“Cousin Bartholomew threatened you,” she blurted. “He told me he would have you killed. I cannot go with you, Rafe. I could never forgive myself if any harm befell you, knowing it was because of your association with me.”
“Is that why you left without word? You were trying to protect me?”
“My cousin is a dangerous man,” she said, rather than giving him the exceedingly complicated answer to his question. There was not the time for it.
Rafe’s dimples disappeared, his countenance turning hard and serious. “I ain’t afraid of the Marquess of Silwood.”
He knew Cousin Bartholomew’s title?
But then, of course he did. He was here, at Silwood Manor, was he not? He had found her.
“You should be afraid of him, Rafe. He is a powerful man, a peer of the realm.” And heaven knew that a different set of rules applied to lords. A lowborn man like Rafe Sutton would scarcely stand a chance against Cousin Bartholomew’s vengeance.
Rafe frowned, his jaw tightening. “Has he given you cause to fear him, sweet?”
Of course he had. Cousin Bartholomew was dangerous.
She wetted her dry lips nervously, the tightness in her chest growing more pronounced. “Please, Rafe. You do not understand the way of it. You must go. Save yourself. I have already agreed to marry him, which has been his plan from the moment my father died and he became my guardian.”
“You intend to marry him?” Rafe winced as if he had been struck. “Truly, Persephone?”
Tell him yes. Tell him yes to save him. His pride will make him leave. It is for the best.
Oh, it was too dratted difficult!
Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she considered her response. “I…”
“Say the words,” Rafe ground out. “Tell me he is the man you want. Tell me you want to marry him. Do that, and I’ll go. You’ll never see me again.”
Never see him again? She had told herself in an endless litany since Cousin Bartholomew had discovered her in London that she would accept her fate. That she and Rafe were not meant to be together, and that if she could not have him, she may as well surrender to marrying Cousin Bartholomew if it would keep Rafe safe. But now Rafe was here, holding her in his arms. How could she possibly tell him that she wanted Cousin Bartholomew, and that she was choosing him over Rafe?
The man she loved was before her. Rafe Sutton, with his blond curls worn too long for fashion, his easy smile and charm, his dimples, ready wit, and the sweet tenderness he seemed to reserve for only those closest to him…the man who had renewed her faith in trust and made her hope again. He was the man for her. He would always be the man for her.
“Say it, Persephone.”
A gentle mist had begun to fall, and the wind kicked up, making the cold drizzle pelt her in the face as she struggled to form the words.
“You can’t, can you?” He cupped her cheek, his gloved hands cool and yet retaining some of his warmth. Enough to chase the sting of the wind. “You can’t tell me you want to marry Silwood. Because it would be a lie.”
“Everything in my life has been a lie for the past seven years,” she blurted. “What would be one more, if it means keeping you safe?”
“Don’t do this to yourself, lovely.” His hazel eyes were boring into hers. “Don’t do this to us.”
“There is nothing else I can do.”
He kissed her then, his mouth crushing. Familiar. Warm.
Home.
Hers.
He tore his lips from hers far too soon, forcing her to hold his gaze. “You can come with me now.”
Hope rose, fervent and foolish. “But Cousin Bartholomew has threatened you.”
“Threats don’t scare me, and neither does your arsehole of a cousin.”
She believed him. “You do not know what he is capable of in the way I do.”
Another gust of wind blew, threatening to tear the hat from her head. Their horses were moving restlessly, reminding Persephone of just how precarious this moment was.
Rafe remained unmoved, his countenance harsh, determination evident in the rigid set of his jaw. “Let him come to the East End for me. I’ll be waiting, and it ain’t going to end well for ’im.”
Of course he would want to protect her, even at his own expense. He had done so before.
She shook her head, the denial cutting through her heart as viscerally as a knife. “No, Rafe.”
His beautiful lips tightened. “Why did you leave?”
“Because I had to.” Because I love you, and I lied to you.
If he was here, he knew she had lied.
Didn’t he?
