by Nichole Van
And then, oddly, His Grace had spent the rest of the evening staring at Sophie, tracking her movements around the room the way a cat tracks a mouse, sending a chill up her spine and gooseflesh scattering.
Thankfully, Kendall had studiously ignored her ever since.
At the moment, however, Lord Rafe, was still trying to puzzle out who her Pater veras might be.
“Sir Edward Markham?” he asked.
“No, that’s my brother, Anthony.” She took pity on him. “I’m one of the unknowns.”
A Filia incognita.
“Ah.” His head went back. “Is this your first Season in London then? I am quite sure we have not been properly introduced.”
His words were spoken simply, but the warm intensity of his gaze gave them a flirtatious flavor, implying that she was so captivating that he would absolutely remember such an introduction.
Well done, Rakus lasciviosus. Well done.
She chose to ignore his tone, as well as the racing of her own heart. “Yes, this is my first Season, though I am somewhat long in the tooth being nearly two and twenty. But my mother had my older sisters to marry off first. And then she was simply too busy to bother with my come-out. For my part, I did not mind the delay—”
A commotion in the ballroom outside the curtain cut through the bubble of isolation surrounding them. They turned toward the sound, both peeking around the drapes.
It wasn’t hard to understand what had sent a ripple of awareness through the ballroom.
The Duke of Kendall had arrived, pausing in the doorway several steps higher than the rest of the room, his duchess on his arm. Kendall looked every inch the powerful duke that he was—meticulously groomed, head held high, eyes flinty. The duchess clung to her husband’s arm. She did not go out in public much, as her health was often poorly.
But the arrival of the duke wasn’t the cause of the commotion.
No, that was reserved for Sophie’s own father and mother.
Unfortunately, Lord and Lady Mainfeld had chosen to exit the ballroom at the precise moment Kendall and his duchess had arrived.
The two men stared one another down—Kendall haughty, Lord Mainfeld narrow-eyed—neither saying a word. The moment stretched and pulled until Sophie could practically taste the violence in the air.
Finally, the stalemate was broken by their hostess, who sailed to Kendall’s side, pulling the duke away, allowing Lord and Lady Mainfeld to exit.
Sophie felt rather than heard Lord Rafe’s hissing exhale behind her. She turned to face him, both of them shrinking behind the soothing shield of the curtain.
“We should likely not be speaking with one another.” Sophie darted a glance at the curtain, indicating the scene that had just transpired.
“Aye.” Lord Rafe’s dimples faded.
The man was likely mentally reviewing their fathers’ ongoing feud.
It played out like a Drury Lane melodrama.
It had supposedly begun when the Duke of Kendall (age nine) had been sent down from Eton for bloodying the Earl of Mainfeld (age eight) in a fist fight.
Ten years later, Lord Mainfeld (a devoted sportsman) delivered Kendall (not quite as devoted) a resounding defeat in a carriage race to Brighton. Kendall left for Italy the next morning, so thorough was his humiliation.
Most notoriously four years after that, Kendall and Mainfeld had fought a duel over Sophie’s mother, the former Miss Anne Montague. The tale went that Kendall had slighted Miss Montague. Mainfeld, naturally, had taken offense to Kendall’s behavior. Kendall, of course, refused to apologize. The subsequent duel had resulted in Kendall crowing in victory, and Mainfeld sporting a bandaged left arm while marrying Miss Montague via special license three days later.
It was said neither gentleman had spoken to the other since. Kendall had withdrawn into the superiority of his title and flawless reputation. Mainfeld had retreated to the country and pretended to ignore his wife’s rampant promiscuity and his own tarnished reputation, living for hunting and fishing on his estates.
So on the rare occasions that the men did encounter one another, everyone waited with bated breath to see what would transpire.
“Do you not find the animosity between our fathers somewhat medieval?” Lord Rafe finally asked.
Sophie shot him a wan smile. “I would have used the word absurd, but medieval is also adequately descriptive. Our fathers are like a pair of Cervus elaphus scoticus, butting antlers and pawing in the dirt to impress one another whilst the rest of the deer herd munches grass, completely uncaring.”
