by Nichole Van
He had finally given up on the dream of accompanying Andrew.
But Lady Sophie was not so easily vanquished. Though Rafe did not actively seek her out, he still found himself in her company from time to time over those months. Their all-too-brief interactions stood out in vivid relief—shining beacons of delight, each interaction adding further fuel to the fire of his regard.
Lady Sophie’s laughter from an adjacent box at the theater, giggling over the gaffes of Mrs. Malaprop in a production of Sheridan’s The Rivals, while Rafe’s own female companion yawned and missed the humor entirely.
Lady Sophie’s fine seat on a prancing filly while riding Rotten Row in Hyde Park.
The impromptu rescue of a litter of kittens found half-drowned in the Serpentine one July morning, Lady Sophie directing his efforts from the bank as he fished each scrawny kitten from the shallow water and deposited it back with her, near ruining his favorite pair of Hessian boots.
A stolen conversation while taking shelter from the rain under an awning on Bond Street, discussing a recent paper which proffered theories on the formation of vegetable epidermis.
The list went on, each encounter stoking his admiration of her.
Then one afternoon in mid-September, Rafe spotted Lady Sophie riding in Hyde Park beside a golden-haired, red-coated officer—Captain Jack Fulstate. Lady Sophie looked resplendent in her military-style riding habit, a jaunty hat atop her head. She handled her spirited mare with the easy grace of an accomplished horsewoman. Captain Fulstate certainly was entranced. Her shy smiles and his broad laughter left little doubt as to the captain’s intentions.
The scene knocked the breath from Rafe’s lungs.
A few casual questions elicited the response he dreaded: “Lady Sophronia? Why, yes. Captain Fulstate has been courting her most actively these past few weeks. The man is fortunate to have survived Waterloo and likely wishes to celebrate by taking a wife. His family is not so high as to sneer at the prospect of marrying one of the Sorrowful Miscellany.”
Rafe nearly flinched at the news. Had he truly thought that Lady Sophie would remain unmarried, waiting in the wings for him? That she somehow existed outside the pressures of society and family?
He was an utter fool.
Rafe watched as Captain Fulstate and Sophie cantered off, heads leaning toward one another. It felt all too much like witnessing his very future retreat from him.
He did not know how long he sat there on his horse, staring at the place where Lady Sophie had been. Long enough for his bay to prance in agitation. Long enough for the autumn chill to seep through his caped overcoat.
Long enough for a seething rage to build in his chest.
Why was Lady Sophie forbidden? Why did his father derive pleasure from cruelly denying Rafe the things he wanted most?
Rafe finally returned to Gilbert House, teeth clenched, chest burning with suppressed anger.
A letter awaited him, sitting on the silver salver in the entry hall. Its black seal—a black, unbroken seal—declared that he would find grim news inside.
Rafe opened the letter, his thumping heart already suspecting is contents.
His grandmother—may God bless her soul—had finally passed on. Her estate was to be settled upon him.
Rafe inhaled a breath, sharp and cleansing.
Freedom filled his lungs.
At last!
Never again would his father use money to control him. He was done with the man forever.
Rafe raced up the stairs to his rooms, hands trembling, mind hurtling forward to make plans.
He would move out of Gilbert House tomorrow and never see his father again.
But first, he had to see Lady Sophie. He had to stake his claim along with Captain Fulstate. Wasn’t Lady Wishart’s ball this evening? Surely Lady Sophie would be there.
He would woo her in earnest now. Perhaps they could elope to Scotland and join Andrew on his voyage, meeting up with him in Lisbon or Gibraltar. Rafe intuitively suspected that Lady Sophie would relish a scientific voyage to the ends of the earth.
Rafe rushed to dress for the ball.
Sophie fanned her face, listening to Captain Jack Fulstate regale her with a story from his time in Portugal.
Captain Fulstate—or Jack, as he had been insistent she call him—was entertaining. He seemed a steady, eager sort. And—she darted a glance at his broad shoulders—he was decidedly attractive in his red regimentals. Given the number of women who openly stared at him, Sophie was not alone in her opinion.
