by Sara Ramsey
She had noticed Ferguson and Rafe talking in the drawing room, but she hadn’t paid it much mind. “Did he warn you away from me?”
“You won’t win Maidenstone with me by your side. And you’ll have a devil of a time restoring your reputation if you’re caught sneaking in and out of my room.”
“And if I don’t want to win Maidenstone?” she asked.
Rafe looked her over, as though searching for an answer to a question he couldn’t ask.
Then, unexpectedly, he pulled her into his arms. His mouth was on hers before she could take a breath. He still held her hand, and she squeezed it as though grabbing on to a lifeline. His other hand came up to cup her cheek, tilting her, giving him better access. His lips were all heat and need. His tongue quested, demanding.
And she was suddenly ravenous. She moaned a little as her lips parted, and she might have been embarrassed by the sound, but it seemed like it spurred him on — and she very much wanted to spur him on. He groaned, dropping a hand to her breast, trailing fingers over her collarbone, leaving streaks of sensation that made her even hungrier for him.
She would have done anything for him then. She would have gone anywhere, become anyone, if it meant that she could keep that kiss, keep the feeling of his hands roving over her.
If only she could keep the belief that they were meant for this.
Their kiss silenced all questions — but it couldn’t give them answers.
Minutes later, Rafe finally pulled away. He looked dazed, and even more disheveled than before. But his eyes held a decision she didn’t want to see.
“You deserve more than this, Octavia,” he said, in a voice so low she could barely hear him. “You deserve more than I can give you.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“You deserve love. Or, at the very least, this house. And with me at your side, you won’t get either.”
The implication was that he didn’t care about her, or couldn’t love her. But she still felt the imprint of his mouth on hers, fading but alive. He had told her he couldn’t be trusted — but should she trust that? Or trust how he had looked at her when she had said she was leaving?
She still didn’t understand. But he made no move to help — no move to make his intentions clear.
The warning in her heart grew too loud to ignore. She stepped back, retying the belt on her peignoir as though adjusting her armor. When she looked back up at him, his expression was distant — as though he had already accepted that he’d lost her.
She would regret it later, lying in her childhood bed, staring up into the dark. But for now, all she wanted was to get away — to not have to accept, while looking at him, that she didn’t know him quite as well as she thought she did.
“I release you from our partnership, my lord. If you’ll excuse me, I have a house to win.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next evening, Rafe lounged on the side of the ballroom and surveyed the crowds. Lucretia had invited all the local gentry to attend a ball — a welcome event during house parties, which needed new bodies and new conversations to avoid descending into torpor. Granted, Octavia’s sudden appearance was all anyone could talk about that day. But having extra guests gave everyone more chances to gossip.
For once, he didn’t want to hear any of it.
But he kept a vaguely charming look on his face, agreeable enough not to cause notice, but not so encouraging as to lure anyone into conversation. So far he had only talked to Thorington — Thorington, who seemed as enthralled by Callista as any man had ever been with a woman. Not that Thorington would say so. His brother was entirely too stubborn to admit that he had fallen in love with her.
At least Thorington was too preoccupied with Callista to notice anything between Rafe and Octavia. It was too embarrassing to admit, even to himself, that he had barely slept the night before. And when he had finally fallen asleep, Octavia had filled his dreams.
Octavia. She had the name of an empress and the demeanor to match. Tonight, she looked as regal as he had ever seen her. She stood with Sir Percival in the line of dancers waiting to progress down the room during the country dance, wearing a shocking dress in purple silk that practically dared the other guests to cut her.
He hadn’t seen her all day. And when she had entered the ballroom and gone immediately to stand as far from him as she could, he knew that she had avoided him as much as he had avoided her.
As Rafe watched, while pretending not to watch, Sir Percival said something that made her laugh. The poet liked beauty for its own sake. He didn’t seem to particularly notice or care who was popular or not. She had willingly gone with him when Sir Percival had asked her to dance, and she stood with him as easily as if she’d never lost her place in society.
As easily as if she didn’t wonder where Rafe was, or wish that he was her partner.
Rafe looked away.
Ferguson had walked by a few moments earlier, but he retraced his steps and came to a stop next to Rafe. “Doesn’t he look besotted?” Ferguson said to his wife.
Madeleine looked him up and down. Her green eyes were amused. “Entirely besotted,” she agreed.
“What shall we do about it?” Ferguson asked. “He doesn’t listen to my threats.”
“If that’s true, he’s more like his brother than I would have hoped,” Madeleine said. “Thorington doesn’t listen to you either.”
Rafe tried very hard not to grind his teeth. Any reaction would only prolong the conversation. Ferguson had made it quite clear to him that there was no reason for them to discuss Octavia again.
“It’s a shame, really,” Ferguson continued. “I should have tossed their family out as soon as they arrived.”
Madeleine patted his arm. “You couldn’t have done so. Lucretia can invite whomever she wants.”
“Yes, but I should have spoken to her at the start to ensure she wouldn’t surprise us again. I am dismayed that she invited Somerville tonight.”