Sophie pursed her lips, instantly wanting to take her last sentence back. Sometimes she tended to see the world only in obscure, biological metaphor.
“Did you . . .” Lord Rafe stopped, that ‘V’ reappearing between his brows. “Did you just compare our fathers’ behavior to that of Scottish red deer in rut?”
How did he know—?
A longer pause, Sophie’s eyes darted sideways. The only way out of this conversation was through it, she feared.
“Erhm . . . yes.”
“And you feel that Cervus elaphus scoticus best resembles their behavior? Not perhaps, Falco peregrinus?”
He spoke the words lightly, but something in his tone said the question had not been as careless as it seemed.
Was he testing her?
And if so, to what end?
More to the point, why was her heart beatingsofast?
Sophie did not understand the games of a Rakus. And so she answered him truthfully.
“Yes, comparing our fathers to a peregrine falcon is also appropriate. They defend their supposed territories with similar ferocity, chasing off intruders.”
Lord Rafe stilled.
A fraught pause ensued.
He spoke first. “You have made a rather tenacious study of Linnaeus’s system of species classification.”
“As have you, it seems.”
“Yes, well, but I have just completed three years of study at St. Andrews focused on the natural sciences and biology.”
Oh.
Be still her heart.
A biology-educated rake.
The man was truly a menace to bluestockings everywhere.
“And you are a young woman in your first London Season,” he continued with a deeper frown.
“Are you asserting, my lord, that being a woman excludes one from being an aspiring biologist? Are the two subspecies incompatible?”
He swallowed, eyes widening for some unfathomable reason.
“No,” he said on a hush.
They exchanged another long, weighty stare.
Lady Lilith’s cascading laughter sounded through the curtain. A deeper voice responded.
Lord Rafe stiffened, eyes darting to the damask that hid them from view. Abruptly, it seemed emblematic of her life . . . in the room, but never an active participant.
Perhaps Lord Rafe realized the same, as he said, “You are correct, my lady. We should not be speaking with one another. I bid you good evening, Lady Sophronia.”
He bowed.
Sophie, of course, curtsied.
And then he was gone.
But the feel of him lingered. Sophie was singed, as if she had sat too long in the sun and the heat of it would remain in her skin for days.
Thoughts of Lord Rafe assailed her during the next two sets.
Could their shared interest in biology be the beginning of a relationship? Would they spend long hours discussing the minute differences between a feral domestic cat and a Scottish wild cat?
Most importantly, was her oddness perhaps not the cloak of invisibility she had supposed?
This state of wondering euphoria lasted for approximately an hour.
And then Sophie glimpsed Lord Rafe kissing Lady Lilith in the same alcove, a careless gap in the drapery allowing others to see in. The Duke of Kendall had certainly noted his son’s behavior with a grim expression.
All in all, the experience was a brisk dowsing, a reminder of the behavi
or of Rakus lasciviosus.
She hadn’t minded her invisibility until Lord Rafe had singled her out. She hadn’t felt alone until he noticed her.
His rejection stung, amplifying her outside-ness, her sense of being a species apart. As if, as a biological observer, she had finally managed to see herself clearly in the wild.
In short, it was a jolt of painful self-awareness.
Despite what she had thought to be a momentary connection, Lord Rafe was still a Rakus lasciviosus through and through. And as the Bible states, a leopard never changes its spots.
Or, in other words—once a rake, always a rake.
Sophie vowed to remember the moment as a much-needed physic—a dose of heart-saving medicine.
Though she did add another line to her own biological entry when she returned home several hours later.
Like her mother, Lady Sophronia is highly susceptible to the mating charms of Rakus lasciviosus.
2
Rafe opened the front door of Gilbert House, his father’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square, slipping inside without making a sound. All was quiet, which was to be expected given the late hour.
His mind still hummed and buzzed from the evening, thoughts of Lady Sophronia Sorrow refusing to be silenced—her frank bluntness, the clever turn of her mind, her endearingly determined scribbling in her notebook.