Sophie smiled at Jack and continued to fan her face. Lady Wishart’s ballroom buzzed with guests, despite it being September. Most of the ton had already vacated London for shooting in the country—her father and brothers among them—but clearly enough remained to fill a ballroom. Lady Mainfeld had wished to finalize a dress order, and so they had lingered in London.
At least, that was her mother’s excuse. Sophie thought it more likely that Lady Mainfeld wished to encourage Captain Fulstate’s attentions toward Sophie herself.
Captain Fulstate—Jack!—had made his intentions toward her most clear.
For her part, Sophie could not decide how she felt. She had little prior knowledge of him, but what she had seen recommended him to her. He made her laugh with his antics and stories, and he was consistent in his affections. Her sisters insisted that she was falling in love with Jack.
Was this love then? It seemed a tepid sort of emotion, nothing akin to the sweeping force most poets described. Was love simply a sort of hyperbole then?
There were things about Jack that puzzled her. Sometimes he would tell a story that he found humorous—like hiding a fellow officer’s glasses and watching the poor fellow stumble about half-blind—and then would become taciturn when Sophie did not join him in laughter. Worse, he showed little interest in her scientific studies. These things displayed a dissimilarity of thought that concerned her.
No, the only man she consistently found similar to herself was Lord Rafe Gilbert. But despite a few vivid encounters over the summer, Lord Rafe had shown no inclination to court her in earnest.
To be honest, his behavior ran hot and cold. He would ignore her at Lady Smith’s musicale—looking right through her—and then two days later rush to stand beside her in Regent’s Park, chatting amiably as if they were old friends. But given the animosity between their fathers, such behavior wasn’t entirely unexpected, she supposed.
Her last encounter with Lord Rafe had been only last week, underneath a shop awning on Bond Street. Sophie had been waiting for her mother to finish flirting with a handsome haberdasher when Lord Rafe joined her. They had talked for a solid thirty minutes, ideas pinging between them, until Lady Mainfeld had pulled her away with a tight smile.
The carriage ride home had been tense.
“You cannot be seen speaking with Lord Rafe,” her mother admonished.
“Truly?” Sophie’ eyebrows flew upward, unable to contain her surprise.
Her mother currently lived to see Sophie married. The woman delighted in Sophie speaking with an eligible young man.
Her mother fixed Sophie with a stern, unyielding look. “Your father will never countenance a connection between yourself and Lord Rafe. The enmity between our families is too great.” Concern lined Lady Mainfeld’s face. “You would be wise to forget you ever knew him.”
Sophie had been nonplussed, replaying the conversation over and over. How unlike her flighty mother to issue such a warning.
Clearly, Lord Rafe was not for her.
And yet, Sophie’s heart thundered every time someone mentioned his name, or she caught a glimpse of him from afar. Surely that meant something, right? Or was it merely the lure of a forbidden Rakus lasciviosus at work?
She felt more in five minutes of Lord Rafe’s company than an entire day with Captain Fulstate.
Case in point. Jack continued to speak about Portugal, leaning toward her as they stood at the edge of the ballroom.
“ . . . the w
eather was delightfully warm, of course, and General West was most glad of my company . . . ”
Sophie pasted a smile on her face and nodded when needed, encouraging Jack to continue, but her thoughts were far away. She feared that if it were Lord Rafe discussing the same things, she would be hanging on his every word.
As if to punctuate this point, Sophie felt a prickle chase her spine, a shift in the air.
She turned her head slightly to the right.
Lord Rafe stared at her from across the ballroom.
Her heart leapt into her throat, pounding like a crazed beast, as if trying to escape her chest and run to him—
Heavens.
How absurd.
Sophie swallowed and ordered herself to look away, she truly did.
Look away, now!
But her stubborn eyes refused to listen. And Lord Rafe held her with his gaze, dark and intent.
Jack and the rest of the ballroom faded.
And in that moment, Sophie simply . . . knew.
