In truth, Fletcher had nearly gone down with a ship a decade ago.
Before his father had died, he’d enjoyed a short, dangerous stint as a privateer. That was the year he’d rebelled at being born a ducal heir. More than anything else, he’d taken to the seas as a scandalous buccaneer as revenge toward his mother.
He’d known she’d despise his doing so, and he continued to wear the earring for the same reason. It absolutely infuriated her, which she made known regularly.
“Really, Kincade,” she reproved in that shrill, hoity-toity tone that scraped along his nerves and made him want to shove his fingers in his ears like a petulant child. “Must you wear that evidence”—long, elegant fingers flicked with perfectly shaped oval nails toward the earring—“of your unfortunate decision?”
Aye, indeed, dear Mother, I must.
The truth of the matter was that the privateer he sailed upon had nearly been scuttled by a pirate ship. An old, much more experienced sea salt, Wen Ling, had saved Fletcher from pitching over the side and to certain death.
Fletcher put a finger to the band, recalling the sailor’s urgent and sincere warning.
Wen Ling had pointed to the earring in his left ear, and in his lyrical accented voice, explained that his life had been endangered too. According to an ancient Chinese legend, one who wore an earring in their left ear had already faced death and escaped. The earring was worn as a talisman to protect against a recurrence. Then, he’d not only gifted Fletcher the earring he now wore, but Wen Ling had also pierced his ear.
With a whalebone needle.
It had hurt like hell.
The old memory kicked Fletcher’s mouth upward on one side the merest bit.
That wasn’t the only reason he wore the earring, however. The band also reminded him why he couldn’t be the same kind of fool the prior duke had been.
“In fact, all of the dukes are,” Asherford announced smugly.
Bringing his mind back to the present, Fletcher focused on Asherford.
Still going on about that masked ball twaddle, was he?
“Are what?” Forehead wrinkled in confusion, Jules, the Duke of Dandridge, broke protocol about only speaking with those on his immediate right or left.
“Yes, what precisely are we doing?” Sheffield inquired, reaching for his wine and sending San Sebastian and Waycross inquisitive looks.
Knife and fork midair, San Sebastian shrugged. “The devil if I ken.”
“I dinna ken either.” A vexed expression was stamped upon Waycross’s craggy features. But the brusque Scot was annoyed most of the time, so that was nothing new.
It seemed all of the dukes had decided to eschew etiquette.
The image of the dukes swaggering into Gravenstones’ ball, each with a swath of brightly colored feather attached to their heads and backsides, nearly sent Fletcher into another fit of guffaws.
Before Miss Breckensole turned and responded to Asherford, she flicked a meaningful glance between Fletcher and Rayne.
His jollity promptly evaporated.
This was no empty-headed miss with stars in her eyes. No, indeed. Miss Breckensole was too astute by far. Leveling him a cool stare, she murmured a stern warning beneath her breath. “Do not do anything to hurt her. You do not know what she has been through.”
Fletcher blinked rather owlishly.
What the devil did she mean by that?
What had Rayne gone through?
He slid her a sideways glance before giving the slightest nod.
Giving him a tightlipped smile, Miss Breckensole quite unenthusiastically attended Asherford, whose eyes lit up with masculine possessiveness.
Och, what goes on here?
Fletcher’s curiosity was short-lived because the Duchess of Dandridge said as she adeptly cut a bite of partridge, “I had the pleasure of having tea with your mother at Lady St. Lavelle’s yesterday. I understand felicitations are in order, Your Grace.”
He puzzled his brow. “Felicitations?”
For what?
Letting the house at 19 Belford Square?
Was that truly something worth congratulating?
Mayhap Her Grace mistakenly believed he’d purchased the place. Which, in truth, he had decided was a good investment and had already asked Leith MacKettrick, his man of affairs, to send an inquiry to the owners to see if they were interested in selling the property.
“I beg your pardon.” Her face fell, and she sent an anxious glance around the table as if she’d committed a faux pas. “I was unaware your betrothal hadn’t been announced.”