The rain was falling with increased determination now, the mist turning into fully formed drops. In no time, they would be soaked to the skin if it turned into the deluge the distant leaden skies promised.
“Is it because you fear what he’ll do to me?”
“No.” A shiver tore through her, desperation and sadness chasing the initial elation that had lit her up like fireworks. “It was because I was living a lie, and I could not bear to remain, continuing my charade, knowing I would lose you.”
It was the closest she dared come to admitting that she loved him.
He caught a tear on her cheek with his thumb. “Why would you lose me?”
“Because I have been lying to you, and because I feared you would not forgive me when you discovered the secrets I have been keeping.” And because you never told me you loved me, and my heart will always belong to you.
“You were lying to protect yourself, lovely. I understand. There ain’t a bleeding thing to forgive. Come with me now. I’ll keep you safe. I vow it on my life.”
He was so earnest, and he was looking at her now with such unguarded reverence that a new torrent of tears emerged, mingling with the rain.
“Oh, Rafe. Where would we go? There is nowhere Cousin Bartholomew will not find us now.”
“I’m staying at Abingdon Hall as a guest of Mr. Devereaux Winter. We’ll be safe there until I can get us to London.”
Abingdon Hall was the neighboring estate.
Which meant that flight might truly be possible.
But Rafe had still said nothing of love or marriage.
“Have you come to rescue me?” she asked, needing to know. “What shall we do after we return to London?”
“We will be married, if you wish it. And if you don’t, you’ll still be better off than you are here, forced into marriage with your scoundrel of a cousin.”
Marriage. To Rafe. Her heart leapt at the chance, foolishly rejoicing. She would love nothing better. But if he was offering only because of the terrible circumstances in which she had found herself, out of pity, or because he felt that he had to do so, she would not be able to bear it.
“You do not have to marry me to save me from my cousin or out of some sense of obligation because of what happened between us.”
“Is that what you think?” He kissed her again, swiftly, deeply, and she tasted the salt of her own tears and the earthiness of the rains on his tongue. “Did that feel like a bleeding obligation to you? Did it feel like I am only worried about your cousin?”
“No.” She bit her lip, studying his beloved face, trying to understand him.
“What it should have felt like is the kiss of a man who loves you, Lady Persephone Calcot,” he said, “because that’s what I damned well am. I’m the man who loves you.”
Her real name.
He had used her full name.
And he loved her.
Rafe loves me.
It was seemingly impossible yet wonderful, like the luminosity of the stars in the night sky.
“You love me?”
“I love you.” He was solemn, stroking her cheek, patient and strong.
Wiser than she was. Why had she run from him?
Here is your chance, Persephone. Worry about repercussions later.
“I love you too, Rafe.” She turned her head, pressed a kiss to his leather-clad finge
rs as the rain came down faster and harder. “I shall go with you.”
He kissed her again, his lips smiling against hers. “Thank Christ, lovely.”
CHAPTER 14
The Marquess of Silwood arrived at Abingdon Hall with more haste than Rafe had anticipated after sending word that Persephone would not be returning to Silwood Manor and that she would instead be remaining at Abingdon Hall. But then, when a man stood to lose as much as Silwood did, desperation often proved an excellent motivator. And Rafe had been hoping for just that.
He was prepared, and not just with the pistol secreted in his waistcoat or the blade hidden in his boot.
“Where is my betrothed?” the marquess demanded coldly.
Silwood was a tall man, broad shouldered, and uglier than the devil. More mean-spirited, too. His massive form, along with the tales Persephone had shared of his appetite for inflicting pain on others, made it more than clear to Rafe why she had feared him. And why she had been so convinced he would truly see Rafe murdered. But Rafe didn’t scare easily, and he was more than prepared to take on the Marquess of Silwood.
And he’d win, too.
Rafe flashed the other man a smug smile, clasping his hands behind his back as if he were utterly at ease. “She ain’t your betrothed, Silwood.”
The marquess’s nostrils flared as if he scented something malodorous. “The banns have been read. Lady Persephone is indeed my betrothed, and I demand to see her. Send for her now.”