Lord Rafe Gilbert was here for her and her alone. Something had happened. Something had changed.
Later, Sophie would laugh over the melodrama of her thoughts, over her absurd perceptions of the moment.
Surely ladies and gentlemen had not obediently separated to allow Lord Rafe to pass like Moses parting the Red Sea?
Surely he hadn’t held her gaze the entire time, the force of his eyes nearly mesmerizing her?
And then he was abruptly before her, his wide shoulders blocking the light flickering from candles in the chandeliers overhead.
“Lady Sophie.” He bowed.
“Lord Rafe.” She curtsied.
A small pause, and then . . .
“May I have the honor of this dance?” He extended his hand to her, eyes expectant.
His words snatched her breath.
Those dimples were utterly irresistible, a siren call.
She stared at his gloved palm. Would this be more of his odd push and pull?
But, no. It felt more momentous . . . like the first shot fired over the bow.
Will you join me? She sensed he was asking. I am ready to defy my father. Are you willing to defy yours?
Well.
She lifted her gaze from his hand, meeting his eyes.
Heavens. They were pools of warm amber, earnest and painfully . . . solemn . . . a direct channel to his very soul.
Oh.
Here was the true man, then. No Rakus lasciviosus. No flirtatious insincerity.
Her eyes darted back to that extended hand.
Taking it would be a declaration of war. A glove slap to both their parents.
Sophie was not rebellious by nature, but . . . this family feud was absurd. And she and Lord Rafe were hardly going to be torn apart in some Romeo-and-Juliet melodramatic farce.
She met his gaze boldly, allowing herself a broad smile.
“Why, yes, Lord Rafe. I will dance with you.” She placed her gloved hand in his, his much larger palm utterly engulfing hers, sending a wave of heat up her arm and a jolt of electricity down her spine.
His matching grin was radiant, taking his expression from merely handsome to resplendent.
He tucked her hand into his arm, leading her to the dance floor.
Dimly, Sophie thought she heard a disgruntled, “I say, Lord Rafe, badly done that,” from Jack, but she could not be certain.
Lord Rafe whirled her into a waltz, the room spinning past at dizzying breath. Or perhaps it was simply the close proximity of Lord Rafe that caused her lungs to gasp for air.
His gaze never left her face, as if cataloging everything he saw there, committing it to memory.
“You look breathtakingly beautiful tonight, Lady Sophie,” he finally said.
“Thank you,” she murmured, surprised at the blush that threatened her cheeks.
She never blushed, and yet two minutes in Lord Rafe’s company, and she was abruptly flushing and off-kilter.
Was it because she was seeing more than the gallant rake this evening? Because he had shed his chrysalis like a Danaus plexippus, a monarch butterfly taking flight and showing its brilliant colors?
“How fares your clowder of barn cats?” He asked after another moment.
“My barn cats? I believe they are doing well. I have not seen them in nearly a year, unfortunately. All the cattens will be long grown—”
“Cattens?” Lord Rafe’s brow drew down, but a smile still twinkled in his eye, as if he found everything she said unbearably fascinating.
But now she had to explain . . .
“Cattens are how I describe an adolescent cat,” she said.
“An adolescent cat?”
“Well . . . yes. Have you never thought it strange? We have a word to describe a baby cat—a kitten—and a word for an adult—a cat or a tomcat—but why do we have no words for animals when they are between those two extremes? We call humans adolescents or perhaps, more rarely, teen-aged person. But we do not have a similar word for animals.”
Lord Rafe’s grin nearly split his face. “Hence . . . cattens—a word somewhere between kitten and cat.”
“Precisely.”
“That is . . . clever.” He nodded as if he approved of cleverness in a woman.
He spun her in a circle, once, twice, mouth pursed, as if thinking.
“So would it be a duppy? Or a pog?”
Sophie laughed. “I have not quite decided. Though I prefer lamb-o-lescent for a sheep.”
He joined in her laughter.
