The best course might be to press Everleigh and Griffin into permitting her to return to Fittledale Park. Yes, that was the very thing. Rayne was of age, and she could insist she leave London.
“I intend to have my brother and sister to stay with me if they are amenable,” Fletcher said, all polished politesse and formality.
“I see,” she managed, despising this stiltedness that had sprung up between them. It hadn’t been like that their first meeting, nor when he’d come upon her in Hyde Park. She forced herself to focus on the present. “I trust you were able to settle your urgent matter.”
“Aye. It’s been dealt with.”
He didn’t offer details, and she wasn’t intrusive or bold enough to ask. Likely it was a matter related to his business dealings—transactions that most men erroneously believed a woman incapable of understanding.
Fletcher drew nearer, his striking eyes intense and probing.
“Lass?” He stopped and firmed his mouth, his expression inscrutable. “I ken ye heard what the Duchess of Dandridge said the other night.”
Rayne stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, more to brace herself against any possible hurt his next words might inflict than any affront at the unpleasant subject.
“I did,” she admitted without preamble.
She would not reference the sensual interlude they’d shared several days ago. In all fairness, perhaps he hadn’t been betrothed yet.
Well, he was close to becoming affianced and had no business flirting with you. Whispering in your ear. Vowing he wanted an introduction. Causing you to hope…
Hope what exactly?
Rayne hadn’t even defined what the what was. It was an unnamed, unidentified something. Which was to say, a big nothing now. Suddenly feeling incredibly hot and tired, and wishing this discomfiting encounter to end, she brushed her hair off her face. “What is it you want, Your Grace?”
As she had that day nearly a week ago, she wore her hair down. The afternoon had grown quite warm, and she moved past him toward the arbor, welcoming its cooling shade. Welcoming the added distance between them just as much.
For when Fletcher was near, it was as if he were a magnet. Her body swayed toward him, her feet itched to close the space separating them, and she yearned to wrap her arms about his slim torso and lay her cheek on the wide expanse of his chest.
All of which were preposterous and impossible.
God, how could these feelings even exist?
She’d only known this man for a week. One very short week. Seven days.
“It is inappropriate for us to be alone,” she reminded him again, striving to put emotional distance between them too. “And more so as you are newly betrothed.”
Following her, he stepped into the shadows behind her. The scent of roses hung heavy and cloying in the slightly cooler air.
“Lass, I’m no’ betrothed. I never have been.”
Her ridiculous heart leaped at his quiet pronouncement.
Stupid, imprudent, rash hope sprang anew.
These emotional ups and downs were wreaking havoc on her.
“I don’t understand,” Rayne said, shaking her head and narrowing her eyes. What game did he play? “I quite clearly heard her grace offer you felicitations and apologize for revealing your betrothal before an official announcement had been made.”
So had everyone else at the table, if the immediate buzz that had broken out was any indication.
It was Fletcher’s turn to shake his head, his steady, unrepentant gaze holding hers captive. She was snared, unable to look away, like a mouse in a trap. “Nae, she’d been misinformed.”
Misinformed?
A betrothal wasn’t something trite or inconsequential that someone might be mistaken about. For instance, whether Lady Jersey took milk with her tea, or the sun had shone sixteen days last month, or Prinny’s favorite color was pink.
Rayne had heard that last triviality somewhere, not that the Prince Regent’s favorite color mattered to her in the least.
Fletcher’s engagement did matter, however.
Either one was betrothed, or one was not.
Which was it?
Framed in the arbor’s opening, with the profusion of roses surrounding him and butterflies flitting about behind him, he looked like a prince from one of Nicolette’s naughty romantic novels.
From the first moment—all right, mayhap not the first moment—Rayne had believed Fletcher unlike other men. Had perhaps unfairly plopped him on a pedestal—a very short pedestal it turned out—and attributed characteristics to him and expectations of him that were impractical.
Gesturing to the bench, he said, “Why dinna ye sit down, and I’ll explain.”
