Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

P ersephone passed the days following Rafe Sutton's garden visit and subsequent accusations in a state of tense anticipation. Each time she spoke to Mr. Jasper Sutton or Lady Octavia, she expected to hear the damning words telling her she would need to find another situation. That she would be relieved of her position without a written character to recommend her as she struggled to find yet another post.

You slipped laudanum into my brother-in-law's brandy , she imagined Lady Octavia saying, her voice stern and cold as ice. How dare you betray our family? Leave this house immediately and never return.

Instead, Lady Octavia had praised her over the progress Anne and Elizabeth were making with their letters. No one in the household had seen her alone with Rafe that night or morning as the house had been bustling with frantic activity. Her secret was safe.

But for how long?

That was the question that haunted her even as she walked toward the waiting carriage. This afternoon, she was off to a bookseller where she would seek new reading material for her charges. Ordinarily, she preferred to travel in public infrequently, lest she be seen by someone who might carry word back to Cousin Bartholomew. However, she was wound as tightly as a watch spring, anticipating Rafe Sutton's blow to her carefully constructed peace at any moment. The twins were in need of more challenging books, and Lady Octavia had offered the use of the carriage and the accompaniment of a groom on her excursion. And leaving the confines of the town house would do wonders to help shake the worries and fears haunting her.

At least, she hoped it would.

A groom opened the carriage door for her, and she stepped up and inside, her mind so filled with thoughts that she failed to realize the conveyance was not empty until she was nearly within.

There, seated in the shadows of the bench to her left, sat Rafe Sutton, long legs crossed at the ankle in an indolent pose. His boots were gleaming, his trousers the perfect complement to his dark, well-cut coat. The hat pulled low over his brow did nothing to diminish the appearance of those blond curls. He looked like a fallen angel come to claim the wicked.

Her heart felt as if it had dropped through her stomach.

"Mr. Sutton!" she said on a shocked gasp, freezing on the step.

"Get in," he ordered her, his voice low and commanding.

The easy flirtation was gone from his mannerism. The charming rogue blessed with dimples who had dared to wink at her was nowhere to be seen.

"What are you doing in this carriage?" she demanded, ignoring his curt directive.

"Come in, and you shall see." His voice was calm and smooth and yet, there was an underlying hardness to it, the suggestion that he would not accept any outcome other than the one he wished.

"Why should I?" She cast a glance over her shoulder, trying to find the groom who had opened the door and seeing no one.

"You need not worry about young Jonas," Mr. Sutton said smoothly. "I have greased his hand quite generously."

He had bribed the servant?

Her heart stuttered and tripped over itself. "What do you want, sir?"

"You know what I want," he said, his hazel stare traveling down her body in a thorough sweep that left her skin tingling. "Now step inside like a good governess."

Surely he was not suggesting he wanted something amorous in nature from her. But then, he would hardly be the first. She supposed nothing should surprise her. Her four-and-twenty years may as well have been a lifetime for the experiences she had endured.

And yet despite that… Oh! What is the matter with you, Persephone?

Why did the threat of an impending ride in a carriage with Rafe Sutton make heat blossom in her belly and spread lower, to a far more forbidden place? Why did her body react to his, trusting him in a way her mind did not dare?

Barraged by a rush of confusing emotions—trepidation, longing, curiosity—she hesitated, chastising herself inwardly.

"Get in, or I will pay a call to my brother this very moment," he added.

Persephone stepped up and into the vehicle, settling herself on the seat opposite his. The carriage door closed with a loud snap. Mr. Sutton rapped on the roof, and it rocked into motion.

He had planned this, she realized. How efficiently and effortlessly he was spiriting her away. She ought to be alarmed, and yet, there was something about this man that felt somehow, inherently, different from the other, far more unscrupulous men she had known.

This man had teased and flirted and was wonderfully sweet to his nieces. Even when he had arisen in her bed, he had never attempted to press his suit.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked him.

He raised a brow. "I'll be the one asking the questions, Miss Wren. Not you."

She swallowed a lump of uncertainty. "You do realize my employers will wonder if I fail to return, do you not, sir?"