Something in Sophie’s chest fluffed and puffed outward. A sense of giddy hope, of wonder that this man was willing to defy his family for her.
When their waltz ended, Lord Rafe claimed another set, a shocking occurrence sure to set tongues wagging. Yet, Sophie sensed that he would dance the entire evening with her if he could.
They talked throughout the entire set, their conversation pinging between a recent reclassification of the common brown bat by the Linnean Society to the implications of the on-going Congress of Vienna.
As the second set finished with a trilling flourish from the small orchestra, Lord Rafe tucked her hand through his arm again.
“I cannot bear to stop our conversation, my lady. Allow me to escort you to the refreshment room,” he murmured in her ear, leading her from the stuffy ballroom.
Sophie’s entire body hummed like a plucked violin. How was it that the world appeared more brilliant when on Lord Rafe’s arm?
He led her across the entry hall and into the dining room. Settling her into a small table on the perimeter, he soon returned with a plate piled high with biscuits and pastries. For another hour, they laughed and talked, existing in a quiet cocoon.
Sophie basked in the full force of Lord Rafe’s rapt attention, the magnetism of his charm. The longer they talked, the more Scotland wove through his speech. His ‘r’s rolled and his vowels elongated and his ‘t’s became more a suggestion than a reality. Everything about him radiated sincerity. Sophie sensed no practiced insouciance, no Rakus wiles.
Dimly, Sophie noticed that the occasional matron or lord darted them an astonished glance, but she could not bring herself to care.
They finished eating, and Lord Rafe led her back across the expansive entry hall with a large staircase winding up the middle. Casting a quick glance about and ascertaining that they were alone, he pulled Sophie into a curtained alcove beneath the stairs.
“Gracious!” Sophie gasped, staring up at him in the dim light.
The lovely herbal scent of his cologne eddied around her.
“I figured our night would not be complete without a meeting behind a curtain.” He grinned down at her, grasping her hands in his. “I likely should apologize for dragging you in here, but I cannot.”
“You . . . cannot?”
“Nae, because that would imply that I am sorry. And I will never be sorry for claiming more time with you, Lady Sophie.” He punctuated his words by pressing a kiss to the back of her gloved hand.<
br />
And then, turning her hand, he placed a kiss on the barest strip of skin showing between the pearl buttons of her long gloves. And then, leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her cheek.
His lips were soft there. His warm breath danced across her skin, the rasp of his evening whiskers sending gooseflesh skittering.
Be still her heart.
Unthinking, Sophie wrapped her free hand around the back of his neck holding him in place. She rose on tiptoe and turned her head toward him, her lips finding his with astonishing ease.
The press of his mouth snatched her breath and increased the ache in her chest. His kiss was new, but yet, achingly familiar. As if she had already spent a hundred lifetimes kissing this man.
He clasped her cheek with his palm, a palm that trembled, as if this kiss were just as momentous to him as it was to her.
“May I call on you tomorrow?” he murmured against her mouth.
“Please,” she whispered, pressing to give him another kiss. Now that she had a taste, she never wanted to stop. The man was shockingly addictive.
Lord Rafe did not appear deterred by her eagerness. In fact, it was quite the opposite.
Nothing was said for several more minutes.
At last with one final, lingering kiss, he pulled back.
“Prepare yourself, Lady Sophie,” he said, voice husky and low. “I intend to be most devoted in my attentions to you.”
Sophie nearly shivered at his words.
“I will await your visit tomorrow, my lord.”
He grinned. “See that you do.”
5
Rafe returned home that evening, his head spinning.
He had kissed Lady Sophie, and it had been glorious.
He had intended to pack his trunk and remove himself from Gilbert House immediately after the ball, but he had spent too much time with Lady Sophie and the hour was far too late. The staff were all asleep when he let himself in the front door. Even his father’s study was dark.
And so Rafe took himself to bed, determining to rise early and remove himself forever from his father’s household, from his father’s life. Hopefully, his father would be off at Carlton House visiting the Prince Regent and not even realize that Rafe had gone.