Because Rayne so wanted to believe him—and she’d realized when it came to Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade, she was malleable as fresh bread dough—she obediently sank onto the unyielding stone bench. After setting aside her sketching supplies and arranging her simple sea-foam green skirts, she primly folded her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles.
With a start, she realized she was holding her breath. Gradually releasing the pent-up air, she canted her head. “What is it you wish to say, Your Grace? Be quick about it, please. As I’ve told you before, I cannot risk ruination.”
In truth, ruination might get her sent packing back to Fittledale Park. Honestly, that didn’t seem such a horrid punishment.
Yes, but any chance you’d ever have at a respectable match and having children would be forever destroyed.
Why wasn’t that true for unmarried men too?
Unfair, her heart cried.
Men were praised and touted as conquerors for their sexual triumphs, while unmarried women were disgraced for all time for simply being found alone with a man. They became pariahs, someone to be shuffled off to a country estate or a discreet cottage.
Debutantes were expected to remain untouched and virginal while young bucks could rut like stags or bulls without consequence.
Pausing in her rueful ruminations, Rayne scrunched her nose.
Did she want a match?
Truthfully, she wasn’t certain.
Her past still held her partially imprisoned and made contemplating a future difficult. Nevertheless, she adored babies—their sweet smell and so, so soft skin—and was positive that she wanted children. Furthermore, she was fully prepared to perform her wifely duties with her husband to acquire said children, no matter how distasteful the intimacy may be.
Rayne slid Fletcher a sideways glance.
Intimacy with him wouldn’t be a chore at all. She was positive about that as well. A flush of mortification engulfed her, and she waved her hand before her face.
“Goodness, it’s awfully warm. How can you bear the heat with that coat?”
He lifted one shoulder an crooked a smile. “I spent time in the tropics. This heat doesn’t begin to compare to those stifling temperatures and humidity.”
That diverted her attention. “Did you truly?”
“Aye. As a privateer.” He flicked a long finger at his earring, barely visible through his thick hair hanging to his shoulders. “That’s when I acquired this.”
“How fascinating.” It truly was. How did a duke become a privateer? Or was it the other way around? “I’d love to hear about your travels and how you came to have your earring.”
Stop. Don’t encourage him. You shouldn’t even be having this little tête-à-tête.
Ah, yes.
Scandal and disgrace awaited her if they were caught. Not to mention, Griffin would likely feel obliged to call Fletcher out. Why did men always think violence was the answer to disagreements? If women ran the world, Rayne was convinced there’d be far fewer wars.
She peered anxiously out the arbor’s opening. It wasn’t probable that anyone would come upon them, but it wasn’t impossible either.
Fletcher settled his large form beside hers, his granite-hard thigh brushing her gown just inches from her leg. This near, his clean, manl
y scent wafted to her.
Slightly spicy. Cloves?
She filled her lungs.
And a woodsy aroma.
Pine? Eucalyptus? Juniper?
Tucking her hair behind her ears, she faced him. And waited.
He’d sought her out after all.
Chin tucked to his chest, Fletcher appeared deep in reflection. He scratched beneath his lower lip with his thumbnail. At long last, he sighed and removed his hat. Laying it atop his knee, he rested his head against the arbor and gazed upward.
Weariness radiated from him, and Rayne wanted to brush back the errant lock of hair that had tumbled over his forehead when he’d scooped his hat off.
Hands clasped tightly to prevent any such unwise action, she continued to wait.
Without looking at her, he said, “The Duchess of Dandridge was purposely misinformed. Lady St. Lavelle spoke out of turn when she declared her daughter and I were to wed. I havena offered for Lady Sheldon-Furnsby’s hand, nor do I intend to. Ever.”
Resolution and conviction thickened his brogue and deepened the timbre of his voice.
Angling his head, he caught Rayne’s eye, and a tender smile bent his mouth.
She forbade her heart to skip about excitedly.
This was a serious business.