He cocked his head, considering her with a vibrant regard that made her long to shift on her seat. His hands, large and gloved like a proper gentleman's, rested on his thighs. The fingers of the right lightly drummed against his trousers. She wished he were not wearing a hat, for it seemed a shame for his golden hair to be confined beneath the brim.

"And you do realize, Miss Wren, that you drugged the brother of your employer with laudanum, stripped him of his clothes, beat him over the head, and spent the night in the same bed as him?" he returned, his tone mild.

She could not suppress her wince at his description of the unfortunate circumstances which had seemed to yoke them. "I did none of those things, sir, and while I must apologize for allowing you to sleep off the ill effects of your brandy drinking in my room, I had no choice."

Well, that was not true at all, was it? She had drugged him, and she had spent the night in the same bed as well. Her lie was growing weary, as was she. How to extricate herself from this mess she had created with her own reckless panic?

"No choice but to lie there in bed with me all night long, knowing there was nary a stitch to cover my bare arse beneath the counterpane?" he asked.

He was speaking with the accent of a gentleman once more. Aside from the subject matter of his discourse, there was not a hint of the East End in his perfect speech. It was almost as if there were two different Rafe Suttons. Which one of them was real? She could not be sure.

"I did not peek, sir, if your modesty is what concerns you," she offered, attempting to deflect the subject.

"It ain't what concerns me at all. Your motivations do, however." He paused, his expression growing stern. "Why did you do what you did, Miss Wren?"

Why indeed? Her reasoning in the moment had been abrupt.

She was thinking of her past when she blurted her next question. "Do you believe yourself the first gentleman to force his attentions upon a servant?"

Persephone regretted her choice of words the moment the query left her, for she did not mean to suggest he had forced himself on her. Merely that her experience had left her with a tremendous distrust of handsome rogues who attempted to seduce the governess. One of them had not accepted her refusal. It had not been him, but another.

And Rafe Sutton had paid the price. Guilt skewered her. She had never intended to do him harm. What Lord Gregson had done to her had made Persephone suspicious of every man, and she had reacted with reckless haste.

Mr. Sutton's jaw went rigid. "What are you suggesting, Miss Wren?"

His voice was silken and yet laden with an inherent hint of menace.

How to explain the sudden fear that had overtaken her, the worry which had been shadowing her every interaction since she had abandoned her previous post? She could tell him, could she not, without mentioning any other details? Surely admitting she was a governess who had been importuned by the eldest son of her former employer was not tantamount to telling him who she truly was and what she had escaped from first.

It was apparent he believed she was accusing him of forcing himself upon her, and that was not what she had meant at all. Her words, like her thoughts, were a jumbled hodgepodge of pure confusion.

Time for the truth.

She took a deep, fortifying breath. "I was not referring to you, Mr. Sutton. I am attempting to explain my actions that night. You were charming and handsome and you were flirting. I…I panicked because of a former, regrettable circumstance. Pray forgive me. You are correct. I did slip laudanum into your brandy when your back was turned. But only out of an instinctive need to protect myself. I did not mean to pour as much into the brandy as I did."

The silence, when she had completed the swift rush of her confession, was almost deafening, broken by nothing other than the steady rhythm of plodding hooves and the jangle of tack and other street sounds. Mr. Sutton was watching her intently, his expression unreadable. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes dark.

How she wished again for the easy, joking mannerism of his arrival at the garden when he had teased his nieces into running about like hoydens. The man opposite her now seemed dangerous, his face all sharp angles and planes.

"You admit to drugging me?" he asked at last.

She inhaled, not realizing she had been holding her breath until that very moment. "Yes. But I did so in fear. I regretted my actions at once."

"You needn't fear me, Miss Wren. Not now. Not ever. Rafe Sutton doesn't need to steal a woman's virtue. She gives it to 'im freely."

His low rasp curled around her, wrapping her in warmth and an inexplicable longing. He was not the same sort of man as Lord Gregson. Whilst her initial interaction with him that mad night had led her to react with a frenzied terror, the rational part of her mind could discern the difference. Not every man was a predator.

