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‘We write a whole heap of names on pieces of paper and we spread them out over the floor, then we see which one your puppy wanders to first. After all, Archie, you want him to be happy most of all, don’t you? So it is only fair he gets the final say?’
‘Can I at least pick some of the names on the papers?’
‘As you are the owner, Archie, you get to pick all of the names. Isn’t that right, Rafe?’ Her eyes lifted to his and he lost himself in them again until his poor heart ached with wanting.
‘Absolutely.’ Good grief, he was in some serious trouble.
Sophie stood in the circle of names with Archie while they surveyed their evening’s work. There were twenty-two pieces of paper in total, all with a single name written in big, bold letters. Each name hand-picked by him and most consisting of only four letters. Only Aesop and Attila the Hun had more. The former in honour of Archie’s current favourite author and the latter the only suggestion from Rafe who felt it fitting seeing as they had likely welcomed a mad, man-eating and marauding dog into the fold thanks to the fearsome Falstaff being the father. Sixteen of the names were unique, which meant, at Archie’s insistence, there were six separate Marys dotted around the carpet.
‘I think it’s time to release the puppy.’ She smiled at Archie who immediately clicked his fingers at Rafe, making the eldest Peel roll his delicious blue eyes.
‘I suppose I should jump to it then.’ For the sake of impartiality because she and Archie had laid down the names, they had decided he had the honour of carrying the bundle of fluff in and placing him dead in the centre of the circle. A spot which had been meticulously measured and which was also marked with its own piece of paper.
As Rafe stomped out of the drawing room to fetch the animal from the makeshift pen they had made him in the hallway to protect him from Socrates who had already attacked the poor thing twice, she and Archie removed themselves to opposite corners to watch the proceedings from afar. Although it did not go unnoticed that the youngest Peel took himself to the corner where he had arranged three of the Marys altogether and where he no doubt fully intended to defraud the election process despite solemnly swearing that he wouldn’t.
‘One bloodthirsty wolf in puppy’s clothing.’ Rafe returned with the squirming pup held aloft in his arm like a sacrifice to the gods and with a very solemn Walpole who had been drafted in as the referee traipsing behind him. ‘Let the Grand Choosing of the Name Ceremony commence!’
The second he placed the animal on the X in the centre of the Persian, Archie began to pat his knees. ‘This way, Mary! Come to Papa!’
As Rafe glared at the butler, the servant shook an admonishing finger at the flagrant cheat. ‘Silence, Lord Archie. If you speak again I shall declare the result invalid, and we shall have to start again.’ As Archie frowned at being thwarted, his brother came to stand beside her, sending a waft of the heady scent of Rafe straight up her nostrils to remind her of last night.
Not that Sophie needed any reminders of last night or of the fact that the pair of them had not talked about it. That had hung in the air like an ominous dark cloud all day, casting a veil of awkwardness over them both which she had diligently tried to ignore with the same stubborn determination as she had avoided being alone with him all day too. As he had made it impossible to avoid him, which would have been her preferred option in perpetuity, she had worked hard to keep them all busy as well as chaperoned by either Archie or Aunt Jemima or both all the way through to dinner. Even this—the Grand Choosing of the Name Ceremony—was happening now with great pomp and circumstance because she had engineered it that way. Simply because it guaranteed they were occupied with something other than the enormous fly she had personally shoved in the ointment right up until bedtime.
Like a coward, she had avoided the conversation and the explanation for her scandalous and wanton behaviour. She had to avoid it because she still had no earthly idea how to fully explain the complicated and tangled emotions which that mad, unguarded moment of unbridled passion had created.
How exactly did you face a man who you’d determinedly and purposely seduced so you could have your wicked way with him? Because that was precisely what she had done in hindsight. She had used him to scratch her overwhelming carnal itch and thoroughly enjoyed every single second of it.
And she had been quite shameless about it too. Driven entirely by too-long-suppressed lust and blinded by reawakened need and a renewed thirst for life, she had behaved as little like a proper and prim spinster as it was possible to be. Rafe had seen every visible inch of her. Intimately touched, explored and penetrated a few more invisible inches. Heard her fevered cries and whimpers as she vocalised her appreciation in the most unladylike manner. Witnessed her writhing atop him in the full throes of passion as she rode him like horse until she reached the release she craved.
Or perhaps she had ridden him like a stallion.
A beautiful, wild and untamed stallion.
Given his impressive, talented and truly satisfying credentials, Rafe most definitely fell more into the stallion category rather than the nag, and she absolutely fell into the wild. She had been so wild and brazen in her quest to gallop towards fulfilment, her wayward body still throbbed scandalously at the memory of it. And, heaven help her, it was still craving more despite all the guilt which ate her from the inside.
Guilt about Michael.
Guilt about her feelings.
Guilt about her needs and about using Rafe to satisfy them.
She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking. Especially as she had revelled in every inch of his body. Greedily explored and took advantage of every single inch.
Every.
Splendid.
Inch.
She surreptitiously flicked her gaze sideways and almost cringed as she met his.
As if he could read her sinful mind he tilted his golden head towards her, his intuitive stare relentless. ‘I cannot help but notice that there are six Marys and one Attila—this is hardly an unbiased election.’ His deep whisper drizzled down her back and trickled through every nerve ending, including every improper one, in the most disconcerting fashion.
‘Of course it is an unbiased election. I designed it specifically as such.’
‘You want that poor thing to be saddled with the name Mary.’
‘He won’t be.’ She couldn’t resist a smile as the puppy tripped over his large paws while he sniffed the air. ‘I am the former General Gilbert of the whinging Whittleston Rebel Alliance, remember—one of the most formidable adversaries you have ever come up against. Your words, Captain Peel, not mine. Do you think I entered into this without a cunning plan and decisive battle strategy?’
