I felt ill at the barely veiled innuendo, my stomach roiling. As soon as the music ended, I murmured a thank-you before I searched for the exit. I would not leave Abigail, but I needed fresh air. Since she kept close company to a young gentleman, her conversation animated while he handed her a punch glass, I was free to escape into a quieter room.
I ducked out into the main hall. Footsteps echoed, uneven but quick, following me. I whirled around to see Rafe.
“Bridget, please—wait.” He reached me as I halted in front of a console table pushed against the wall. Above, a portrait of the Hawkinses’ family peered down at us with unblinking eyes. “I don’t know what Mr. Barron said to you, but I do not trust that man.”
“He hinted that you may have something to do with the theft of the mosaic.”
“Surely you don’t believe such lies.” Rafe sounded vulnerable. “I know my family has a wretched history, but I am not like my father, nor my uncle.”
“No, I do not believe him.”
Rafe’s shoulders heaved with a breath.
“Unfortunately, that does not explain the rumor that you’ve decided to sell Hawthorn Abbey to the Dilettanti. Is this true? And if the mosaics on Perry’s farm lie within your property, Mr. Beaumont will have access to it all.”
Frowning, he didn’t answer, instead leaving me to guess as to the thoughts running through his mind. But silence was an answer.
“I see,” I whispered, my throat clogging with emotion. How could I have thought to trust him? Tears filled my eyes, awful, burning traitorous tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks and stain my gown with watermarks. Angrily, I dashed them away, since emotions had no place in public.
“I may have no choice but to rent my land. I don’t need to tell you I have stretched myself to the limit to rebuild the Hawthorn estate, especially after the hailstorm,” he began. “I have no intention of hurting you, but I cannot abandon the tenants relying on me, and I fear I am out of options, considering my last visit with Mr. Talbot.”
I felt torn, my heart aching for him, yet the desperation to preserve the mosaic gnawed at me. I understood his burden, but the thought of losing this opportunity felt unbearable. “No need to explain, Lord Hawthorn. I understand. Believe me. I understand your need for capital, but must it be with them?”
Truthfully, I didn’t want him to sell or rent at all. He would likely leave, and I would never see him again.
A pained look crossed his face. “Lord Hawthorn? Are we back to that again? You will not call me Rafe?”
“I believe so.” My voice broke. “I thought we were friends. Allies. Now I see that I’ve been discarded for a better plan.”
His mouth parted at my challenge.
I nodded toward the ballroom where the music soared before inching away to make my escape. “I believe those friends are waiting for you now.”
30:Rafe
Indecision is the thief of opportunity. It will steal you blind.
MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO
I thought we were friends. Allies.
Bridget’s words stung as I escorted a tipsy Mr. Beaumont and Lord Ainsley back to the estate. They were drunk enough to make the vein in my temple throb, especially after pulling Beaumont from a young miss in the garden.
“Capital evening.” Mr. Beaumont sighed with pleasure as he sank back on the worn leather seat. “We should do this again. And you, Rafe, you seemed quite entranced with Miss Littleton. What on earth were you thinking chasing her out of the ballroom? You caused quite a scene. I didn’t think a stern man like you would show so much emotion.”
“I agree. Do tell us if Miss Littleton is a freethinker in the ways that matter.” Lord Ainsley slurred his words as he slumped against his friend with a grin.
“I would recommend you keep her name out of your mouth,” I answered heatedly. Both men stared at me, Lord Ainsley finally snickering.
“You have no plans on the chit, do you? Marriage?” Lord Ainsley pulled his cravat loose with one long finger.
Marriage? A lord didn’t marry a vicar’s daughter. But I didn’t care what they thought. Bridget believed the worst of me, especially after our dance.
I had no intention of replaying the conversation for either gentleman. Her challenges circled enough in my mind. Handling the horses kept me occupied until Hawthorn Abbey appeared within the moonlight, its slate roof gilded with silver. I halted the barouche in the courtyard, weary of my guests.
Anticipating my needs, Mr. Whittle ran out to secure the horses. Bless that man. Had he waited at the door or window, watching for my return?
“Did you have an enjoyable time, my lord?” Mr. Whittle whispered as he unhitched the horses.
