Page 6 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)

Rafe held himself to a more exacting moral code than most. As did all barristers, and especially students of law aiming to be Called to the Bar. In addition to keeping terms within an Inn—in Rafe’s case within Gray’s Inn—by the end of his pupillage, a pupil must prove himself worthy to approach the Bar with more than his intellectual prowess and social inclinations when dining with senior barristers. He must have proven himself physically fit and morally stalwart. Any blemish in behavior would deny a pupil his Call, just as it would disbar a barrister.

These were Rafe’s meditations as he stared out the window a few minutes after declaring his intentions to Mr. Slade. The latter had requested Miss Slade be brought to the study. Rafe focused on spying the dower house chimneys in the distance while reprimanding his cursedly impulsive behavior. A foolish action, one that not only landed him in this situation, dragging an innocent woman with him, but one that could ruin his professional aspirations. And to think, he had been so pleased with his gaiety that he had wished to regale Headley, reminiscent of their youthful exploits.

He almost chuckled to himself recalling the time Headley had been staying at the house, and Rafe had convinced him of the fun they would have by climbing out the window and down the garden wall to sneak over to Lindstow Manor, the private girls’ academy neighboring Fitz-Stephens land. Then, it was not a time, rather the many times. Rafe almost chuckled, but then reminded himself he was repenting bad behavior.

The study door opened. Haltingly, Rafe turned around, his jaw clenched, and his fingers laced tightly behind his back.

First to enter was Mrs. Louisa Slade, that hysterical woman who had reminded him in voice and figure of Miss Diana’s pug. He could still hear her racking sobs as she wailed about ruination. Now, she swept into the study with her chin raised, her eyebrows arched, and her lips pursed in expectation.

Following her, entered his intended. He would not have recognized her in the street, not without her paper curlers. He would, however, have taken notice of her. With her eyes downcast, he held the advantage. She was taller when vertical—he tucked away the memory of her being horizontal when last they met… and in his bed—taller than he expected, but it became her silhouette, which reminded him of the most celebrated dancers in London. The more he regarded her person, the more he relaxed. Her face was as comely as her figure, a tear-drop shaped visage framed by curls—and oh, what curls. There was an abundance of chestnut curls, on the frizzy side, truth be told, being tamed by a bandeau and jeweled hairpins that glittered when caught by the morning rays.

Was he smirking? He schooled his features, hoping not, and just in time, too, for she raised her gaze as she lowered herself into one of the chairs Mr. Slade had arranged in the snug near the hearth. Grey eyes, the shade of morning mist, locked with his.

He involuntarily shivered. Her stare pierced him with one accusatory word: rogue .

Chilled, his admiration of her figure forgotten, Rafe joined them, accepting the seat across from Miss Slade and next to her father.

Mr. Slade said, “I am the bearer of happy news. Mr. Fitz-Stephens, a true gentleman, has offered to restore our daughter’s virtue.”

Rafe flinched.

The once-more-virtuous daughter stiffened, her gaze searching her companion’s for an explanation.

“Be a good girl,” said Mr. Slade, “and hear what Mr. Fitz-Stephens has to say. Come, Louisa.”

And without saying more, the Slades left the room.

The skin around his ankle itched as the trap tightened. Not normally of a nervous nature, Rafe rose, reached for his forgotten beaver hat, and circled it in his hands for something to do, something to hold, something tactile to help him focus.

He met her gaze and fought the desire to look away. Her eyes were lethal. They seemed to accuse: you did this. You ruined me. You trapped me, intentionally, and I’ll never forg ive you .

Rafe cleared his throat, swishing the brim of the hat against his palm. “My apologies. We’ve not been introduced, and it does not appear we will be.”

She stared, unblinking.

“May I introduce myself?”

The unbreakable stare continued. He did not think she would respond. Had he only moments before admired her hair? Those abundant curls, so inviting, so teasing… they resembled Medusa’s venomous snakes now, coiled to strike.

Then, in a silken voice, strong but smooth, she said, “If you must.”

He hesitated, then said, “Rafe Fitz-Stephens. Second son to Mr. and Mrs. Fitz-Stephens. Three brothers. Pupil at Gray’s Inn. I fancy long walks and climbing garden walls in hopes of meeting young ladies.”

When her eyes narrowed, he knew his attempt to sound droll made him appear lecherous instead. Rather than exacerbate the situation, he opted for inviting silence.

She made no attempt to disguise her malice or her thorough perusal of his person. “Miss Genevieve Slade,” was all she said.

Miss Slade remained seated, making no curtsy and offering no nod.

“A name well suited, fair and pure,” he said, building his way to a compliment before she interrupted.