17 Bedford Square
Two days later in the late afternoon
Rayne ran her fingers through the cool water as she slowly wandered around the fountain. Where she wished to be—anywhere but here—and where she actually was—London—were two vastly different things. She might’ve gone shopping with Everleigh and Sarah, Griffin’s ward, and to Gunter’s afterward, but neither outing had appealed overly much.
Nothing had appealed to her since overhearing the Duchess of Dandridge congratulate Fletcher on his betrothal. Rayne didn’t need one guess, much less three, to know who the fortunate lady was.
A vision of sun-kissed hair, a flawless peach complexion, and narrowed, unkind blue eyes intruded. Snobbish, conceited, vile tempered, black-hearted Lady Cecelia Sheldon-Furnsby.
In Lady Sheldon-Furnsby’s case, beauty was truly only skin deep. From Rayne’s few interactions, she’d deduced her ladyship was foul to her black-hearted core. All the pretty outward wrapping couldn’t disguise her ugly soul.
Not only was Rayne dismayed that Fletcher hadn’t been forthcoming with her about his relationship with Lady Sheldon-Furnsby, but she was also disappointed in his choice of a wife. She hadn’t believed him so shallow as to choose a vain, shallow, self-centered termagant like Lady Sheldon-Furnsby.
But, then again, Rayne shouldn’t have been surprised. Lady Sheldon-Furnsby possessed everything that High Society valued in a duchess: beauty, breeding, and wealth. Throw in her position and powerful connections and one had a veritable treasure trove of attributes. None of which made her a decent person.
Regardless, Fletcher had chosen her to become his duchess.
Rayne couldn’t envision the persnickety beauty leaving London’s luxuries and entertainment behind for Scotland. Not that there was anything wrong with Scotland. It wasn’t as if the land north of England was occupied by uncivilized barbarians. Though she’d only ever seen paintings, Rayne thought the raw beauty of the country immensely appealing.
Neither could she see Fletcher remaining in London indefinitely. Unlike the fops and dandies that often paraded around the city, he was too rugged and untamed. Too powerfully built and muscled to ever pass for an English peer. Not, she was quite certain, that he had any wish to.
Besides, she rather suspected he not only preferred but needed the less rigorous strictures Scotland provided a man like him. Either Lady Sheldon-Furnsby or Fletcher was going to be utterly miserable.
Rayne shook her head.
No, eventually, both would be unhappy. It couldn’t be helped. If one married someone who wasn’t content unless their spouse acquiesced to their every want and whim, stifling their own desires and needs, then bitterness and resentment would inevitably arise. Those dark sentiments would eventually smother any surviving joy and happiness.
Perhaps neither Fletcher nor his betrothed cared about any of that. There were those who entered into arranged unions who didn’t give a fig.
Rayne very much cared about such things.
It was also possible, she supposed, theirs was a marriage of convenience, and they’d keep separate residences. That wasn’t uncommon among aristocrats. This only further proved Rayne didn’t know Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade at all.
But then, how could she have in under a week’s acquaintance?
For certain, she’d naively read too much into their unexpected encounter in his gardens and at Hyde Park too.
/> More fool she.
At least she’d learned of his perfidy early on. Before her heart had become fully engaged. There was that blessing to be grateful for.
Rayne blamed her ignorance on her inexperience. Until meeting Fletcher, she’d been content without romantic male attention. In point of fact, prior to him, any man who’d taken a more than casual interest in her had straight-up terrified her.
Sighing, she removed a gray feather with black markings from the fountain’s uppermost level. In that insignificant gesture, she’d save Fitzroy a degree of frustration. This feather belonged to an Eurasian dove.
Glancing upward, she frowned at the stern disapproval permanently etched upon Apollo’s marble features. Giving in to a childish whim and her discontented mood, she stuck her tongue out at the statue.
Why had the artist cast the god in such a dark temperament?
Who wanted to be forever memorialized as a grump?
