by Nichole Van
Rafe’s breath snagged in his chest.
“Adulteress,” she said, ever so matter-of-factly, as if reciting a shopping list. “Wanton, light skirt, even whore on occasion.”
“Lass—”
“No, I don’t need or want the pity tinging your tone. I know who and what I am. Rakish behavior isn’t only limited to men, obviously. Woman can be philanderers, too. We just use harsher words to describe them. I know I will spend my life paying for my mother’s sins.”
That ache in his chest grew, engulfing his heart.
This woman and her candor.
He wanted to say—
I do not judge you.
You will always have a safe-haven in me.
But the chaise rolled into a sleepy hamlet, and all further discussion was left off in favor of a warm meal and bed chambers at a local inn.
15
Sophie awoke with a horrific crick in her neck from leaning against the side of the carriage. She hadn’t slept well the night before, thoughts of Lord Rafe and the emotions he stirred had kept her awake. So it was no surprise when the carriage rocked her to sleep by mid-morning.
The coach was rolling through another bustling town, shopkeepers hawking their wares.
“We’ll stop here to change horses and eat a quick luncheon.” Lord Rafe consulted the watch he had stowed in his coat pocket. He wore a different plaid today—this one a red ground shot with yellow—but it still wrapped around his hips and crossed his upper body. “We’ll make York by late afternoon.”
His voice was low and warm, enveloping her weakened senses. Their conversations the afternoon and evening before had left her . . . confused. Lord Rafe’s genuine interest and perceptive questions had begun chipping away at her ‘No Rakes Permitted!’ resolve.
Traveling together was surely a mistake. She liked the man too much for her own peace of mind.
The coach rumbled through a red brick arch and into the coaching yard of a large inn. Passengers bustled about.
Sophie nearly stumbled when Lord Rafe handed her down from the chaise. Her legs and back ached. Odd that one’s muscles could ache just as much from complete disuse as from being thoroughly abused.
Regardless, after a quick visit to the necessary, she joined Lord Rafe and Martha in the crowded dining room, as there was no private parlor to be had.
A maid came by and took their order for bacon rolls, ale, and tea. But people continued to pour into the dining room. Eventually, a Mr. and Miss Johnson, brother and sister on their way north, asked if they could share the table.
Lord Rafe, of course, smiled affably and readily agreed.
Mr. Johnson’s daring violet-and-yellow waistcoat and Miss Johnson’s overly-beribboned bonnet fought for Sophie’s attention. The Johnsons clearly had aspirations.
Miss Johnson was young and pretty with china-blue eyes and golden hair and was likely as irresistible as catnip to a Rakus lasciviosus like Lord Rafe—or Lennon Gordon, as he introduced himself.
Lord Rafe’s eyes certainly appeared to linger on Miss Johnson. Was it the lady herself or her rather garish bonnet that snagged his attention?
That question was soon put to rest.
While they all waited for their luncheon, Lord Rafe flirted outrageously with Miss Johnson. Naturally, Miss Johnson—like most woman who were young and pretty and knew it—flirted in return.
Sophie watched it all in stony silence. She could only presume that, upon finding himself thrown into his natural habitat—attractive woman, public setting—Lord Rafe behaved on instinct.
In other words, Lord Rafe was simply being himself.
She would never dream of feeling anger over an animal acting on its biological proclivities. It was a natural phenomenon—perhaps an even uncontrollable reflex—like a sheepdog chasing anything that runs, or a cat purring when petted.
Why should a Rakus lasciviosus be any different?
But her heart remembered that ball so many years ago. His fawning attention and then . . . nothing.
She had foolishly assumed that his request to travel with her and their like-minded conversation had somehow altered the nature of their relationship. That maybe, like herself, Lord Rafe had changed.
But as she watched him grin at Miss Johnson, giving his standard raised-eyebrows-and-tilted-head lure, Sophie feared she had been mistaken.
Once a rake, always a rake.