Only some.

"There are men who prey upon women for reasons other than a lack of charm," she said quietly, thinking of Lord Gregson.

Hateful thought.

Yet, necessary.

He had been handsome as well, though his looks were diminished in her memory now by his villainous deeds. She had no doubt he could have had his choice of demimondaines or diamonds of the first water. However, he was the sort of man who thrived on power. Specifically, his over others. And that was a different beast entirely. It was a beast she knew well enough, thanks to Cousin Bartholomew

"I ‘m not such a man," he said.

She did not doubt Rafe Sutton wielded his charm as if it were a weapon. Between his undeniable good looks and the magnetism of his presence, he could likely woo even the most devout devotee of propriety.

"Nonetheless, I could not be certain of that at the time," she managed primly.

"And so you took matters into your own hands. A former, regrettable circumstance , you said. What happened?"

There was a hint of menace in his voice, and she could not be certain whom it was directed toward. Persephone shifted, dreadfully uncomfortable in the confines of this carriage, not knowing where he was taking her or why.

Speaking of Lord Gregson was not a particularly easy feat, either.

She inhaled slowly, collecting herself for fear the terror would return, clogging her throat. "My previous situation involved a gentleman who believed it was his right to do whatever he wished with the governess of his younger sisters."

Her position in the Earl of Landsdowne's household had been one of many unhappy tenures as governess over the years she had spent running from her cousin. However, it was burned upon her memory for a reason aside from her displeasure.

"Whatever he wished." Mr. Sutton's voice was cutting now. "He forced himself upon you?"

Persephone swallowed that rising sense of panic, never far whenever she thought of what had happened in her small room that evening. "He attempted to do so."

His nostrils flared, his hands clenching into fists—the only two movements he made. He might have been fashioned of stone save for the sound of his voice. "Who?"

"Viscount Gregson."

Just saying his name made the bitter taste of bile rise in the back of her throat. He was a despicable, vile scoundrel. Little wonder the governesses before her had fled their posts.

"Lord Gregson," Mr. Sutton repeated. "Tall cull, with dark hair? Eldest son of the Earl of Landsdowne, yes?"

She had not supposed Rafe Sutton would be familiar with Lord Gregson. Her blood went cold, panic setting in. Surely they were not friends? Her heart was pounding faster, her mouth going dry.

"I was hired as the governess to Lord Landsdowne's younger daughters," she acknowledged. "Whenever he was in residence, he made certain to make advances, which I ignored. But he refused to accept my denial. One night, I woke to find him in my room. I was attempting to fight him off when my cries alerted some of the other members of the household, and he mercifully stopped. His body was so heavy atop mine, pinning me to the mattress. I remember his breath, hot and smelling of sour wine. I was trying to get away, but he would not allow it. He was stronger than I was, and he kept telling me I was a forward chit, that he knew I wanted him…"

The words trailed off as emotion overwhelmed her.

She gagged.

In a swift flurry of graceful movement, Rafe sat beside her on the bench, his hand on the small of her back in a gesture of comfort. "Are you going to cast up your accounts?"

Mayhap. She could not speak at the moment. She was remembering Lord Gregson's breath, the sweat dripping off his brow, the clammy hand clamped over her mouth. How difficult it had been to breathe, to scream. She had bitten him as hard as she could, and the taste of his blood, coppery and strange, had filled her mouth.

Repulsive.

His hands had been everywhere. And he had told her to keep still, to be quiet.

Cease moving. You want this. You know it as well as I.

But she had not wanted him. Nor had she encouraged any of his many advances. His excuses to find reasons to be near her had been troubling. The night she had arisen to his presence in the darkness of her room had been utterly terrifying.

"Deep breaths, Miss Wren," Mr. Sutton was urging her now, jolting her from the violence of her recollections to the present.

The carriage was still swaying over bumpy Mayfair roads. His hand passed up and down her spine in slow, steady strokes. She obeyed, dragging air into her lungs, and with it his masculine scent. Time to tamp down the memories. To force them into the box in the dark corners of her mind.

