Chapter 13

13

Rafe sat at his desk, a little smile playing across his lips, though he was quite unconscious of it. He was at home – he’d ridden back through the moonlight late last night and fallen into his cool, empty bed, though he hadn’t slept for a long while afterwards. He should be exhausted, but instead he was full of restless energy.

The fine weather hadn’t lasted – it was raining this morning, and the wind was gusting, throwing sudden fierce showers against his library window every now and then. But it was warm here, a small fire crackling in the grate, and blessedly quiet. He was alone except for the servants, about their business elsewhere in the house; his brother Charlie was in Oxford, nearing the end of his first year there, and his sister Amelia had gone on an extended visit to her cousins on her mother’s side. His guardianship was a relatively new thing; they’d only been with him permanently for a couple of years, since their aunt had died, but he was very fond of them both and missed them when they were absent as now. They brought life to the place, and laughter, and all the things his own childhood had to a large extent lacked. They were astonishingly happy and carefree, despite the sad losses they had sustained, and perhaps this was because they were so far lucky: unlike him, they knew their father not at all. He intended to make sure matters stayed that way, and a great deal of his time and energy was devoted to their care. Today, though, he welcomed the solitude.

It was good to be away from Wyverne Hall for a time, to gain a little much-needed perspective. He couldn’t tell if the powerful emotions and sensations that had overwhelmed him over the last few days were genuine, or some sort of reaction to the torrid atmosphere the place always generated when his father and Rosanna were in residence. He wasn’t someone who normally gave in to his impulses – he’d seen all too clearly where that led – but he’d done so last night, and though he could not regret it in the least he did wonder why. Why this woman in particular affected him so deeply, when he had guarded his emotions and his desires so carefully for so long.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the curl he’d cut from Sophie last night. At the thought of it, let alone the sight, he was instantly hard again, could almost feel the wonder of her mouth on him once more, and his mouth on her delicious wetness. He pushed away the unwelcome thought of how unlike him it was to do such things, to take such a shockingly intimate token, and how like his father. He refused to accept that. He was no libertine. It wasn’t a trophy, proof of conquest, and he certainly wouldn’t be showing it to anyone or boasting of it, as his father undoubtedly would in his place. It was deeply private, he was a deeply private person, quite apart from the fact that his best friend, his only friend, really, was a minister of the Church of England. The thought of sharing such a secret with Simon, or anyone, made him let out a little snort of wry laughter.

But if it wasn’t a trophy, what was it? He looked at the bright curl as he held it, frowning, fighting his insistent arousal, trying to think. It wasn’t as if he needed a souvenir to remember last night by; while he lived, he thought he’d never forget it. It was… he wanted to say that it was a pledge. A recognition. She had said, at some point in that incredible evening, that she and he were the same. She’d been talking about an impulse to violence, a desire and a willingness to protect oneself and others in the most primitive of ways, but he realised now that she was right in more ways than that. There had been no missed step in their time together on the roof, no momentary awkwardness. He’d never thought of himself as reckless, he’d had every reason not to be, but he’d been reckless last night, and so had she. They’d been in harmony, wanting the same things, claiming each other, barely needing to put any of it into words. In that magical moment out of time and away from all the world he’d been the man who’d ask for such a token, and she’d been the woman who would give it freely, and – above all – trust him to take it. She had not hesitated or been surprised. She had not laughed or mocked him. It ought to be vulgar – anyone who heard of such a thing would surely think that it was – but in his mind it was very far from that. It had all been so right and so perfect, despite the fact that he barely knew her. And he wanted so much more.

Of course, it could not lead anywhere. It could be nothing more than a brief interlude that he might one day look back on with fondness and no little astonishment that he had ever been so daring. But he could see even now how precious the memory might become.

He looked down at what he was holding. Something about it nagged at him… Good God in heaven. It was the colour.

Sophie had dark hair, dark brown, almost as dark as his own. He’d never thought to question it; her eyes were dark too. But this curl wasn’t dark. It was a bright red-blonde. A most distinctive colour.

Dark brown eyes, bright locks… How many women in England, how many Frenchwomen in particular, could there be with that particular combination? He couldn’t recall if he had ever seen…

And all at once he knew exactly who she was.