“The Scottish attire is most daring,” Miss Johnson breathed to Lord Rafe, shooting him a demure look through her lashes.
“Thank ye.” He winked at her. “We Scots are a daring lot.”
“I say,” Mr. Johnson frowned, the man’s opinion on Scots and Scotland fairly obvious.
“The articles of clothing you wear, do they have unique, Scottish names?” Miss Johnson asked, her voice ridiculously breathy.
Sophie longed to roll her eyes. How could Lord Rafe be lured in by such obvious behavior?
“Of a surety, lass. Great kilt,” he said, plucking at the tartan swaddling his hips and chest. “Sgian dubh.” He pulled the knife from its sheath in his garters. “Ghillies.” He lifted a foot, indicating his shoes. “Bonnet.” He pointed to his hat.
Miss Johnson watched him with rapt attention.
“Charm,” he continued, pointing to his cheeks. “Handsome.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “Manly.” He flexed an arm.
Miss Johnson giggled, a grating titter of sound.
Sophie longed to elbow Lennon into silence.
Instead, she bit her lip.
Not once had Lord Rafe flirted so blatantly with her. Not in the previous twenty-four hours. Not even on that magical evening so long ago.
How many years had she endured similar behavior from Jack? When courting her, he had been attentive and sedate, a perfect gentleman.
But it had been nothing more than an act. As soon as they were married, he ceased his attentions.
Jack had never respected his wedding vows. Her husband had lost interest in her as a woman shortly after their marriage. He claimed to be disappointed that Sophie, the daughter of a profligate adulteress, was not a skilled courtesan. Why Jack had assumed she would be, Sophie could not fathom. She had been as sheltered as any other virginal daughter of an earl.
So naturally Jack had found her shy and inexperienced in their marriage bed. And after that first month, he had declined to exercise his marital rights at all, preferring instead the company of more ‘seasoned’ women.
Sophie had been hurt and confused.
On the one hand, she was relieved to not be burdened with Jack’s physical demands. She was just as disillusioned with his behavior as he was with hers.
But, on the other hand, Sophie was painfully aware that not even her own husband found her desirable. That the one person who had pledged to love and honor her above all else . . . considered her little more than an onerous acquaintance.
Instead, he would flirt outrageously with other women—usually right in front of Sophie—and then turn back to her, expression bland, as if nothing had happened. Worse, he would become aggravated with her if Sophie took umbrage at his behavior.
Sophie swallowed back the bitterness that threatened to swamp her.
Enough.
Enough of Jack.
Do not give that man any more of yourself.
Yes . . . she wanted to be wanted.
But that had nothing, really, to do with Lord Rafe. She and he were naught more than traveling companions. He could flirt with whomever he pleased.
Even if his current behavior did make her want to hiss at him like an angry barn cat.
As if reading Sophie’s mind, Mr. Johnson reacted to Rafe’s overly-flirtatious manner with a low growl. The man shot Rafe a deadly look before taking Miss Johnson’s hand possessively in his own.
That was the point at which Sophie realized that Mr. and Miss Johnson were not, in fact, brother and sister but were more likely a couple eloping to Scotland.
Given the way that Lord Rafe looked at the
ir clasped hands, he likely realized the same. To his credit, Lennon tamped down his flirtation once their luncheon arrived.
But for Sophie, the entire experience had been a much-needed physic—a timely reminder of the ways of a Rakus and why she never intended to become involved with one again.
Once had been enough for a lifetime.
Several hours later, Sophie was mentally and physically exhausted. The chaise rolled through the streets of York, passing under archways and through medieval gates before coming to a stop in the galleried stable yard of The George Inn in St. Helen’s Square.
All she wanted was warm food, a warmer fire, a clean bed, and a complete lack of handsome, charming Scots.
After his luncheon flirtation, Lord Rafe had reverted back to his affable self with her. Charming but not overtly flirtatious. Solicitous but hardly amorous. Essentially, treating her more as a colleague than a woman he found desirable.