"I spent the rest of that night hiding in the library. In the morning, I gathered my belongings and I left."

"Slow and steady now," he said, his voice gentling, becoming almost tender. "Lord Gregson ain't here. He can't 'urt you."

Mr. Sutton was losing some of his polish. The h had vanished once more. He was upset, she realized. On her behalf.

When all she had done thus far was pour laudanum into his brandy and lie to him.

A rush of shame made her cheeks go hot. She had done nothing to deserve his sympathy.

"I am sorry," she managed. "I should not have assumed you would be the same. When I realized I had poured too much into your brandy, I did not know what to do. I need this post quite desperately. I cannot afford to have to secure another, so I took you to my chamber, fearing Mr. Sutton would see the state you were in and guess at what I had done. I needed to hide you until the effects had worn off, and I was desperately hoping you would not remember what had happened."

Except, she had not planned on him being so stubbornly determined to wrest the truth from her.

Miraculously, his slow, steady caress up and down her back continued, in spite of her revelations. "When did you knock me on the knowledge box?"

"I did not hit you," she hastened to explain, wincing as she recalled the sickening thud of his head hitting her bedside table. "You were removing your clothes because you wished to sleep, and I could not persuade you against the wisdom of disrobing regardless of how hard I tried. You lost your balance, striking your head on a piece of furniture as you fell."

"Little wonder it still hurts like the bleeding devil."

She had no doubt it would. "The blow was strong enough to knock you insensate for a few moments. I had to watch over you, so I managed to help you into the bed, and there you remained for the night. I did not dare risk sleeping anywhere else for fear of discovery."

"That explains the wall of pillows you built."

"I had to be certain there was a boundary."

"You trusted me enough to sleep at my side the entire night?"

"I had no choice," she admitted. "But I realized, too late of course, and only after I had poured the laudanum into your glass, that I was allowing my fear of what had happened before to inform my judgment. You had given me no reason to suspect you would force yourself upon me. I simply… I panicked."

"You were attacked by that vile swine. It is understandable that you would not soon trust another man."

His calm understanding was almost more than she could bear. "You are being kind to me. Why?"

"I'm a kind chap." His easy grin returned.

Something in her heart shifted. Slid into place. How she wished she were someone else, and that she could simply revel in this man's charm.

But she could not fall beneath the easy spell of a man like Rafe Sutton.

Just two more months, Persephone , she reminded herself. When she turned five-and-twenty, Cousin Bartholomew could no longer be a threat to her inheritance. Still, her birthday seemed a lifetime away.

"I do not deserve your kindness." The words escaped her, the closest she dared come to a complete confession.

The truth was, she was continuing to deceive him, just as she was deceiving Mr. Jasper Sutton and Lady Octavia. Her currency had become lies and manipulation. Anything to protect herself. She was little better than Cousin Bartholomew.

"Everyone in this mad world of ours deserves some kindness and understanding, Miss Wren," Rafe Sutton said, his hand stilling on her back at last. "With the exception of bloody Lord Gregson. That bastard deserves what is coming to 'im."

The menace had returned to his words, as had the stiffness to his bearing. She shivered, and it was not entirely from the cold. "What do you mean, Mr. Sutton?"

Surely he did not intend to exact vengeance upon Lord Gregson on her behalf.

Did he?

His response was a grim smile. "You needn't worry, my dear." With that, he rapped on the carriage roof thrice, and the vehicle slowed before coming to a halt. "Good day, Miss Wren. I'll take my leave."

The carriage door opened, sending in the sunlight and a burst of cool air, along with the undiluted noise of the street.

He rose from the bench, then descended from the vehicle in one fluid motion, all lean strength as he leapt to the street below. When his boots planted on terra firma, he turned to give her a tip of his hat.

And then he simply walked away.

The door closed, the carriage lumbering on.

How empty and quiet the vehicle had suddenly become, bereft of his magnificent presence. Persephone did her utmost to banish the unwanted longing echoing through her. But it was burning to life like a fire too long starved of air, and she very much feared that if she was not able to control this inconvenient attraction she had to Mr. Rafe Sutton, she would end up getting burned.