by Vincy, Mia
Chapter 16
The next day, Rafe crawled out of bed after a night that involved rather less sleep than he would have liked, and rather more thinking of Thea, of reliving the feel of her in his arms and dreaming of making love with her, as he could never do. He intended to go straight to the glasshouse, but stopped to terrorize a passing footman with a barked demand: Had someone gone for the post? The footman stammered that yes, someone had gone, someone always went, but he could check again if his lordship desired. His lordship, who knew he was being a pain in the neck, said only that he wished to be informed the minute the post arrived.
“The very minute, you hear?” he snarled. The footman agreed, and Rafe stayed in his study and wore out the carpet.
The very minute Rafe got his bundle of letters, he tore them open. A letter from his solicitor confirmed the trustees had released the funds and Rafe could safely end his farcical marriage; a postscript noted that Mr. Knight had not yet handed over Miss Knight’s dowry. Yet another letter from the Royal Household demanding that Rafe—oh, who cared what the Crown wanted now. He tossed it aside and ripped open others.
Nothing from Ventnor. Nothing about Thea.
He calculated and recalculated the days. Surely Helen and Beau Russell were married by now. Surely word had reached London. Surely a scathing letter from Ventnor should have arrived.
But nothing.
He felt light-headed with relief. It wasn’t over yet. They had at least one more day. He should not waste it.
Unless—
“What about the countess?” he demanded.
“She received a letter too.”
“And?”
The footman searched the room for the right answer. “And…her ladyship has not yet read it as she has not returned from her walk.”
Rafe stopped tormenting the man and went outside. He strode down the lawn, seeking Thea and not seeing her, and what would he do if he did? Take up sorcery after all so he could put a spell on his estate to freeze time? They said desire made men into fools and he was living proof. If news from the outside world never came, and she never confessed, and he never confessed, and she never left, and he never had to decide—
Decide what, exactly?
He stood by the lake and let the water lap at the toes of his boots. A dragonfly skipped over the surface; a gentle breeze gathered the water into ripples that glinted in the sunlight; a bird issued a lazy call. An idyllic summer’s day. Rafe stood in this idyll and ached. Ached with indecision and desire and despair. Well, a vigorous swim in cold water could fix one of those, at least. He stripped down to his drawers, plunged into the cool water, and swam.
He swam and swam, as he did every day, his legs kicking behind him, his arms cycling over his head. Yet every gulp of air and kick of his legs, every slap of his hands slicing the water, brought a thought of Thea. Memories, questions, images of Thea in a future that could not be. Thea, who was lying to him. Thea, who longed for balls and society and London. Thea, whose vitality made him yearn to be a different man.
He swam, harder, faster, further, flipping around and doing it again and again. Every muscle in his body worked to keep him moving, until it became difficult to catch his breath. Drowning seemed excessive, so when he neared the bank once more, he stopped and sucked in air.
He dug his toes into the mud, the water lapping at his chest, his drawers clinging uncomfortably to his thighs. Gripping his wet hair, Rafe let out a bellow of frustration and turned.
There she was.
Thea sat on a flat rock hanging over the water’s edge. The skirts of her blue walking dress were bunched around her knees, displaying a hint of white undergarments, and her bare calves and feet dangled in the water, intriguing pale shapes under the surface.
Her ankles. Those famously, fabulously fascinating ankles.
The swim had stolen all his thoughts, but Rafe did not need to think. Of its own will, his body turned, and he pushed through the water toward her.
* * *
In her own defense, Thea had removed her shoes and stockings and sat on the rock before she’d noticed Rafe swimming.
She had intended to pack first thing, but no sooner had she opened her empty trunk than she developed the notion of saying her farewells to Brinkley End. After all, she reasoned, a delay of a couple of hours would not matter, in the grand scheme of things. She was in no rush to get to London, given that her pamphlets would not be ready for days.
And it was such a warm day, and her feet were hot and tired, and it wouldn’t matter if she sat for a while with her bare feet in the water.
But when she’d seen him swimming back and forth in that absurdly vigorous manner, she found she could not move.
Neither could she move when he came to a stop. The water lapped at his skin, halfway up his naked, heaving chest. She barely had time to marvel at the breadth of his shoulders, when he lifted his arms to wipe his face, revealing the shape of his ribcage, and the muscles shifting under his skin, and the jagged scars marking his shoulders and ribs. Then he gripped his hair and roared at the sky like a beast, and she wondered fancifully if he was indeed some magical, mythical beast. Until he turned and looked right in her eyes, and she knew, without a doubt, that he was all man.
A man with the intent gaze of a hunter.
Slowly, he lowered his arms and rested them on the surface of the lake, the muscles in his chest again shifting in interesting ways. He advanced. His feet, always so sure of themselves, did not miss a step. The water grew shallower as he came closer, revealing more of his naked torso as he approached. Thea’s hungry eyes tried to devour all of him at once: the broad shoulders, the muscular arms, water sliding over the hairs on his chest. More ridges of muscle, like weathered bricks in a timeless castle wall. His navel. Was that more hair? And then—
He stopped. Right in front of her. The water lapped at his lean waist, vexingly hiding what lay beneath. On his arms, dark hairs gathered in wet spikes, the sun catching in the drops of water.
