Page 8 of A Sporting Affair (The Corinthians #1)
A copse of trees—one could almost call it a small forest—bordered the estate. Most of the grounds were parkland, superb for riding, but the patch of woodlands was an oasis when one wished to hide from family. At the edge of the almost-forest stood a folly—reminiscent of a ruined castle tower—overlooking the valley and the girls’ school, Lindstow Manor.
In the month the Slade family had resided at Devington Priory, Genevieve had devoted her time to exploring the grounds. She frequented the folly. However well-meaning her parents, Genevieve could only tolerate so much of their good intentions, specifically when those intentions affected her future. She could not confide in her sisters about her frustrations. Cecilia was the closest at fifteen to Genevieve’s nineteen years but could not sympathize with anything except which sash looked best with which gown. Nothing said to Theia, at eleven, could be expected to remain private.
Genevieve stroked Philomena, the mare she had chosen from the Priory’s stables, before removing her riding gloves. She made herself comfortable on one of the stones scattered around the folly—the boulders clearly added for ruin authenticity—or as comfortable as one could be when sitting on cold stone, which she found infinitely more comfortable than any cushion in the drawing room given their proximity to her mother.
“I sound ungrateful, mopey even, Philly. I must rally or a fit of the dismals will be insuperable.”
The horse ignored her, snuffling at the grass instead.
“Why I confess my woes to you is beyond my comprehension. When we move, which inevitably we will, you’ll remain behind.”
Adjusting the train of her riding habit, she drew her knees beneath her chin and hugged her shins.
“Truth is, you’re my only friend.” Uninvited, reality shivered through her. “Good heavens, Philly. I won’t move, will I? If Papa is serious, and I believe he is, I’ll marry a stranger, and then, at the end of the lease, they’ll move without me. All I’ve ever wanted was stability of home, a friend or familiar face I could know beyond a dreaded year. Now that it might become a reality, I hardly know what to think.”
Never had she been part of a village, part of a tradition, part of anything. Would she if she married this man? She did not think so. He had a life of his own and would resent her for being manipulated. Not only would he turn against her, so would all in the village, for no one in Grant Lindis would believe two strangers formed an instant attachment. If the villagers did not realize it themselves, he would ensure everyone knew he had been compelled to offer for her, sealing her fate as an outsider forever—the evil witch who had entrapped the Squire’s son, one of the most beloved gentlemen in the village.
He had not seemed a resentful or gossiping type, but then, she had only spent ten minutes in his company yesterday, the most awkward ten minutes of her life. How could he not resent her? From what Papa had said during dinner, Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens was ambitious. A forced marriage on the cusp of his goal attainment could not possibly be welcomed. Why had he not fought harder? Refused to marry her? There was no scandal or ruin or compromise. He had not been ensnared, not really, regardless of Papa’s bombast. It was Papa making the man think he had been caught.
“How dare he propose,” she said aloud to the horse, who acknowledged her outburst this time with a friendly snort. “Did he not consider I might have other plans? A beau of my own? He did not consult me, ask me what I thought of Papa’s daft advantage taking, nothing . If he had asked, I could have explained Papa is hot air, and if ignored long enough, will deflate before drifting to the next advantageous thing—be it person or place. But he did not ask me. He shouldered his way into the study and demanded Papa take advantage of him. Is he simple, or a glutton for punishment?”
Philly bobbed her head, then shook her mane, all as if to say, he’s a gentleman, Mis s Slade .
Genevieve harrumphed. “Whose side are you on?”
The crunch of underbrush sharpened her awareness. Planting her feet firmly on the ground and righting her skirt, she looked about her, concerned she had been overheard, disappointed to have solitude interrupted, and alarmed someone approached. She arched her back and craned her neck, searching. A slow, steady hoofbeat drew nearer.
“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” said a masculine voice behind her.
Startled, she leapt off the rock and spun around. Sitting atop a dappled Andalusian was Mr. Rafe Fitz-Stephens.
Genevieve clasped her hands at her waist. With recalcitrant chin and narrowed gaze, she said, “You don’t own me. Yet.”
Mr. Fitz-Stephens’ brow furrowed in thought. Rather than reply, he studied her, his eyes never leaving hers. At length, he dismounted. His attention turned to his horse, his body inclined away from her.