“You can make demands all you like, my lord, but it won’t change a bleeding thing. Lady Persephone ain’t going to marry you. She’s going to marry me.” And as he said those words, his chest felt as if it expanded to fill the entire room.
Persephone loved him. She wanted to marry him. He was happier than any man had a right to be, and he would do everything and anything in his power to make certain the Marquess of Silwood couldn’t do a goddamned thing about it.
“That is absurd,” Silwood snapped, spittle flying from his lips. “She is the daughter of a marquess. She would never stoop so low as to wed a baseborn criminal from the rookeries such as yourself. If you insist on prolonging this farce, I’ll have no choice but to involve the law.”
“The law, eh?” Rafe’s grin deepened. “I’m sure the law would find a great deal of interest in you and the funds you’ve thieved from Lady Persephone’s trust.”
Silwood’s face turned a mottled shade of red. “I have not thieved a farthing of my betrothed’s trust. How dare you suggest otherwise, you vile cur? Any expenses that have been extracted have been for her benefit.”
Rafe was deuced grateful for the Sutton’s friendship with the Winter family. If it had not been for Devereaux Winter and Dominic Winter’s timely intervention, Persephone would have allowed herself to be forced into marrying this miserable sack of cow shite.
“On the contrary, my lord,” he said smoothly, knowing he possessed the advantage in this battle of theirs and understanding the Marquess of Silwood wrongly believed he did. “You have been using Lady Persephone’s inheritance to fund your gaming habits. But unfortunately for you, your luck at the green baize is bloody dreadful. You have written more vowels than you will ever have a prayer of repaying unless you get your greedy hands on her entire fortune. Ain’t that right, Silwood?”
He could see the moment his words began to puncture the marquess’s shield of invulnerability. The quality always believed themselves omnipotent. They’d been born to wealth and privilege, fine educations, the best of everything. Sooner or later, however, men like Silwood discovered they were not as untouchable as they believed themselves.
And what a privilege it was to be the one to bring the Marquess of Silwood low.
The man had kept Persephone beneath his thumb until she had fled, and even then, she had been so desperate to escape him that she had spent years in hiding as a governess who had also been at the mercy of others. The debts he had been incurring at The Devil’s Spawn had been enough to catch Dominic Winter’s notice, thank God. As had the questions he had been asking, along with rumors he had befriended Viscount Gregson. From there, Rafe had been able to find the rooms Persephone had taken, and he had learned she had left in the company of none other than the Marquess of Silwood.
The truth had unraveled. Gossip had long been swirling about the mysterious disappearance of Lady Persephone Calcot. Jasper’s wife, Lady Octavia, had heard the tale many times but had never realized Miss Wren and Lady Persephone were the same until Rafe had torn apart London trying—and failing—to find her. Uncovering the rest of the information he had needed had proved simple. Learning Abingdon Hall bordered the Marquess of Silwood’s lands had been a timely discovery.
“You know nothing,” Silwood spat. “Who do you think you are?”
“Rafe bleeding Sutton,” he said calmly, holding his ground. “Don’t forget it.”
Silwood’s lip curled. “Do you know what I could do to you?”
Rafe raised a brow, unaffected. “Nothing. That’s what you’ll be doing to me, Silwood. Do you know why?”
“I did not come here to play games with you, Sutton. I came here to collect Lady Persephone.” The marquess took a menacing step forward. “She belongs to me.”
“You are wrong.”
The voice from the doorway took Rafe by surprise as much as it did Silwood, he was sure. He turned to find Persephone standing at the threshold, an expression of defiance on her lovely face. Damn it, he had told her it would be better for her to remain unseen by the marquess.
Beyond his dastardly reach.
“Dearest,” Silwood said coolly. “Whatever is this nonsense? I insist you return to Silwood Manor with me at once.”
“No,” Persephone said, her voice ringing firmly and loudly as a bell. “I will not be returning to Silwood Manor with you. Because I do not belong to you. I belong to no one but myself.”