Thea tracked back up his body to meet his eyes, still the color of brandy, but hot brandy that stirred her own rising heat. His gaze was so intense she had to look away, to his dark hair, the curls not so wild when wet. A droplet of water trickled over his cheek and jaw, down his throat, gathering other droplets as it went. She followed its progress all the way down his body, gripping the rock so she would not catch that droplet on her finger and touch it to her tongue.
A strange longing hit her so forcefully she forgot to breathe.
A fierce, hungry longing to dive down inside him, like he himself was a lake and she could travel deep under his surface and discover what marvels lay beneath. Surely, she’d find some magical kingdom, within his depths, where she could begin to understand the workings of his mind, his heart, his body, his soul.
It started with his eyes, she knew. So she gathered her courage and looked back at his face.
“You were swimming,” she said, her voice too high.
“Hmm.”
“I never saw anyone swim like that before. All that splashing.”
“I learned that method from watching members of a Native tribe in America.” His voice sounded rougher, smokier than usual. A little breathless; from his exertions, no doubt. “It enables one to swim with more power and speed.”
“What is chasing you?”
“Hmm?”
“You do not swim to a destination, so surely you require speed only if something is chasing you?”
Thea thought she made an excellent point, but Rafe had that look again, as if he didn’t know what to make of her, yet enjoyed her anyway.
He sidled another few inches toward her. Perhaps if she straightened her legs, she could wrap them around his waist.
“It’s the crocodiles,” he said solemnly.
“You have crocodiles in your lake in Somersetshire?”
He edged closer. “Don’t worry. They’re mostly friendly.”
“Friendly crocodiles?”
“
Mostly friendly.”
Under the water, he grabbed her ankle. She yelped then slammed her mouth shut. His hand was firm and sure and oddly warm, and as he traced her bones with his thumb, sensations sizzled up her legs.
“So…” His eyes dropped to her ankle in his hand, still under the water. “The famously, fabulously fascinating ankles.”
When he released her foot, it came to a natural rest against his hip, where his skin burned her and the waistband of his drawers tickled her. He ran his fingers up her calf to the back of her knee, then down again. Up and down.
And perhaps it was those sizzling sensations, or the defiant thought that she had as much right to touch him as he did her, or the desperate knowledge that soon she must leave, she must confess, and never again would he spout nonsense about crocodiles or argue about dessert or hold her ankle in his hand—whatever compelled her, Thea touched him too.
She poked at a sunlit droplet of water on his shoulder and smeared it over his skin. Her fingers brushed the edge of a ragged scar.
“The jaguar got you here, too,” she murmured.
“Hmm.”
Spreading her fingers wide, she pressed her whole palm over as much of his shoulder as she could.
“It was in a tree and pounced on me from behind,” he said. “I heard it and spun, and it caught my face.”
“And then?”
She trailed her fingers along his collarbone. He didn’t seem to mind. He was still running his hand up and down the back of her calf. And even when his touch slid down, the sensations kept going up and up and up.
“The other men were there with the dogs and guns. The jaguar decided I wasn’t worth the trouble and leaped up into the trees. It was over before I understood it had begun.”
“They didn’t shoot the jaguar, did they?”
“It was too fast. Besides, I cannot blame it; I was in its forest, stealing its flowers.”
Gently, he lifted her ankle, straightening her knee. Her leg looked small in his big hand, his weathered skin darker than her own. Though he touched her only in the one place, she felt his touch everywhere, from her throat to her breasts to her quim.
“You look a little flushed,” he murmured, his eyes knowing and intent.
“It’s warm today, don’t you think?”
“Swim with me. Right now.”
“My gown…”
“Leave it on. Take it off. I don’t care.”
She caught a droplet hanging from his hair. “Swimming fully clothed… That seems rather impulsive.”
“It won’t be impulsive if you keep bloody talking about it.”
“You are so grumpy.”
“I am not.”
But he was smiling. Properly smiling, dimple and all. Thea slid an arm around his neck and gave him her weight. He lifted her down into the water, blessedly cool against her hot, tormented skin. Her skirts bunched around her; laughing, she pushed the air out of them and they grudgingly sank below the surface to swirl heavily. Her foot bumped him, and she slid it up his leg, over the roughness of his hairs. Those assured legs did not falter as he pushed back through the water, sweeping her away with him. Her feet did not touch the bottom, but she did not need firm ground to stand, not when he held her in his sure, strong arms.
His forehead pressed against hers, and he freed one hand to tug pins from her hair and run his fingers through the strands.
Next, he would kiss her again. Kiss her, and he did not even know her name.
She couldn’t do this.
She was deceiving him, and oh, how she wished it could last forever, this magical day, the sunlight, the water, the sheer folly of swimming in her clothes, his arms, his caress, this unexpected moment of bliss.
She wished it could last forever, but nothing in her life ever did.
“Rafe,” she whispered.
“Hmm.”
