Chapter Twenty-one

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

One hour later, Rafe was smoking in the gardens. The hedges and flowering bushes formed a bit of a maze and provided a great deal of privacy. He’d gone to the far end of the property and had propped one booted foot upon a stone bench that sat next to a small fountain. He breathed in the cool night air and glanced up at the stars. Stars had been some of his only friends when he’d been a child. They’d been some of his only friends while he’d been a prisoner in France, too. He had a relationship of sorts with the stars. They might be cool and distant, but they were good listeners.

Rafe took a deep breath. He didn’t know why he’d stayed here these last two days when Daphne obviously wanted him to go. Something about her desire to get him to leave caused his competitive nature to take effect and then he’d be damned if he’d go. But it was true that he didn’t have a good feeling about this Fitzwell chap. Why Swifdon was allowing his sister to consider the man’s suit, Rafe would never know. No. He knew why. It was because Daphne wanted him. And Lady Daphne got what Lady Daphne wanted. She always had. Which was exactly why Rafe and she could never be together. He couldn’t offer a young lady like Daphne a life of luxury. He certainly wasn’t rich, and blue blood did not flow through his veins. No. Daphne was meant for a member of the ton . But not Fitzwell, for God’s sake. Couldn’t she see that she’d be running rings around him before the honeymoon was over? Rafe shook his head. No doubt, that’s exactly what she wanted to be able to do.

Why Rafe had asked her to kiss him, he’d truly never know. It was something about the way she’d seemed so ready to dismiss him, seemed so unaffected by him. She’d been affected by him once. And God knew, he’d been affected by her, too. Swifdon would pummel him if he’d known the thoughts that had raced through his mind last spring, let alone the liberties Rafe had taken in the library last night, but by God those few seconds before the Duchess of Claringdon had come in, they’d been worth it. Rafe popped the cheroot from his lips and grinned. He tossed the nub to the grass and ground it under his boot. He turned to head to the house just as a peculiar sound reached his ears.

Singing.

It was Daphne. Singing. Her voice was high, and happy, and sweet. He found himself smiling at the noise. Until he realized what she was singing. Good God. It was a bawdy song. One he’d heard in taverns more than once. Alas, my fair maiden. Alas, alas. Why do you roam so free? Your hair, your hips, your nose, your lips. Are irresistible to me.

She turned the corner around the hedge and stopped singing abruptly upon seeing him. A hiccup escaped her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

A grin spread across his face. “Why, Grey. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing before.”

Her hand fell away from her mouth. She gave him a catlike grin, then she twirled in a circle, her silvery satin skirts swinging around her dainty ankles. “Alas, alas, alas,” she sang.

He narrowed his eyes on her. “Grey, how many glasses of champagne did you drink?”

“Only two.”

“Only the two I saw you drink earlier?”

“Only two more in addition to those two and one more.”

“Good God.”

“What?” Her eyes blinked and then rounded.

“You mean to tell me you’ve had five glasses of champagne this evening and you’ve never had spirits before?”

“Ha! I’ve had spirits before. Just goes to show what you know.” She picked up her skirts and curtsied to the hedge. “Good evening, sir.”

Rafe shook his head. “When have you had spirits before?”

“When I left finishing school. Mrs. Pennyhammer served us each a thimble of wine.”

Rafe shook his head. “A thimble of wine couldn’t get a mouse drunk. I think you should sit down.” He moved to take her arm and escort her to the stone bench, but she sidestepped him and leaped up onto the top of the bench. Standing like that, she was a head taller than he.

“Aha!” she said. “I can see things much more clearly from up here. Do you know how dreadfully inconvenient it is to be the opposite of tall?”

“You mean short?” He moved to stand in front of the bench to help her down.

“No, sir, I do not. I don’t care for that word.”

He needed to distract her, not argue with her. “What can you see so clearly from up there?” He raised his hand to assist her.

She lifted her head to the sky and spread her arms out to her sides. “Why, I can see the moon. I can see the stars. I can nearly see over the top of the hedges.” She giggled at herself.

“Come down from there before you trip and hurt yourself.” He moved even closer to the bench and stood directly in front of her. Instead of taking his hand, she looked down at him and braced both her palms on either of his shoulders.

“I can see you ,” she breathed, staring into his eyes.

“What can you see about me?” he asked, suddenly serious.

“That you’re far too handsome. Far, far too handsome. The kind of handsome that could get a young lady into a great deal of trouble.”

Rafe eyed her carefully. She found him handsome, did she? She was quite inebriated but still… That was nice to hear. He lifted his arm to her. “Allow me to escort you back inside.”

“I shall allow you to escort me back inside upon one condition,” she announced. She curtsied to the rosebush beside the bench.

He groaned. “You and your family and your blasted conditions.”

“That’s it, take it or leave it.” She sang the words instead of saying them.

Rafe cleared his throat. He couldn’t very well leave her out here alone in her condition. She might trip and fall into a bush. She might break her leg trying to descend from the bench. She might be accosted by some untoward chap. Any number of things could happen. “Fine. What is the condition?”

She put her hand on his cheek and fire leaped between them. “You must tell me a secret.”

Rafe pulled her hand away and offered his arm. “I think we’ve had enough conditions for each other for one weekend.” He tugged her hand lightly, hoping to help her from the bench safely.

Daphne didn’t budge. Her slippered feet remained firmly planted on the stone bench. “Fine, then. I’ll tell you a secret.”

Rafe’s head snapped up. She’d certainly got his attention. “What’s your secret?”

She leaned down and the softness of her breath was a strawberry-scented whisper against his ear. “I liked kissing you the other night. I thought it was exceedingly memorable .”

“Is that so?” he drawled. He briefly considered kissing her again. A sober Daphne Swift was tempting to be certain. An inebriated one, also tempting, but he wasn’t about to take advantage of a young lady who was obviously going to have the devil of a head come morning. He didn’t envy her.

“Yes, that’s so,” she announced, straightening back up again and eyeing him down the length of her nose. “What do you think?”

He shook his head. This couldn’t end well. “I think you’re a bit worse for drink and I’d better get you back to the house.”

“So much for being adventurous, Captain .” She laughed. Before Rafe had a chance to ask her what exactly she meant by that, Daphne leaned down again. For a moment, he was certain she was going to kiss him. But there were footsteps on the gravel path coming toward them. The odds of it being Lucy Hunt again were far too low. They could not be seen kissing. It would ruin Daphne. Rafe took a step back to avoid her kiss and she tumbled off the bench onto him. They both fell onto the soft grass, Daphne completely splayed atop him.

Just as Lord Fitzwell came around the hedge.