Furrowing her forehead, she put a finger to her cheek. The tale was so farfetched and fanciful that she was hard-pressed to believe him. But what motivation had he to lie to her about such a thing? Denying a betrothal was scandalous behavior. His good name would have a black mark upon it. Well, mayhap a slight smudge. Not that most of Society would care. Dukes could do no wrong.
“Are you suggesting she made the whole tale up?” Rayne spread her hands wide, bumping his shoulder. “Beg your pardon,” she mumbled, returning her hands to her lap.
A short grunt was Fletcher’s only response.
She wasn’t finished, however, and needed to be perfectly clear on the matter.
“Am I to believe her ladyship fabricated that nonsensical tripe and spread it about as if it were true? That was dreadfully bold and risky. Did she hope to entrap you?”
“Aye. Lady St. Lavelle and my mother are old friends. The two put their conniving’ heads together and hatched the scheme.”
Rayne plopped back against the bench. Why, she couldn’t imagine such interfering parents. Her mother had died too young to meddle in Rayne’s life, and Everleigh was all that was protective and considerate.
“That’s…that’s simply dreadful, Fletcher. I am truly sorry.” The latter seemed wholly inadequate. “Will they decry you and claim you broke the betrothal?”
Giving a derisive chuckle, Fletcher scrubbed a big hand over his jaw. His knuckles sported several ebony hairs.
“’Tis dangerous thwartin’ two strong-minded women, and I unwisely underestimated their deviousness. It willna happen again. They’ve desired a match between Cecelia—Lady Sheldon-Furnsby—and me for years. I’ve steadfastly refused.”
He wasn’t lying. She could see it in the resolve stamped upon his features.
“If Christ himself appeared and ordered me to wed Cecelia, I’d respectfully decline our Lord’s directive,” he said. “I shall never, under any circumstances, wed her.”
Steel underlaid Fletcher’s tone and the vehemence with which he made the harsh declaration.
“Why?” Rayne could’ve bitten off her tongue, yet genuine curiosity compelled her to ask. There wasn’t anything about this man she didn’t want to know.
Fletcher pointed his gaze overhead again and said nothing for an extended moment. So long, in fact, Rayne concluded he wouldn’t answer her prying question. The buzz of industrious bees accented the silence, and just when she was about to excuse herself to go inside, he finally replied.
“I dinna care for her in the way a man ought to for the woman he takes to wife.”
So Fletcher McQuinton was a romantic after all?
Had his parents’ marriage been a love match and he desired the same sort of union? Rayne’s father had died when she was but two years old. Nevertheless, her mother had spoken of him often—always with a faraway, dreamy gleam in her eyes.
In the muted light, Rayne searched Fletcher’s dear face. His stiffly held jaw, the tense lines framing his mouth, and the involuntary flexing of the inner corners of his eyebrows betrayed his continued disquiet.
There was something he wasn’t saying.
“What else, Fletcher?”
He took her hand in his large palm and brushed his thumb back and forth across the top. The gesture wasn’t the least sexual, but her body came to life, from her peaked nipples pushing against her chemise to her damp woman’s center.
Rayne ought to have been mortified at her immediate sensual response, but she wasn’t.
Only he had the power to do that to her.
Of its own accord, her attention drifted to his mouth. That dashed beautiful mouth.
She captured her lower lip between her teeth, praying he couldn’t read her wicked thoughts.
“Rayne?”
She glanced upward, meeting his smoldering gaze. Liquid blue-green fire blazed there.
“Yes?” she breathed, knowing before he said the words—nay hoping, praying—exactly what he would say.
“I want to kiss ye.”
“Oh, yes. Please.”
Did one say please in a moment such as this?
Did doing so make Rayne seem too desperate? A wanton?
The smile arcing his mouth made her questions and her qualms melt away like a lump of sugar in hot tea.
Tenderly cupping her cheek with one hand, Fletcher pulled her into his iron-like embrace with the other. She reveled in his steely arm surrounding her. Solid and firm and masculine perfection. So much more than she’d ever let herself imagine when she did daydream about a man holding her. Kissing her. Loving her with his body.