The man was merely adhering to the set of instinctual behaviors—when faced with a beautiful woman, a Rakus lasciviosus will flirt. Biological fact.
But the poultice of logic refused to take the sting out of his behavior.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, she considered telling Rafe that she would carry on without him. Perhaps it would best for them to go their separate ways in the morning?
This was intended to be a journey of healing and rebirth. Not one of confused emotions and unfulfilled expectations.
To that end, Sophie left the men to deal with the chaise and horses, collected Martha, and entered the inn, ordering rooms for herself and her servants.
Lord Rafe could see to himself, could he not?
The George was a traditional galleried inn, with rooms running around the upper floors surrounding the coaching yard, the doors reached by a cantilevered wooden gallery. It appeared that other galleries branched off the main one, leading to a seeming rabbit-warren of chambers.
A chatty maid led Sophie and Martha up the gallery staircase, along the main balcony with the din of the coach yard below, through a side arch, and up another flight of wooden stairs to a second, smaller gallery that surrounded an ancient courtyard before stopping before their door.
The maid curtsied and left to have the ostler deliver Sophie’s trunk. Sophie opened the door, finding a small but tidy sitting room, a fire already lit in the grate. On one side of the room, two chairs rested before the fire; a small round dining table and chairs sat on the other. A door to the bedchamber proper beckoned to the left, the room holding a double bed and smaller cot for Martha.
All of it blessedly Rakus free.
Sophie untied her bonnet and stripped off her gloves, stretching her sore muscles. The aches and twinges in her back were merely the last indignity of the day.
“I think I would give just about anything for a warm bath,” Sophie smiled wanly.
“Let me ask for you, miss,” Martha said, turning for the door. “I reckon they are used to such requests around here.”
Martha was true to her word.
After eating a leisurely dinner in the sitting room, maids brought in a large hip bath, placing it before the fire in the bedroom proper, and then filled it with bucket after bucket of hot water. Sophie quickly disrobed, eager to wash away the grime of coach travel.
She moaned when the warm water hit her skin, sinking low in the luxurious heat. She could practically see the tension seeping from her body into the bathwater. Who cared about the biological impulses of a Rakus when there was a hot bath to be had?
She leisurely scrubbed her skin with a rough cloth and soap, the popping fire helping the water retain its heat.
The entire experience felt so glorious, Sophie insisted Martha use the water after her, as it was still warm. The maid bathed and collapsed onto her cot in exhaustion, her soft snores filling the small bedchamber.
Despite the long day, a restless sort of agitation gripped Sophie. She donned a dressing gown and left Martha to the bedroom. Lord Rafe’s behavior kept racing through her brain, his flirtatious smiles and charming voice, all for women other than her.
Sitting before the fire in the sitting room, Sophie brushed her hair, section by section, meticulously working through the mass of it.
Part of her hated that she found Lord Rafe so attractive. How could she still want that which had been so harmful in the past? Hadn’t Jack inoculated her against that very thing?
Why did she have such a sweet tooth for rakes? Was it a biological inevitability, given her mother’s own susceptibility? Was Sophie like a drunkard, incapable of resisting the siren call of the bottle even as it destroyed her?
That was not a pleasant thought.
Should she part ways with Lord Rafe tomorrow? It would likely be for the best, would it not?
She had thought herself emotionally strong, but Rafe’s hot-and-cold behavior had reopened old wounds.
Vividly, she remembered the aftermath of Jack’s death. How the pain and anger of all she had endured as his wife ate at her very soul. A deep melancholic rage had stolen over her. She found herself, day after day, simply staring out the window, often unequal to the task of dressing or even feeding herself. And when she did leave her room, it was to roam the family estate in Surrey, walking aimlessly for hours on end, replaying scenes from her marriage over and over in her head.