Rafe had managed to stay silent through all of this, hoping that Ferguson would move on to bait someone else. But that was too much for him. “Somerville is here?”
“Ah, he speaks!” Ferguson said.
“Be careful,” Madeleine admonished him. “Besotted men often act irrationally when confronted with such news.”
Rafe wanted to murder both of them, but he couldn’t think of a way to do it in the ballroom without hanging for it. He tried to look calm rather than besotted — but since he had never been accused of looking besotted before, he didn’t know what look he needed to avoid.
“Lucretia is determined to make this hard for Octavia, isn’t she?” he said, hoping to direct Ferguson’s attention away from his interest in Octavia.
Some of Ferguson’s humor died. “If I’d known this generation of Briarleys would be as treacherous with each other as previous ones, I would have hosted the party at my own estate rather than leaving it in Lucretia’s hands. Octavia can hold her own, but it’s not ideal for her reputation that Somerville is here.”
That was an understatement. Somerville’s presence would remind everyone, visibly, of the facts that they already knew about her. When her acceptance hung by the narrowest thread, any renewed scandal could finish her.
“Where is he?” Rafe asked.
“What do you intend to do if I tell you?”
“Ask him to dance,” Rafe said.
Madeleine laughed. “I like Lord Rafael better than Thorington.”
“Blood will tell in the end,” Ferguson said, with a sad shake of his head. “He’s charming enough, but I don’t think you would like to cross him.”
Rafe looked up at the ceiling. In other circumstances, he found Ferguson amusing. But he didn’t enjoy being the target of Ferguson’s sense of humor.
“If you won’t take pity on him, I shall,” Madeleine said. “Lord Rafael, you’ll find that Somerville has already paid his respects to Lucretia and is in the card room.”
“No doubt pr
eaching his anti-vice gospel,” Ferguson said drily.
Somerville wouldn’t be campaigning with people at this party, unless it was with the minor local gentry who tended to support more prudish, middle-class ideals. “Why are you telling me this?” Rafe asked.
Ferguson looked back toward the dance floor. He gestured in Octavia’s direction. Even in the crowded whirl of a country dance, it was easy to find her — her dress stood out among the matrons and debutantes, but it was the defiant joy on her face that drew notice.
Rafe’s heart beat faster.
“I still have no intention of letting you or your brother win Maidenstone through marriage, despite my wife taking a liking toward you,” Ferguson said. There was more sympathy in his voice than there had been earlier, but it didn’t seem to change anything. “But if I unleash you on Somerville, perhaps you can save Octavia from the damage his presence would cause. And if you’re not standing on the side of the room looking at her like you intend to devour her, the men who are suitable for her might not be so afraid to ask her to dance.”
She progressed down the line of dancers. She smiled as she wove through the crowd, not at all concerned that she danced among people who used to cross the street to avoid her. Rafe sensed some of them thawing toward her. Some would take her brazenness as an insult and double down on their judgment of her. But others would be charmed by her.
They would especially be charmed by her if she married and inherited Maidenstone.
Ferguson was right. The longer Rafe looked at her, the more risk there was for her. Rafe didn’t have the same dark reputation as his brother did. Other men wouldn’t view him as quite the same kind of threat. But unless he asked her to dance, the fact that he stood at the side of the room and stared at her would only lead to gossip.
And the longer he looked at her, the more risk there was for him. He had barely let her go the previous night. If he kept talking to her — kept thinking of her as his to guard and his to partner with — he was setting a dangerous course.
He nodded at Ferguson and Madeleine. “I thank you for the information, although I could do without your meddling in the future.”
Ferguson laughed. “If I had a shilling for every time someone said they could do without my meddling, I would be rich beyond belief. But where would be the fun in that?”
He was already rich beyond belief, but Rafe let the subject go. And he let them go as well. But he didn’t go immediately to the card room, as his instincts told him to. He wanted to go to Somerville, pull him from his chair, and punch him in the face. The man must have known what his presence could do to Octavia. She deserved this chance to regain her birthright. The least Somerville could have done was stay away.
But Rafe never attacked directly. He operated in the shadows, not the light. He could find a way to destroy Somerville. But his usual methods took months of preparation.
Octavia needed his protection now.
It was at that moment that he realized, finally, belatedly — unwelcomely — the truth he had been avoiding for days.
He loved her.
He loved her, this wild girl with the confident smile and wounded heart. He wanted to turn the world on its head for her and punish her enemies. He wanted to give her anything and everything that would make her happy. He wanted to save her from anyone who could harm her.
She glanced up as she reached the end of the line of dancers, looking directly at him for a moment, as though she sensed his thoughts. The smile she gave him seemed instinctive, unplanned — a secret, sly grin, as though she couldn’t help but be happy to see him no matter how they had avoided each other and no matter how bad an idea it was for them to be seen together.
The music ended. He took a step toward her.