The last generally brought her plummeting unpleasantly back to reality.
Fletcher stared into her eyes for an interminable moment, the seconds dragging by in concert to the bees.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Then with a small smile playing around the edges of his lips, his eyelids drifted shut, and he covered her mouth with his.
Bliss. Pure bliss.
Rayne released a ragged sigh and, looping her arms about his corded neck, sagged into him and kissed him back.
His tongue lazily played with hers, tasting and exploring.
Unlike the disgusting kiss forced upon her when she was fifteen, he didn’t plunge his tongue into her mouth and make her gag. Nor did he roughly grope her breasts or mash her bottom.
He tasted of mint and fruit and Fletcher—not onions and spirits and unbrushed teeth.
Wanting their kiss to go on forever, Rayne melted further into him—until she was unsure where she ended and he began. She lost track of time—lost track of what was right and wrong. Forgot to be afraid or worry about her reputation.
And that was saying something indeed.
Fletcher was her world—her universe. He was all that mattered at this moment.
Every minute they spent in each other’s arms made her want more. Like a woman starved, she took everything he generously offered, and it still wasn’t enough.
“Fletcher,” she moaned against his mouth, arching into him.
At last, he broke away and, with his forehead pressed against hers, his breathing rasping and fitful, he said, “Nae more, lèannan. I canna control myself with ye. Ye are intoxicatin’. An irresistible aphrodisiac, Rayne Wellbrook.”
Intoxicating? An aphrodisiac?
Her?
Me?
And just like that, in the blink of an eye, as bees and butterflies drank nectar from fat blossoms, two more pieces of her heart became his.
It wasn’t until she lay in her bed late that night, reliving their kisses, that she recalled he’d never told her the what else she’d asked about.
What secret did he guard as fervently as she guarded
hers?
19 Bedford Square
One week later
The next week passed in a blur of activity as Fletcher’s first ship was outfitted, her crew hired, and the Misty Morning—Florence’s choice for the ship’s name—was readied to sale to India. The ship would return with spices, silk, linen, and tea, and hopefully the next ship—as yet unnamed—would be nearly ready to outfit as well.
He’d also written Greg and Florence, inviting them to come to London. It was too soon for a response, but he informed them that he had no immediate plans to return to Scotland. He would, of course, do so eventually. He wanted to. Just not quite yet.
A wry grin slanted his mouth.
A fortnight ago, he couldn’t wait to shake London’s coal dust from his boots. Now, however, thanks to an endearing, winsome wood nymph, he wasn’t sure when he’d leave. More on point, when he did eventually return home, would Rayne accompany him?
Conflict still raged within him about formally courting her. If he asked to pay his addresses, Sheffield would rightly expect a marriage proposal to be forthcoming.
Truthfully, Fletcher yearned to marry Rayne.
That knowledge horrified and delighted him.
And yet, a genuine terror that he’d make the same mistake his father had and that Rayne might end up as miserable and bitter as his mother kept him mute.
Rayne is nothin’ like Mother. Nothin’.
That inarguable truth was what kept Fletcher seeking Miss Rayne Wellbrook’s charming company. They’d shared three more clandestine garden meetings at the Sheffields’—each instigated by him. Citing her reputation and gossiping servants for her reluctance, Rayne steadfastly refused to come over the wall to his property again.
Though she eagerly responded to his kisses, he sensed she held something back. That she never completely let herself go. Fletcher wanted to ask her about her reservations, but doing so hardly seemed appropriate as they weren’t affianced, and he’d vowed to himself to not go beyond passionate kisses.
His bloody honor and that damnable pledge might be the death of him.
Could a man die of a permanent erection?
Nonetheless, his passion and desire for Rayne had become a raging inferno. He’d summoned Herculean restraint to keep their interludes to kissing and nothing more. By God, he wouldn’t tup her in a cramped garden arbor.
The Debutante and the Duke: A Regency Romance (Seductive Scoundrels Book 11) Page 7