In retrospect, she realized she had lost a rather alarming amount of weight. Her mother had the cook send up Sophie’s favorite foods to tempt her. And Sophie did try, she did. It was just . . . everything felt so empty and bleak. She was simply so furious at Jack, at everything that had transpired, at life in general.
And then, one day, about three months after Jack’s death, Sophie had returned to her room after a long ramble to find a closed basket on her bed. The basket hissed and rocked as she approached, a low roawr cutting through the room.
Was there a . . . cat in the basket? And . . . why?
A note was attached, the foolscap flicking back and forth with each shake of the basket.
Dearest Poppet,
The primus tomcat stole a ride from Yorkshire in my carriage, the rascal. I fear he has abandoned his clowder at the estate. Can you suggest a solution for him? You are always full of excellent scientific ideas.
Your father, Lord M.
Sophie looked between the note and the basket. The primus was here? From Yorkshire?
And somehow, this was the event that pushed her over the edge, the point at which she had fully acknowledged all that she had lost.
All that Jack had taken from her.
She had collapsed onto her bed, weeping so hysterically she feared her sobs would suffocate her. How could she have forgotten about her studies? How could she have so thoroughly lost herself? The poor tomcat, still in his basket, meowed and roawred right along with her.
Once her crying fit subsided (and it had taken hours), she felt as if some enormous weight had finally—finally, at last!—been lifted.
The beginnings of her rebirth, in truth.
She might have lost herself while married to Jack, but she did not need to remain lost. She could, and would, reclaim her sense of self.
Jack would get no more of her. Never again.
Of course, the primus tomcat had been far too feral to keep as a house pet. But after setting it free to find the clowder in the stables, she had rung for her maid, dressed, and joined her family for dinner. Lord Mainfeld had smiled enormously when she entered the drawing room.
The memory of it still made her weepy.
But none of this helped her to know what to do with Lord Rafe now.
She recognized that his push-and-pull behavior rattled the equanimity she had won after Jack’s death, picking open old wounds that she had thought healed.
She shook her head, taking in deep, fortifying breaths, centering her mind, reaching for that peaceful state she had fought to achieve.
Reason through it, Sophie. Be logical.
Setting aside her brush, she began plaiting the heavy
mass of her hair into a long braid.
Logically, Sophie knew she should not punish Lord Rafe for another man’s sins. He was not Jack. He had not made vows to her before God and man; he had no obligation to uphold where she was concerned.
But did she wish to continue onward with him? To fight the emotions that Lord Rafe brought to the surface—
Thum-thum-thump!
Footsteps abruptly sounded outside the door.
She turned toward the noise. The door handle rattled, jostling the latch.
Surely Martha had locked the door? Right?
Sophie dropped her hair, mid-plait, and surged to her feet, noticing that Martha had not locked the door—
A large figure burst into the room, shutting the door quickly behind him.
Sophie lunged for the fireplace poker, a scream in her throat.
Finally . . . her brain caught up, pointing out the man’s swirling kilt, familiar shoulders, and dark hair.
Her scream died as she, yet again, recognized Lord Rafe.
He stood with his back to the door, eyes wide, palms pressed flat on the wood behind him.
Sophie considered herself a level-headed person.
But—
“Why are you in here?” she hissed, setting the fire poker down and pulling her dressing gown tighter across her chest.
Though he still sported his kilt and ghillies, his cravat was decidedly looser, and he had removed his bonnet altogether. Unwillingly, Sophie noted his hair was deliciously rumpled and the heady scent of sandalwood had whirled into the room with him.
Sophie gritted her teeth.
You will not find him attractive.
You will cease this stupidity at once.
She huffed, “You cannot simply burst into my room. This is ridiculous.”
“Yes,” was all he replied. He leaned back against the door, his head turned as if listening to something in the hallway.
Honestly.
He rotated to look at her, his eyes finally bringing her into clear focus.
And look at her he did, gaze running over her figure before finally turning away, as if he were . . . shy?