She was an Original, a woman utterly unique within her kind. Like finding a brightly feathered parrot among a flock of sparrows, she glowed with difference. A difference he longed to know.
Rafe smiled, remembering her lament over her melodramatic name.
Imagine living your life feeling like a cautionary tale.
He related more than Lady Sophronia could ever understand.
But knowing the animosity that existed between their fathers, could he risk spending more time with her?
Rafe closed the front door carefully, twisting the handle so the latch made no sound.
A single candle flickered on a half-moon table to the right of the entry hall, casting long shadows up the gilded, gold-and-blue wallpaper and across the marble tiles.
The hall boy was curled up in a ball on the floor beside his stool, fast asleep. Poor lad. He had to be only eight or nine years old.
The hall boy stirred, blearily opening one eye before lurching awake with a start.
Rafe pressed a finger to his own lips. Hush.
The boy scrambled into his chair with its sloping seat, hair rumpled, livery askew.
Rafe winked at him. The boy would be dismissed if anyone caught him sleeping.
Giving Rafe a thankful grin, the boy came forward and took Rafe’s hat, overcoat, gloves, and walking stick before silently nodding toward the silver salver on a sideboard.
A letter sat atop it addressed to Rafe in a flowing script.
Ah.
A letter from Andrew Mackenzie, his closest friend, a Scot he had met while studying natural sciences at St. Andrews.
Rafe palmed the letter and winked at the hall boy again before taking to the stairs, walking on tiptoe.
Now he simply had to make it to his room without disturbing—
“A word, boy,” the Duke of Kendall’s voice reached Rafe as he rounded the first-floor landing. A glance down the hallway showed that the door to his father’s study stood ajar, flickering firelight streaming into the hallway.
Damn and blast.
Rafe’s heart lurched in his throat. He had been so careful and quiet, but to no avail. A midnight summons from his father never ended well.
“Sir?” Rafe said, pushing open the door and stepping into his father’s lair.
His father stood before the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. The firelight rimmed his form from behind while a candelabra on the desk to his left illuminated his face.
The Duke of Kendall was a formidable presence. Equal in height to Rafe and just as broad shouldered, he dominated any room he entered. Kendall’s pale gray eyes and silver hair enhanced his sense of authority. An ice king ruling over his domain.
As a child, Rafe had thought his father’s venom tongue and endless dominance stemmed from Rafe’s own negligent behavior. If only Rafe were better behaved, then his father would treat him with kindness.
As an adult, Rafe recognized that Kendall simply delighted in cruelty. His father took sick pleasure in controlling and hurting others.
Rafe had hated the man for years.
Worse, his father knew how much Rafe disliked him and delighted in rubbing his son’s face in it.
Rafe’s only weapon, at the moment, was to not give his father the satisfaction of a reaction. And so he kept his face impassive.
Kendall’s eyes dipped to Andrew’s letter, still clenched in Rafe’s fist. His father waved a hand toward the letter.
“You shall not be allowed to accompany Mr. Mackenzie on this ridiculous voyage he is planning.” Kendall turned, reaching for a glass of brandy on the mantelpiece. “I will not have a son of mine roaming the South Seas with some motley crew.”
The air whooshed out of Rafe’s lungs, as surely as if he had taken a blow to the solar plexus.
He glanced at the letter again, noting the broken seal. Blast the man! Kendall had no shame. Rafe was twenty-four and far too old to have his father monitoring his post.
What Rafe wouldn’t give to have his own bachelor accommodations, a set of private rooms somewhere, anywhere else in London. But . . . no. Kendall would not tolerate any distance between Rafe and his own iron grip.
At the moment, Kendall ensured Rafe’s obedience by controlling his purse strings. If Rafe obeyed and did as his father requested, he was flush with funds.
Without his father’s support, Rafe would be thrust into the street. And anyone who attempted to help him—like Mr. Andrew Mackenzie, for example—would be ruined. Kendall was powerful enough to ensure it happened. More to the point, Rafe would never put his friends in such dire straits.