In a casual tone, he said, “It rained this morning. The sediment runoff from the stone’s erosion… stains.”
The slow horror of his meaning sank in. While he was distracted by his horse, she tried to angle around to spy the back of her riding habit. A tug of the fabric, a feel of the gown, a glance down. She closed her eyes and groaned. Unmistakable wetness, with a thin layer of dirt, imprinted her skirt—in the shape of her derriere.
If she could have swung onto Philomena and darted for safety, she would have. Before she could decide how to react, what to say, or where to hide, Mr. Fitz-Stephens spoke again.
“May I introduce my companion?”
She looked behind him but did not immediately see anyone.
As he followed her gaze, he smiled, a simple action but one that left her short of breath. “My horse,” he clarified. “This is Alfgar. Alfie, this is Miss Slade, the young lady I told you about on our walk here.”
He winked at Genevieve, who could hardly be affronted that he was talking about her behind her back if it was to his horse.
When she did not speak or move, he continued, “If you hold out your hand, he’ll be able to familiarize himself with your scent. Don’t be alarmed if he licks your palm. I promise he won’t bite.”
“I know how to handle a horse,” she retorted, but dropped her guard as she approached.
Holding her hand palm up, she invited Alfgar to take a whiff. Without hesitation, the horse stepped forward and shoved his muzzle into her palm, snorting and, indeed, licking. Had Mr. Fitz-Stephens not been watching her, she would have laughed. What gave her pause was not only that he studied her with such intensity but that even past the pungent aroma of the horse, he smelled divine, a delicious combination of citrus, rose water, and mint. Then, he looked divine, as well.
She averted her eyes to keep from staring, but she would not soon forget him. Lean and athletic, a strong jaw, full, almost pouty lips punctuated by a cleft chin, Nordic blue eyes, golden blond hair that, despite currently being capped with a hat, she knew was styled in soft waves, the sides short but the top full and lush. Why could he not be repulsively ugly? She would not mind him resenting her if he was ugly.
Stepping away from the pair, she swept her arms behind her to clasp her hands, self-conscious of the damp fabric.
“‘Pon my soul,” Mr. Fitz-Stephens said with astonishment. “You chose the mare. Did no one in the stables warn you away?”
With a few careful side-steps, she reached Philly’s side without having to expose her back. “I won’t allow you to speak abusively of her. She’s my dearest friend.”
He looked incredulously from the horse to her. “ She bites.”
“Only people she does not like.”
“Touché.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. “May I see your hand?”
Genevieve took a further step back. “I beg your pardon.”
“To clean your palm. Alfie may appear majestic, but he’s, erm, a little on the snotty side, shall we say, and I’m not referring to arrogance.”
It was the wet stone horror all over again. Genevieve paled. Unsure what else to do, she obeyed.
She need not have worried, for Mr. Fitz-Stephens was tender, methodical, and impersonal, making quick but thorough work to clean her hand with his handkerchief before folding the linen and tucking it back into his waistcoat pocket. He even returned to stand by his horse, giving her ample space. Appreciative of his thoughtfulness, she should thank him.
Instead, she scowled. “How did you find me? Why did you find me?”
“Mr. Smith brought Alfgar to the main house. I rushed from the dower house so I wouldn’t miss him. And I thought—wait, let me take a few steps back. Alfgar threw a shoe on the way home from London. A pebble bruised his sole, and of course, I worried it had bruised the frog, but as it happens, no damage. To be certain, we’ll entertain a leisure pace for the next week, and he’ll be pampered aplenty in the stables, but he doesn’t like being idle. Being at the main house presented the opportunity to call on you. I never made it that far, though. The grooms caught me in time to advise your whereabouts. And so, here I am.”
“The grooms told you I was here ? They couldn’t possibly know.” This was her secret place!
“You would be sorely mistaken if you were to think any stablehand employed by the Fitz-Stephenses would not know the whereabouts of a young lady under their watch, specifically a young lady riding alone.”
She glanced around them, expecting to see spies hidden behind trees. Curiously, rather than feel her privacy violated, she felt safer knowing they were keeping a distant watch, not only that they did watch but that they maintained such great distance she had never been bothered. No one had shared her location with the family either. That would have been a violation. Then, they did tell Mr. Fitz-Stephens….