But something stopped him. Maybe it was the memory of the country dance, and the times when he and Gavin had sneaked out of their beds and watched their parents’ parties from the gallery above the ballroom. Maybe it was some nearby dowager’s scent, one that might have been fashionable twenty years earlier when his mother had drifted through the halls of Thorington House, leaving perfume and laughter in her wake as she went out to seek another paramour.
Whatever it was, it trapped him where he stood. His parents were a dream or a nightmare now, nothing more. But the memories still lived. How many screaming matches had he heard, especially in the months leading up to Serena’s birth? How often had his mother had that tight, unhappy look on her face when his father went to his club, sometimes for weeks on end?
How often had his father absently stroked the watch she had given him as a wedding present, even years after he had sent her away?
Rafe touched that watch now, trying to bring himself back to the present. He had been on enough missions to know he couldn’t let memories affect him. But it was too late to keep it from changing his mood.
It was easy to think that love didn’t last and leave it at that. That attitude had taken him through a series of very pleasurable interludes over the last decade.
But love could last. He’d seen older couples, in every town he’d visited, among every class and profession and creed, who had made love last. They always sent hope flickering through him before he remembered the probabilities.
He’d also seen the failures. He was descended from two of the worst. What was more likely? That he, a rake and a deceiver with no heart to speak of, could somehow stumble into a love that would last a lifetime? Or that he would ruin it all somehow, someday, and destroy both of them in the process?
He could destroy himself. But he couldn’t bear the thought of destroying her.
A waltz had started while he stood rooted to the ground. Octavia had walked away, guided by Sir Percival to her previous spot on the other side of the room. He could still go to her. He could ask her to dance — he hadn’t danced with her before, which seemed like a crime. He could hope for some sign, some miracle, that would make it clear to him that he wouldn’t hurt her, or himself, by loving her.
But then, unexpectedly, Serena caught his arm.
“Not now,” he growled at her.
Serena’s eyes widened, but she didn’t let go. Across the room, he saw Portia steal Octavia away from Sir Percival. He sighed. He was growing rather tired of plots and schemes.
“You need to know what Portia and I have been hearing tonight,” she said.
He’d noticed their whereabouts earlier — Portia had been flirting with a group of cavalry officers, as she usually did, and Serena had been talking to the quieter, more intelligent types. They were predictable to a fault. They were also savvy enough that he didn’t have to worry about them in crowds like this.
But he hadn’t used them as spies before. “What is it?”
“The gossip about Somerville and Octavia isn’t kind,” she said.
“It wouldn’t be,” he said shortly. “And you’re too innocent to be listening to it.”
She snorted. “Spare the nursemaid theatrics. Some of the younger women are speculating that maybe Somerville has come to marry her.”
“He wouldn’t. He wants to be prime minister too badly to waste his marriage contract on a scandal.”
Serena nodded. “Which is why the older women are saying that it’s entirely shocking that he is here. And they are discussing leaving en masse rather than sleeping under the same roof with Octavia and her lover.”
“Is Somerville staying?” he asked sharply.
“That’s the rumor. There are rooms available since some of the suitors were scared away. Everyone can guess that Lucretia invited him, but if anything, it’s raised interest in her. They’re saying it’s good to see that she has a bit of Briarley backbone.”
Rafe sighed. “What, precisely, do you want me to do with this information?”
“Go to her,” Serena urged. “Court her properly. Show everyone that she is worthy of admiration and acceptance.”
“Not subtle, Serena,” he said. “I must train you better if you think to offer matchmaking services i
n the future.”
She scowled at him. “I’m serious, Rafe. It’s obvious that you enjoy her company — and you never did explain why I found you sneaking around with her the other night before anyone knew she was in the neighborhood. Go to her, before someone else snaps her up.”
He glanced across the room. Octavia was frowning at whatever Portia was telling her — probably some variant of the same story Serena had given him. Really, Serena should have been the one to approach Octavia; they were of an age. But Serena was usually the one who took up the task of cajoling Rafe when they needed something.
“It’s not as simple as you think,” he said.
“It’s not as difficult as you think,” she shot back.
He wanted to disabuse her of that notion. But a disturbance started in the middle of the ballroom, rippling out in fast waves, and he was too attuned to groups like this to ignore it. It had all the hallmarks of a major scandal — gasps, silence, and whispers pushing out in ever-expanding circles from the event that had caused it.
He looked up and found the source immediately. Thorington had decided to dance with Callista after all.
And, for some unfathomable reason, decided to kiss her.
In the middle of the dance floor.
Where the only option, inevitably, would be….
Thorington pulled away from the kiss, leaving Callista looking dazed. “Miss Briarley and I shall be married as soon as we have a license,” his brother announced to the surrounding crowd.
There were no cheers.
Serena’s laugh was horrified, not happy.
Rafe swept his gaze across the crowd, assessing. People whispered gleefully, maliciously. Ferguson was headed straight for Thorington and Callista with murder in his eyes. Lucretia, who had looked pale all evening, now looked devastated — either she had wanted Thorington for herself, or she hadn’t heard Ferguson’s edict that Thorington or his family would never win the competition. Octavia stood on the other side of the room, looking entirely unconcerned.