He trailed his lips down the side of her face and nuzzled her neck. Thea tangled her fingers in his wet hair and tugged.
“I have to tell you something. About…me.”
“Tell me tomorrow.”
“I have to tell you now.”
“No,” he murmured against her throat. “Tomorrow. It can wait until tomorrow.”
The water swirled and yanked at her skirts. Her limbs became weak but his strong arms held her.
His arms, at least, did not lie.
“You already know,” she whispered.
He pulled her closer, as he moved them through the water. Her skirts fought them both and she wound her arms more tightly around his neck, even as her heart began to ache.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated roughly. “If you say it, it will be over. Like an enchantment coming to an end. Give us one more day. One more day to swim and play. One more night to dine together. Let us pretend, for one more day. Let us have the fiction of our marriage. It is all we have holding us together. Let it hold us together one more day.”
No more was he trying to kiss her. His eyes searched hers, as he tenderly brushed back her hair.
“How did you find out?” she whispered.
“I always knew.”
And once more, everything she believed was swept out from under her. She had to move away or slap him or tear out his eyes, but he didn’t release her, and she needed him to hold her up.
He had lied too.
Nothing was as she thought; nothing was the same. She no longer knew what was real, what was false, what was fantasy, what was true.
“I bribed a servant in your parents’ house, who read your letters to Helen.” As he talked, his eyes roamed over her face, as if he was trying to capture it in his mind. Their words were ending this, but still they clung to each other, their bodies not yet ready to believe the news. “I saw you arrive at that coaching inn in Warwickshire, dressed as a man. I saw Helen arrive, and go to the same room. I saw Helen in men’s clothing board the stagecoach north, and then you and Miss Larke came downstairs. Ventnor’s men didn’t notice the switch, but I sent them back to London, just in case.”
“Why? You knew the marriage would be invalid. Why?”
“I needed a marriage certificate and living bride to secure the money from my mother’s trust, and I’ve sworn never to marry again.”
She realized then that he had been moving them toward the shore, and despite her heavy skirts’ protests, her feet sank into the mud. He was right: It could have waited until tomorrow. She could have waited one more day to know that he had lied to her too, that he had schemed as she had, but he had done it better, and he had won.
A dragonfly skimmed past his head, the sunlight glinting on its wings, and the waters of the lake washed peacefully around them. Everything was perfect and carefree, on this giddy summer’s day. Everything but them.
“You should have told me,” she said, aware of her own hypocrisy.
“Countess, we—”
“No!” She pushed away from him and lost her balance. He caught her and steadied her, before the water and hurt could carry her away. “You know my name. Use my name.”
“Then it will truly end.”
Again, he was right. Her name would be like the magic word that ended an enchantment. No more pretending. They would have to retreat behind the barriers of propriety and outrage and opposition. She had thought they were enemies, and then they were not, and now they would be adversaries again.
“Say it,” she whispered.
“Thea.”
Her name was never much more than a breath, and that was how he said it now, breathing her name like a prayer or a curse. He looked as if he had lost something, but there had never been anything to lose. They had played a game of make-believe; now the game was over, they were just cold and wet.
“I don’t understand.” She knew she had no right to be hurt, but the betrayal stung anyway. Everything she thought she knew was wrong, and now she knew nothing at all. “If you knew who I was, then you let them elope, Helen and Mr. Russell. Lord Ventnor will be furious.”
“I ho
pe so.”
Something plopped into the water beside them, splashing them both. Thea gasped but Rafe did not so much as flinch. He turned his head, and Thea did too, and saw the tall, thin man on the bank, the breeze teasing the ends of his white hair under his hat, his arm pulled back, ready to throw another stone. Lord Ventnor.
“Speak of the Devil and he appears,” Rafe said wryly. “And he does look rather furious, doesn’t he?”
Chapter 17
Thea shivered. Even though she stared at Ventnor—and yes, a rather furious-looking Ventnor—she could hardly believe he was there.
He did not belong here, in this strange place Brinkley End had become. He was too real. She could not even fathom how he had arrived. Perhaps he had appeared in a puff of smoke the moment Rafe spoke her name and ended their enchantment.
“Get up here now, Luxborough!” Ventnor shouted.
Thea and Rafe ignored him.
“You’re cold. Go inside and change,” Rafe said. “I’ll deal with him.”
He reached for her and she yanked her arm away. “Don’t touch me!”
Rafe hurtled back so fast waves washed around her. Another stone landed beside Rafe’s head, the water splashing his face.
“Would you two be so courteous as to have your lovers’ tiff some other time?” Ventnor called. “I demand you talk to me.”
For a long while, Rafe studied her. Then, with a sigh, he headed for the shore. Thea tried to follow, but her dress dragged against her and she slipped in the mud.
“Wait!” she cried. “My skirts.”
Rafe turned. “Do you need me to carry you?”
“I despise you right now.”
“Yes, but do you need me to carry you?”
“If you would.”
He waded back to her. “Put your arms around my neck.” She hesitated. Ventnor yelled again but neither paid him any mind. “It didn’t bother you a moment ago,” Rafe growled.