“Is there something you wish to say to me?” Her tone implied more than her words: the expectation of an apology, a curiosity of why they had been left alone, a plea for him to say his piece then leave, an exasperation to be in a room with him.

“Yes, actually. I’m here to offer you marriage. Will you do me the honor?”

Her expression flickered inscrutably. Horror? Shock? Amusement?

“I don’t know you,” she said. This time, her tone said what her expression had not: me vexat pede . She found him… a nuisance, a bother, a pebble in her shoe.

Rafe exhaled, inexplicably more deflated than relieved. “That is immaterial under the circumstances. I have unwittingly compromised you, and I am here as a gentleman to offer you marriage.”

“Preposterous. You were in my room no more than five minutes, my parents present for the whole debacle. No one knows but them, one of my sisters, and two servants.”

“Yes, Miss Slade, I know all too well the circumstances. Be that as it may, I am here to rectify my wrongdoings, salve any embarrassed my poor behavior has caused, and offer myself as your husband, should you wish to accept me.”

Her head tilted slightly. With another sweep of her gaze, she took his measure once more. “Noble, I suppose, but unnecessary, and also impossible. I’m already betrothed.”

Rafe squeezed the edge of his hat, taken aback.

Before he could respond, the study door opened for Mr. and Mrs. Slade’s return. Mrs. Slade was cooing, and Mr. Slade was grinning. They circled their daughter with accolades and began at once to discuss wedding plans.

Without raising his voice, affecting calm and confidence, Rafe said, “Miss Slade has rejected my proposal. I thank you for allowing me this chance. I’ve no desire to overstay my welcome. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”

Mrs. Slade wailed, and Mr. Slade blustered.

“Wha-wha-what is the meaning of this?” Mr. Slade looked in horror at his daughter.

Miss Slade did not bat an eyelash when she said, “However thoughtful of you to restore my virtue , I cannot accept Mr. Fitz-Stephens’ proposal because, as I told him, I’m already promised to someone else.”

“Poppycock! You are no such thing!” And then, Mr. Slade’s gaze roamed from his daughter to Rafe and back, dawning startling his features. “Just how many suitors have you invited into your bedchamber? Clandestine meetings with Mr. Fitz-Stephens while promising yourself to someone else? I cannot assume these are isolated cases. How many gentlemen have you entertained under my roof?”

Mrs. Slade began to sob, her cries punctuated by yipping hiccups.

Conversely, Miss Slade paled at the accusations.

Rafe stepped back towards the window and tried to remold the brim of his hat after strangling it during his failed proposal. He did not care for Mr. Slade’s game, and playing it was becoming tedious. More than ever, his sympathies were with Miss Genevieve Slade. Not only had she been trapped in this situation by her father’s machinations and Rafe’s carelessness, but her heart belonged elsewhere. A worse fate Rafe could not imagine—marriage to a stranger while estranged from one’s true love.

They badgered Miss Slade to know her secrets until she admitted with a defiant chin but drooping posture, “Mr. Alan Thorpe and I have an understanding.”

The name held no meaning for Rafe, but the Slades changed their tune faster than a troubadour.

“ That useless article?” screeched Mrs. Slade, whose tears had miraculously dried.

Mr. Slade leaned in to exchange harsh but muttered words with his daughter, although Rafe could not hear what was said. After the brief tête-à-tête, Mr. Slade turned to Rafe. “Quickly settled, Mr. Fitz-Stephens. No need to concern yourself with my daughter’s teasing. A right Beatrice, she is, would have inspired Shakespeare. Her answer is yes , she will marry you, and we could not be happier to ally our family with yours. We’ll set a time this week to discuss the settlement details, shall we?”

Rafe eyed Miss Slade warily.

The young lady met his gaze only briefly with what Rafe thought might have been a pleading look, then deferred to her hands as she folded them in her lap. Submissive, diminutive, biddable—not words he would have used to describe her moments ago, but she appeared to shrink into herself, an obedient daughter, chastised for her recalcitrance.

Her head bobbed, and she said so quietly, the words could have been whispered by the breeze, “Thank you for honoring me with your proposal. I accept.”

Curiously, her words brought a sensation of relief. Not for him, exactly, as he was not eager to marry someone who stared daggers into him, had not planned to marry at so pivotal a time in his professional life, and did not readily wish to consider Mr. and Mrs. Slade in-laws after his brief acquaintance with them so far. Nonetheless, he felt relieved all was settled for Miss Slade. She needed him. She needed Rafe to rescue her from being bartered off by her father and from being separated from her true love.

Mea culpa, Miss Slade. Somehow, he would exculpate himself by righting these wrongs.