Page 39

“If we were seen together some, or even if you spoke of me as anything other than a clodpole in your circles, it would be of great value to me. I’ve still got a far way to go in terms of courtship and the social side of things. I would, quite naturally, owe you favors in return.”

“And those favors would be visits to see Barnard.”

“If that’s what you wished.”

The carriage stopped. It was black, but he knew beyond those four walls sat two townhouses. Almost identical and separated only by a few steps, but the people living within were on two opposite sides of a gulf—opposite in class, in ambition, in every sensible, society-established fixture. The only thing that would keep them tethered was this wanton offer.

Chenoweth’s steps clunked outside, growing nearer. Damn, he’d said too much. It was a foolish proposal, offering nothing of benefit to either of them, and after the night she’d had—he didn’t care how ‘normal’ she was acting now—the least he could have done was kept his mouth shut.

Goodnight. He should’ve just said goodnight.

“I can do that.”

Rafe spoke just before the door opened. “Very well, then.”

Rafe was exhausted. His shoulders ached and his limbs were cold, but his eyes insisted on remaining open now that he was lying in bed. You slept well enough in that godforsaken damask chair, his mind snapped. What’s the matter with you now?

“Nothing,” Rafe mumbled, sitting up and throwing his legs off the edge of the mattress. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

He rolled his head until his neck cracked, and then repeated the motion with his shoulders, grimacing. He went to the dressing table, taking a large gulp of water. He went to the door and double-checked the latches—all secure. The curtains were drawn, the bed was warm, and he was utterly satisfied of his aloneness. He collapsed into bed, the sheet whooshing as he flung it over himself.

He hadn’t had trouble sleeping like this since his mother’s accident, since the jarring, cruel reality of having lost her. Of being left in the only state worse than alone: with Thomas. That was how the latches came to be, and the preference for the thickest curtains and most remote bedchamber. Knowing he was alone was peace unequaled.

You actually slept with her. The door was wide open; anyone could’ve come. And you slept.

Enough of that. Whatever happened was owed to excessive tiredness, not any level of comfort associated with Miss St. Quinton. Rafe flipped to his side. The same reason he ought to rest—now. He was done thinking of it. Of anything but dreams.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and another, and another. He would have to go to the apothecary’s before heading to Greenwich. Hopefully he had enough coin to buy both Mother’s medicaments. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

It should’ve been me.

Why in hell must she say that? A notion as ludicrous as it was hurtful.

He flipped to his other side with a grunt. He’d need to speak with Alfie tomorrow, make sure to smooth things over. Perhaps there would be time for lunch, or tea. Only a real bastard could upset someone as even-tempered as Alfie. Of course Rafe and his years of deception had managed to do it.

I don’t believe in it …

She would love whoever was fortunate enough to wed her. He knew it, even if she didn’t. Caring seemed intrinsic to her, as natural as breath and sarcasm, an impulse that would bloom around her stubbornness whether she gave it permission to or not.

Rafe pressed the cold heels of his hands against his eyes. He had seen her safely home and she was no doubt resting now, like someone with sense.

His mind grew distant, slipping out of reach and yielding to dreams, not quite tamed, not quite his. He imagined the feel of molasses-colored hair brushing against his throat. The way he wanted to hold her, never finding his own rest until her breaths had turned deep and remote. She would be content in his arms. There would be no tears to dry next time—

But he would kiss her anyway.

Balfour’s had a pulse early the next morning. The lad who swept the street nearly took Rafe out at the knees as he entered through the back door, and he didn’t apologize. The crates deposited by Alfie were being unloaded, a boisterous and rushed process punctuated by plenty of masculine grunting and cursing. And as Rafe pressed against the wall to let a massive, oak-cased grandfather clock be carried past him in the corridor, he heard the yelp of the pastry chef as she climbed up the stairs from the kitchen.

“Someone’s been a’messin’ in me kitchen! Which of you fools was it?”

Rafe ducked his chin, because hiding his smirk wasn’t working so well, and reached his office in two long strides. He closed the door behind him.

Damn. His mother’s little calendar was still lying on the floor, splayed open in ivory antiquity. The green chair was canted to one side, and the still-folded blanket lie discarded atop his desk. He swallowed and bent to retrieve the calendar, closing it and replacing it on the shelf with the rest of his sentimental childhood trinkets. He leant over the chair to return it to its rightful place when he smelled it, faint as dust: sugar and almonds.

He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath—which was rather a mistake—before heaving the garish piece of furniture back to the corner where it belonged.

An unmistakable baritone pierced the corridor beyond Rafe’s door, and he hurried to his desk, tossing the blanket under it just as Thomas barged inside. His hand remained clutched on the handle for several seconds, white and plump-fingered. Everything in his countenance melted to a scowl, abundant grey brows and mustache drooping, but it wasn’t enough to hide his eyes. His gaze clung to Rafe, glacial.

“G’morning,” Rafe said, sniffing and taking his seat behind the desk. He didn’t look up as the door closed, blocking out the chaos of the morning. Or, perhaps, trapping it inside with him.