“Be assured, Miss Slade. No one is watching us now.” Hastily, he added, “This has always been one of my favorite places. If you climb the steps to the top of the tower, you’ll find an unimpeded view of Lindstow Manor.”
“Is that not a school for young ladies?”
He waggled his eyebrows.
“Oh!” Genevieve bristled. “You, sir, are uncouth.”
“ Au contraire, mademoiselle. J’incarne le bon ton .” With a sweep of his hand, he doffed his hat and ran a hand through his waves. “I had hoped to make you laugh today. Break the ice, as they say. Neither of us knows each other, and I thought today could mark the beginning of our acquaintance.”
To what end? They could not marry. They could not . Two strangers united over a mistake? All because her father refused to pass the chance at snaring her a husband? This was an impossible relationship. They shared nothing, and they would each hate the other for being forced.
“Papa will come to his senses,” she said. “There’s no need to change your plans on my account. He will come to his senses, and that will be the end of it.”
His expression shifted from almost playful to sorrowful. “We’re betrothed, Miss Slade. My only regret is that someone else has your heart. With time… perhaps…”
As his words trailed, Genevieve felt a stab of guilt in her breast.
No one has my heart, Mr. Fitz-S tephens.
She stared at the forest floor, unable to meet his eyes.
He said softly in Latin, “ Astra inclinant, sed non obligant . The stars incline us, they do not bind us.” After a moment’s silence, he turned back to his horse and prepared to mount. “I’ll leave you with your thoughts, Miss Slade.”
Genevieve parted her lips to say something, but she did not know what to say. Press their need to break the betrothal? Invite him to call in a day or two? Thank him for his kindness? Rail at him for first choosing her room that fateful night, then for falling prey to her father? Admit she had no one and was infinitely lonely?
Instead, she watched him leave, her heart in her throat.
After changing out of her riding habit, she retired to the drawing room. As expected, Mama was there, reading her lady’s magazine. Genevieve flopped unladylike on the sofa next to her mother and rested her head on the cushy shoulder.
“Papa must come to his senses,” Genevieve said, outlining an embroidered flower on her mother’s gown. “He’ll listen to you.” If you’ve quite finished with the theatrics , she thought but did not say aloud.
“Seems to me he has come to his senses. A perfect match and all.”
“A perfect match? We’d never met!”
Her mother shrugged one shoulder before turning back to read the column.
Genevieve sat up and crossed her arms, on the verge of pouting with a petulance she had not exhibited for at least a decade. “A terrific beginning, as well, after he heard Papa accuse me of entertaining gentlemen callers. What was Papa thinking ? I’m mortified by the whole of it. Something must be done.”
“You’re to blame after fibbing about the milksop.”
“Mr. Thorpe is not a milksop. He is kind and caring and all the things Papa and you are not.”
Her mother tittered. “He’s a useless article, and you know it. Now, Mr. Fitz-Stephens, on the other hand….”
“You don’t know him from Adam! None of us do.”
Mama did not look away from her magazine, but her eyebrows rose in a far too telling manner. “Don’t we?” was all she said.
Genevieve turned to face her mother better. “What are you not saying?”
Another shrug of a shoulder. “I haven’t the faintest what you’re implying.”
“The two of you couldn’t have planned this. That much I’m certain. You did not bribe him to sneak into my room and be caught. The mistake was genuine on his part. Pray, what are you not telling me?”
With a noncommittal hum, she said, “Your father knows what he’s doing, always has. Trust him.”
“Oh yes, because he has done so much to earn my trust recently.”
“Ye of little faith.”
Genevieve waved her hands in disbelief. She pouted. She sulked. She sighed. Mama only tittered at the dramatics.
Seeing this as a fruitless endeavor, Genevieve pecked her mother on the cheek, then left the drawing room for her bedchamber, an idea forming.
After shutting the door behind her, she sat at the escritoire and set about enacting a scheme that could free her of this haphazard betrothal. It also could complicate matters. She refused to think of that now.
Readying paper, quill, and ink, she began a letter to Mr. Alan Thorpe.