Just a few more years, he promised himself.
Thank goodness, Rafe was only the second son. His elder brother, Earl Hawthorn, would never be free of their father. Though Hawthorn did not chafe against their father’s control; his brother was cut after the same mold as their sire. Quite literally, as Hawthorn had their father’s light eyes and premature gray hair. Rafe was eternally grateful he took after his mother’s darker coloring.
And his mother’s family gave him hope of freedom. His maternal grandmother had promised to leave the bulk of her Scottish estate to Rafe upon her death, gifting him a source of funds completely out of Kendall’s reach. Rafe loved his Gran and wished her a long life, but she was quite elderly. And he was honest enough to acknowledge that her death would solve many problems for him.
Notably, removing him from under Kendall’s controlling fist. But until then . . .
Swallowing his anger over this invasion of his privacy, Rafe opened Andrew’s letter, tilting it toward the candelabra.
Words jumped out at him . . . secured final funding for our voyage of scientific discovery to the South Pacific . . . set sail in October . . . have finally hired a physician, Dr. Alexander Whittaker, and an artist, Mr. Ewan Campbell, . . . please say you will come . . .
Rafe refolded the letter, straightening to his full height.
Yes, Rafe wished to accompany Andrew on the trip . . . more than anything. But he gritted his teeth, refusing to show even an ounce of his disappointment.
Time, if nothing else, would strip Kendall of ways to control him. Rafe simply needed to wait, to breathe through the hatred and loathing until he was free of his father once and for all.
“Was that all you wished to say, Sir?” he asked, proud of the steady timbre of his voice.
Kendall took a slow sip of his brandy, eyes glittering in the flickering light.
“I saw you speaking with Lady Sophronia Sorrow this evening.”
Ah.
And now they came to the crux of it.
Rafe decided to face the accusation head-o
n. It was usually the best course with his father . . . give a semblance of capitulation.
“I did indeed speak with the lady in question, Sir.”
“You appeared quite taken with her.” Kendall traced a finger around the rim of his glass. “She seems a lovely creature, I imagine, to those less discerning.”
Alarm bells clanged in Rafe’s head. Did Kendall suspect the depth of Rafe’s interest in Lady Sophronia?
Giving a nonchalant shrug, Rafe replied, “Perhaps. But once I learned of her familial connections, Lady Sophronia ceased to be attractive. Lady Lilith was a much more agreeable companion.”
Thank goodness he had kissed Lilith so openly. That would put Kendall off the scent. Lady Lilith was a decent sort, but not at all to Rafe’s tastes.
“I am glad I need not remind you about the state of matters with Mainfeld.” The duke practically spat the earl’s name. “That man and his pack of mongrel children are an abomination.”
Kendall paused. It was his you-will-now-agree-with-me pause.
“I could not agree more, Sir,” Rafe obediently replied.
His father studied Rafe intently, as if looking for cracks of insincerity.
Rafe held the man’s icy gaze, unflinching, ignoring the roil of emotions in his chest.
“See that you continue to avoid them all . . . Lady Sophronia, in particular,” his father intoned.
Well.
Lady Sophronia’s green eyes danced in Rafe’s memory.
Anger rose in his chest, the eternal feeling of helplessness where his father was concerned. But Rafe knew he had to acquiesce. The past had taught him as much.
Several years ago, Rafe had taken a brief fancy to a well-educated parson’s daughter, a Miss Hawthorn. Despite the lady’s genteel elegance, Kendall had been nearly apoplectic—the son of a duke did not stoop to court a parson’s daughter. Miss Hawthorn and her family had abruptly quit London not long after, and Rafe had found himself on a painfully short tether for the remainder of the Season.
Rafe had been infinitely more careful since then. Most of his flirtatious ways were simply a ruse. Kendall encouraged Rafe’s virile reputation as a rake, as he wished for his son to be ‘man about town.’ Better Kendall think Rafe a man like unto himself.
