Page 6 of Raked Away in September

Tamsin had spent the hour since Nicolas’s departure pacing the breakfast parlor until she was certain the heels of her slippers had worn a path in the carpet. Every time a carriage rattled past on the street outside, her heart leapt into her throat, only to settle back down into a cold, hard lump of dread when it wasn’t her brother’s.

Olivia had remained with her for a while, but then she’d gone upstairs to check on the children, or perhaps she just wanted to break down in private. Tamsin feared that her sister-in-law was furious with her for the trouble she’d brought upon them. What would she do if her reckless actions caused Olivia to become a widow? Or Nicolas’s children to become orphans? How could she live with that?

When the front door finally opened, she rushed into the hall, nearly colliding with her brother.

He looked as though he had aged a decade in a single morning. He was disheveled, his cravat slightly askew, but the murderous rage that had fueled him earlier had been replaced by a grim, flat determination that was far more terrifying.

“Nick,” she breathed, searching his face. She’d been so terrified that he and Haversham would beat each other senseless. “Is it... is it over? Did you speak with him?”

“I did.” Nicolas handed his hat to the butler without looking at him. “Come into the study, Tamsin.”

The study was a room of dark wood and heavy leather that she still thought of as her father’s sanctuary, even though her brother had tried to make it his own. Nicolas walked to the window, staring out at the square for a long moment before turning to face her.

“Haversham will be calling upon you this afternoon,” Nicolas said, his voice devoid of emotion. “He is coming to formally request your hand in marriage.”

Tamsin felt the air leave her lungs as if he had struck her. “Marriage? But... Nick, no. You cannot be serious.”

“I have never been more serious in my life. The announcement will be sent to the papers by nightfall. We shall claim a long-standing private understanding. A love match. It is the only way to undo the damage the Belle has caused.”

“A love match?” Tamsin’s voice rose, trembling with a mix of shock and indignation. “I don’t even know the man! He is a rake, Nicolas! A bounder! The entire world knows of his exploits. He was in the Dark Walks with a woman! Probably an actress or a… courtesan. I saw them together!”

“And he saw you,” Nicolas snapped, his eyes flashing with a spark of his earlier temper. “The world doesn’t care why you were there, Tamsin. Thanks to the Belle, they believe you were trysting with Haversham. If you do not marry him, you will be dead to society. You will never be invited to so much as a country dance, let alone a ballroom, for the rest of your miserable, lonely life.”

“I would rather be lonely than married to a man who spends his nights in the shadows of Vauxhall Gardens with opera singers and actresses!” Tamsin cried, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “You loathe him! You told me he was a blackguard!”

“I do loathe him,” Nicolas said quietly, stepping toward her. “But I love you more than I dislike him, and perhaps he’s changed after all these years. He was surprisingly decent about this whole situation. If you’re both telling the truth, he could have simply laughed in my face.” He sighed deeply. “I will not see you ruined because you had some foolish, wayward notion of helping a friend you refuse to name.”

“Nick, please⁠—”

“Enough!” Nicolas held up a hand. “The matter is settled, Tamsin. Haversham will be here at three o’clock. You will wear your finest day gown, you will sit in the drawing room, and you will accept him with as much grace as you can muster.”

“I can’t believe you are forcing me to do this,” she whispered, tears finally pricking at her eyes. “You promised that you would allow me an actual love match!”

“I am saving you from your own foolishness!” He paused at the door, his hand on the brass knob. “Fix your hair, Tamsin. And for heaven’s sake, try to look like a woman who is about to marry an earl, rather than a girl heading to the gallows.”

He left the room, slamming the study door in his wake.

Tamsin sank into Nicolas’s oversized leather chair, the scent of tobacco and old books surrounding her. She thought of Rowan Blackwood—the heat in his eyes, the way his hands had been buried in that woman’s hair, the raw, animal sound he’d made when she’d taken him into her mouth. He was a scoundrel, a man who could never be the kind of husband she’d wanted. A man like Rowan Blackwood was meant for a single night of pleasure, not a lifetime commitment.

So why did a little shiver of excitement pulse deep within her at the thought of seeing him again?

Chapter Four

Rowan stood by the fireplace in the Fairchild drawing room, his gaze sweeping over the gilded moldings and the tasteful portraits of Fairchild ancestors. He felt like a wolf in a sheep’s pen, and he shifted uncomfortably, wondering for the hundredth time what the hell he was doing. This wasn’t his problem. His reputation could withstand the Brazen Belle’s silly article.

But Miss Tamsin Fairchild’s absolutely could not.

The door opened, and Miss Tamsin entered. She was dressed in a prim pink gown, buttoned to the chin as if she were a nun, yet his mind stubbornly recalled the way she had looked in the shadows—wild, watchful, and strangely alive.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said softly, closing the door but lingering in front of it, as though she might need to make a quick escape. Her voice was gentle and melodious. He liked it.

“Miss Tamsin.” Rowan didn’t move from his position at the hearth. He also found it prudent to keep the room between them until he knew exactly how she felt about the prospect of marrying him. Was she playing some sort of game, or was she really as blameless in this whole fiasco as she seemed? “I assume your brother has informed you of our... arrangement?”

“He has.” She clasped her hands in front of her and stared down at them, refusing to meet his gaze. He wished she would look at him. He wanted to see if he’d imagined that little spark of connection that had flared between them last night.

So demure. He found himself wanting to get a rise out of her. Somehow, he had to assure himself that this prim miss was the same siren he’d glimpsed before. He stepped forward, his boots silent on the thick Persian rug. “Let us speak plainly. I am curious how the Brazen Belle managed to identify you so precisely in the dark. It is almost as if she were invited to the performance.”

Tamsin’s chin lifted, and when her startling blue eyes finally met his, he could tell she was incensed by the very notion. Those blue depths were aflame with ire. “Are you accusing me of orchestrating my own ruin, my lord? I can assure you, if I were to choose a husband for such a scheme, it would not be a man whose reputation is as tattered as yours.”