Circling the fountain again, Rayne passed the bench where she’d abandoned her sketching. Even that pleasurable pastime hadn’t been able to hold her attention because, despite her determination otherwise, her mind wandered to that day she’d intended to draw the wisteria.
And that, of course, led to more ruminations about Fletcher.
She’d lost track of how many times she’d gone around and around the small courtyard.
Her dratted musings kept drifting to him.
Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade.
Scoundrel? Rapscallion? Rake? Womanizer?
The sort of man who flirted with one woman even as he intended to ask another to wed him?
She wouldn’t have believed it of him, but the truth was self-evident. An unladylike snort escaped her. She didn’t care. Damn him. Even knowing his true character and admitting she’d escaped entanglement with a cad, Rayne couldn’t deny he’d enchanted her.
Still did, truth be told.
And that makes you a nincompoop, Rayne Wellbrook.
It did, indeed.
From that very first devastating smile in Fletcher’s garden, he’d caught her in his silky, seductive web. Obviously, the enchantment was one-sided.
He hadn’t even bid her farewell two nights ago.
Citing an important matter that needed his immediate attention, Fletcher had taken his leave directly after dessert. For the life of her, Rayne couldn’t conceive what had arisen during the meal that required his attention.
Perchance he’d only just remembered something urgent.
Yes, that he was betrothed.
Pressing her lips into a hard line, she kicked at an errant pebble. It tumbled across the pavers, coming to rest beneath one of the benches.
Perhaps Fletcher was a coward after all and had wanted nothing more than to escape her accusatory glances.
Had she sent him accusatory glances?
If so, they’d been unintentional. Pray to God no one else had noticed.
In point of fact, Rayne had endeavored not to look at him anymore after the Duchess of Dandridge’s inadvertent announcement. But as conversations are wont to do, a perfectly timed lull enabled everyone sitting near Fletcher, and she suspected along the entire lengths of both sides of the table, to hear her grace’s apology.
Rayne’s wounded heart gave a queer flip that she felt clear to her belly.
Remorse? Hurt?
Regret for what might’ve been?
She honestly didn’t know.
Filling her lungs, she held her breath and closed her eyes. Then, slowly counting to ten, she released the air. She’d learned that calming behavior years ago and rarely had to call upon it anymore.
Why, then, couldn’t she shake this melancholy?
For pity’s sake, Fletcher owed her nothing. Nothing.
They both knew it.
Rayne had conceded that fact readily. If she hadn’t been sneaking onto the property next door, they would never have had that clandestine meeting. A romantic at heart, she’d foolishly hoped the encounter and his rakish wink in Hyde Park had meant more.
It hadn’t.
Not to a practiced rogue such as he, it hadn’t, in any event.
A graceful clouded yellow butterfly flitted by a few feet over Rayne’s head, catching her attention.
Remembering the vow she’d made the day she’d encountered Fletcher to sketch the next clouded yellow she saw, she snatched up her abandoned art supplies and trotted after the winged beauty as it gracefully flitted to and fro. Instead of stopping to drink from the scabious as she’d anticipated it would, the butterfly continued onward toward the rose-covered arbor.
“Where are you going?” Rayne muttered aloud, hurrying after the insect.
She gasped in delight when she turned the bend in the pathway and beheld at least a dozen clouded yellows hovering around the arbor and nearby scarlet beebalm.
“Ah, did you know I’ve been in the doldrums, and you brought me here to cheer me?” she asked the butterfly.
The notion was preposterous, and with so many butterflies gliding about, she had no idea which one she’d followed. However, the spectacle before her was breathtaking—like something from a fairyland. Never before had she seen so many clouded yellow butterflies in one place.
“I hoped ye’d come,” a familiar burr resonated from within the arbor as a tall form emerged.
Oh, God.
At least this time, Rayne didn’t shriek like a banshee.
As he had that first day, Fletcher wore buckskins tucked into Hessians. Today, however, he wore a coat—a deep burgundy accented with gold braid and trim. If she’d thought he’d looked like a swashbuckler with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows the other day, she’d been sorely mistaken.
