only to their flirtatious quarrels.

By the time she reached the edge of the woods, she was breathing heavily, a bit sore in the rump, and grinning like a banshee—that was, until she saw Alfgar grazing and Rafe leaning against a tree, ankles crossed, eyes trained on his pocket watch.

“You are a foul cheat!” she accused. “How did you manage it? You couldn’t have possibly beaten us!”

He pushed off the tree and offered to help her dismount, crinkles framing his eyes as he expressed his smugness.

“I most assuredly do not need your aid,” she protested. “Now, confess. How did you arrive first?”

Ignoring her swatting hands, he wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her from Philomena. “Alfie is Pegasus in disguise. Did I never mention?”

She continued to swat at him, trying to free herself from his grasp. “Libertine! Lothario! Remove your hands at once!”

“You’ve not complained before,” he teased as he tugged her off the saddle and into his arms.

Genevieve had no choice except to drape her arms around his neck as she slid down his torso, his chest vibrating with a deep chuckle. He made no moves to release her nor to deepen the intimacy. She wriggled for freedom.

“You cannot deny,” he began, “I’ve caught you this time.”

Trapped between him and Philly was certainly one way to define caught. “By cheating! That doesn’t count. We’ll need a second trial.”

“Mmm. I’ll grant you a second trial if you admit you’re in love with me.”

“Oh! That is unfair. You’re trying to trick me.” She struggled in vain.

Philomena, curse the beast, did not move, pinning Genevieve against Rafe. His chest rumbled again with another chuckle.

“And if I’ve fallen deeply in love with someone else in the past few days?” she pressed, however tremulous her voice.

“Jealousy won’t work, I’m afraid. Not when your eyes tell me a different story.”

His gaze was so intense, so close, she feared she may well swoon this time, no feint needed. He leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose.

Genevieve squeaked. “You’re free to choose anyone, Rafe. Haven’t you wanted to look about you?”

He inched back, releasing his embrace by slow measure. A crease formed between his brows, accompanied by a rueful squint.

Silently, he backed away. Then, steadily, he began packing everything into the basket. Genevieve tried to control her breathing, still flushed from their embrace, feeling like a fool for taking her tease too far, for pushing rather than accepting. Walking past him, her train gathered over her arm, she sat on the boulder and watched him. The trouble was knowing when enough was enough, for she liked their sparring and knew he did, as well, or so it had become clear to her over the course of the week. When was it playful sparring versus rejection?

As languid as his movements, he made short work of packing the basket, then secured it to Alfgar’s saddle. Retrieving a few horse treats of some sort or another, he offered first to Alfgar, and then with that task complete, he approached Philomena and scratched her chin to offer her treats, as well. Genevieve wanted to break the silence but did not know what to say. No, that was not entirely true. She knew what she could say but feared the words more than anything. His actions spoke volumes, but could he not say the words first? So she could be sure? So she could know he was serious and not teasing? She had broken the betrothal so she could be certain, and yet he still could not say the words to her.

When she rose and made her way to him, searching for something to say, anything to break the silence, he looked up at her with bright, watering eyes, his arm slung over Philomena with affected sensibility. So moved by his emotions, so angry with herself for causing him to weep, she went to him, her own eyes burning with unshed tears.

With a hand on his sleeve, she said, “Oh, Rafe. I’m so sorry for ruining every tender moment. I—”

Rafe interrupted her, wheezing between gritted teeth, “I appreciate the sentiment but… your horse is standing on my foot.”

Genevieve looked down. Philly’s hoof rested proudly on Rafe’s boot. Caught between laughing at the situation, chastising him for misleading her with his unshed tears, and berating herself for being a silly goose about everything , she swallowed her embarrassment and coaxed Philly to move. As soon as his boot was free, he sobbed a laughing note of gratitude and limped to the rock to sit.

Hands clasped in prayer and fingers pressed to her lips, Genevieve said, “I should send for help. Is your foot broken? Can you feel your toes?”

He dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. “I can feel them well enough. No need to send for help. Aside from an inevitable hoof-sized bruise, I’m more worried about the damage to my boot.”

“You would be. Insufferable man.”

Joining him, she stood next to the boulder and studied the top of his head. Her hand trembled, but she reached over and ruffled his hair. She drew back her hand and waited for a response. When he did not immediately react, she combed her fingers through his hair, marveling at the silken texture.

“I’ll need help standing,” he said.

“Yes, yes, of course. Anything.” She bent down to offer assistance.

Gingerly, he wrapped an arm across her shoulders and leaned his weight onto one foot to stand, hobbling as he righted himself.

“Let me help you to the horses,” she suggested, then, “Does it hurt terribly?”

With a groan, he said, “Immeasurably. In fact, I think you’ll have to kiss it and make it better.”

Retreating, she began to say, “I beg your—”

But before the words left her lips, he captured her in his arms, dipped her, and kissed her.

Her world turned topsy-turvy. The hard press of his lips softened against hers in a tantalizing whirl of sensation. Her fingers dug into the musculature of his shoulders as he brushed his lips against hers before deepening the kiss. So intimate, so intoxicating, her toes curled. She clung tighter, wanting more, puckering to extend the kiss when he made to retreat. He obliged with a low chuckle that tickled her senses.

Sooner than she wished, he softened his hold and leaned back to help her regain her balance. He did not break the embrace quickly. With tender eyes, he studied her, his hand caressing the small of her back.

When he finally released her, he brought both hands up and cradled her face. Sinking his fingers into her bed of loose curls, he sighed. With a lingering look, he walked over to Philomena, then laced his hands to help Genevieve mount.

Foggy and tongue tied, she managed to say, “It worked.”

He arched a brow as she stepped into his hands and was boosted onto the side saddle.

Adjusting her train to cover her ankles, she said, “You’re not limping. I kissed it and made it better.”

Before mounting Alfgar, Rafe tossed his head back with a laugh.

“Wait,” she prompted as he readied his reins. “Aren’t we going to talk about this?”

Donning his beaver hat, he winked at her and guided his horse towards the Priory. Over his shoulder he said as his parting words, “Only when you admit you’re head over heels in love with me.”