Although Rafe wished she had listened to him and stayed far away from the marquess, he knew a moment of fierce pride, watching her defend herself. She was strong, his woman. The only reason she had agreed to sacrifice herself to the callous blackleg before him was to save Rafe.
“Have you forgotten what we discussed?” The marquess was moving toward her.
But Rafe was having none of that. His long-legged strides took him to stand between Persephone and her odious cousin. She did not need him to defend her, and Rafe knew it. But by God, he would anyway, until his dying breath.
“Not another step in her direction,” he warned Silwood.
The marquess halted, a glower darkening his features. “Are you daring to threaten a peer of the realm, Sutton?”
“Of course not,” he said, careful to keep the worry from his voice. There was every chance this plan of his would not proceed as he hoped. But he would fret over that later, in the event he needed to do so. “I am merely advising you, Silwood. Lady Persephone will be reaching five-and-twenty soon.”
“Her age is immaterial,” Silwood growled.
“It is not,” Persephone denied, stepping forward until she stood at Rafe’s side, so near, the skirt of her gown brushed his legs. “You know as well as I that turning five-and-twenty means I shall be capable of inheriting the trust left me by my mother.”
“Not if you marry first, and without my consent to the marriage,” Silwood countered, sounding smug. “You cannot believe I would ever give my permission for you to marry an East End rat such as this. He may be occasionally capable of aping his betters, but he is a lowborn scoundrel. Your father would never have allowed it, and neither shall I.”
“That is where you are mistaken, my lord,” Rafe interjected smoothly. “You will approve of my marriage to Persephone.”
“Never!” the marquess bellowed.
“You seem to be confused about where you stand, my lord marquess,” Rafe said, “so I will pay you a favor. You are in debt to The Devil’s Spawn for more blunt than you can hope to repay. Lady Persephone is willing to generously settle your debts as long as y
ou accede to her wishes. You have also been stealing from Lady Persephone’s trust for years. And then, there is the matter of your maids.”
The marquess paled. “What of my maids?”
“Did you think belowstairs doesn’t gossip, Silwood?” Rafe shook his head. “Of course you did. Well, you’re bloody wrong. They do talk, and quite a bit, especially for the right price. I also happen to know of a scandal journal that’s about to print an article about the villainous Marquess of S., who beats and ravishes his maids and has already sired three bastards.”
“You are lying.”
Rafe smiled. “My mind ain’t devious enough to imagine such a vile thing on my own, Silwood. The choice is yours. You can accept my impending marriage with Lady Persephone, or you can suffer the consequences for what you’ve done.”
By one means or another, Rafe had every intention of forcing Lord Silwood to pay for his sins. But first, he needed to be certain he had extricated Persephone from the bastard’s clutches without fear of reprisal. He did not need her inheritance by any means. He had plenty of his own coin thanks to The Sinner’s Palace. However, the funds were hers by right, and he would be damned if he would allow them to continue supporting a despicable wastrel.
The marquess was clearly at war with himself. His greed made him want to fight to keep Persephone and her wealth in his control. But his sense of self-preservation made him question Rafe’s claims about the scandal journal.
“Do not doubt me, Silwood,” he advised. “The scandal journal will be more than happy to print every despicable detail, and you’ll be ostracized from polite society. And when Lady Persephone pursues the matter of all the coin you’ve thieved… I don’t need to tell you it ain’t going to go well for you, Marquess.”
“I am marrying Mr. Sutton,” Persephone said then, “with or without your permission.”
“Defying me is not wise,” Silwood cautioned her. “I am a dangerous enemy to have.”
Ha! The bastard had convinced Persephone that he would dare to have Rafe killed. But Rafe knew differently. And he had his own protection in the guards at The Sinner’s Palace. Even supposing the marquess was able to hire someone to go after Rafe, there were risks he was willing to take in the name of the woman he loved. Keeping her from the clutches of her vile cousin did not require second thought. Nor did making her his wife.
Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2 Page 18