This version of a roguish buccaneer was wholly mesmerizing.
A bicorn hat rested upon his head, his loose hair brushing his ridiculously broad shoulders. A dirk protruded from the top of his left boot, giving him a rakish, devil-may-care appearance.
He quite took her breath away. For several rapid heartbeats, all she could do was stare, taking in each magnificent contour and plane of him. As it always did, his masculine beauty stirred something primal and powerful deep within her. For the first time, Rayne felt herself wishing a man—this man—might be hers for all time.
She’d finally found a man she wasn’t afraid of, a man she was attracted to, a man she had undefinable feelings for, and he belonged to another.
Wouldn’t you know it?
Whoever had said fate or destiny was a cruel mistress hadn’t been exaggerating.
Marshaling her thoughts and composure, she said, “Fletcher? I mean, Your Grace?”
It came out a question.
“Rayne.”
He addressed her by her given name, and her gullible heart took to wing over such a trivial, insignificant thing.
Holding her sketch pad to her chest and clutching her pencils, she eased forward. A smile tipped the corner of her mouth. Last time she’d used a basket as a shield.
“Whatever are you doing in the arbor?” She cut the enclosure a swift glance before focusing on him again.
“Waitin’ for ye.”
“Waiting…for me?”
At that moment, she fell a little bit in love with him.
And yet she knew full well that doing so was foolhardy. Not only did he belong to another, but he also couldn’t have known she’d venture out here today.
Peering up at him, noting the shadow of a beard forming on his chiseled jaw, Rayne said as much. “That was awfully silly of you. I don’t normally spend time in these gardens in the afternoon. It gets too warm, and Everleigh worries that I’ll freckle. You might’ve waited for hours, and I wouldn’t have come.”
Her aunt was blessed with extremely fair hair and creamy skin that she diligently protected from the sun. Whereas Rayne must’ve had a freckled ancestor with red hair perched in her family tree somewhere.
“I dinna mind the wait.” Fletcher lifted a broad shoulder, his keen blue-green gaze roam
ing over her. Almost…almost as if he hungered for the sight of her too. “I kent Sheffield was out this afternoon, and it was safe to venture here.”
Only if Fitzroy or one of the other gardeners didn’t come upon him and raise a hue and cry.
No doubt, Griffin had made an offhand remark about his plans for the afternoon during another of his meetings with Fletcher today. She could hardly ask him not to mention such things to the Duke of Kincade without raising questions as to why she didn’t want their neighbor and Griffin’s business associate to know.
Not only would Rayne sound like an illogical idiot, she would put Fletcher in danger of Griffin’s wrath if he learned what had transpired between her and Fletcher, no matter how innocent.
For certain, she’d never divulged a word intentionally. She didn’t think he would either.
“I hoped ye’d feel the urge to wander the gardens.” Fletcher clasped his hands behind his back in the manner of someone who was nervous and wanted to conceal their uneasiness.
What an absurd notion.
Men of his ilk were never nervous around women.
“I ken ye dinna feel ye can visit my gardens anymore, though I’ve told ye, ye are welcome to any time.” A half-smile bent his mouth and creased the corners of his eyes. “I’ve made an offer to purchase the house and am awaitin’ word from the owner.”
“Oh.”
How could her heart simultaneously soar and plummet?
Any hope that she’d be able to resume her visits to her former oasis was permanently crushed. And yet, the knowledge that Fletcher would be in residence on occasion thrilled her much more than it ought to. Assuredly more than was reasonable or wise. Especially as Lady Sheldon-Furnsby would be their new neighbor as well, only she’d be the Duchess of Kincade then.
Rayne doubted very much she’d venture near the garden wall ever again. Not with that virago living next door. The new duchess would probably insist the grounds become enthusiastically weeded and pruned formal gardens.
The notion made Rayne queasy. At least she told herself it was the ruination of her oasis that sickened her rather than who Fletcher would share her former sanctuary with.
The Debutante and the Duke: A Regency Romance (Seductive Scoundrels Book 11) Page 6