by Nichole Van
Sometimes Rafe dreamed of just . . . leaving. Of selling everything of value he owned, adopting a new name, and sailing for America, disappearing into the wilderness—anything to escape the reach of Kendall’s long arm.
But he never could quite make the leap. His life was here. His friends and interests . . . and most importantly, his mother, the Duchess of Kendall, and his sister, Lady Katrina.
His mother, in particular, needed him. Her moods swung from day-to-day, moving from normalcy to melancholy and back again. She needed the steadiness of Kate and Rafe’s presence. He could not abandon his sister and mother to his father’s cruelty. Nor could he take them with him, not without more than the few paltry funds available to him.
And so . . . for the moment . . . Rafe could do nothing but nod his head and comply.
“As you wish, Sir.”
“I do wish,” his father said, tone menacing. “Stay away from that woman.” Kendall spoke through clenched teeth. “No son of mine will tarnish himself with such an association. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
His father continued to watch him with hooded eyes, chest heaving. The depth of Kendall’s vitriol surprised even Rafe.
How could a duel over three decades past still engender such hatred? Kendall had been the victor, after all. The one whose honor had been restored.
Of course, Mainfeld had won the lady in the end. Was that the source of the conflict? Had Kendall wanted Anne Sorrow neé Montague for himself?
If Rafe remembered correctly, his father had been betrothed to his mother—Lady Elspeth Gordon, daughter of Lord Ayr—at the time of the duel. His parent’s marriage had been one of convenience, arranged when Rafe’s grandfather had wished an alliance with the wealthy Scottish Lord Ayr. Had Kendall chafed against his father’s will, too?
But if so, why fight over Anne Sorrow? The woman was scandalous. And because of that, why would Kendall care if Mainfeld married her? Moreover, given the lady’s reputation, she would not refuse a dalliance even when married. Had Kendall and Lady Mainfeld been lovers at some point? Was a lover’s quarrel the true source of Kendall’s vitriol?
Or perhaps it was her ladyship’s current behavior that so repulsed Kendall?
Lady Mainfeld was grudgingly received, and her daughters bore the brunt of their mother’s shame. Despite Lord Mainfeld acknowledging her as his daughter, Lady Sophronia was clearly a nullius filia, a child of nobody.
A bastard.
Lord Mainfeld’s acceptance gave Lady Sophronia the veneer of legitimacy; legally, she was his child. But that did not matter to the high sticklers of the ton.
And the Duke of Kendall was the highest of sticklers. The man believed firmly in an ordered society, preferably one under his strict control. Lady Sophronia with her odd ways and murky parentage did not meet those standards.
Kendall sipped his brandy. “I have been lenient with you for the past several years, allowing you to associate with those not of your station.” His eyes dipped to Andrew’s letter. “Do not force me to rethink my decisions.” He waved his hand. “I am for Parliament tomorrow, but I will leave a list of tasks for you with Beadle. You are dismissed.”
Nearly biting his tongue to stem wayward words, Rafe bowed and left the room.
Once over the Trinity term holiday, Rafe had been forced to go fishing with Hawthorn. His brother had been his normal, boorish self, but fortunately, the salmon were plentiful. Eventually, Hawthorn abandoned his fishing pole, preferring instead to skewer the fish with his long hunting knife, pulling them onto the river bank, laughing maniacally at Rafe to join him.
As he climbed the stairs to his chambers, Rafe sympathized with those salmon, thrashing on the tip of Hawthorn’s sharp blade, pinned into place.
Unable to escape.
3
The second time Lord Rafe Gilbert encountered Lady Sophronia was eerily similar to the first.
The scene was Lord Bushnell’s mid-summer house party, and Lady Bushnell was the overly-anxious woman Rafe was avoiding.
Hearing her voice calling to him, Rafe ducked into the library, knowing Lady Bushnell had a frightful aversion to learning. But just to be sure, he darted behind the heavy curtains framing an oriole window. He pulled himself rigidly against the wall, the weighty fabric easily hiding him.
The door snicked open a second later, skirts rustling.
“Lord Rafe?” Lady Bushnell tentatively whispered. “Are you in here?”
More skirt rustling. The sound of timid footsteps.
“Lord Raf—”
“What are you doing in here, my dear?!” A man’s voice boomed, practically rattling the windowpanes.
“Eeeek!” Lady Bushnell gave a startled screech.
Rafe’s heart nearly stopped.
“Heavens above, dear husband,” Lady Bushnell tittered. “You gave me such a start.”
“How is it you are alone in here? You detest libraries. Are you meeting someone?” Lord Bushnell was no slow-top, Rafe would give the man that.
Rafe finally darted a glance to his right, looking across the bay window.
Lady Sophronia Sorrow met his gaze with pursed lips, her hands clasped together holding a burlap sack.
Rafe barely squelched his own jolt of surprise.
Lady Sophie, as he heard her called, was tucked behind the curtain opposite him. Clearly there had been a chain of events in the library this afternoon.
Rafe did not remove his gaze from her. As he had noted in their previous encounter two months past, Lady Sophie had breathtaking eyes, the shocking green of newly-grown grass in April.
Lady Bushnell giggled again. Papers crinkled.
“I was merely hoping to find that poem Mrs. White mentioned, the one by Lord Byron.” Her ladyship’s voice had taken a whining edge.
Lady Sophie rolled her beautiful eyes, communicating her opinion.
Rafe grinned. Unlike Lady Bushnell, Lady Sophie employed no artifice.
“How many times have I told you to leave off Lord Byron, my dear?” Lord Bushnell harrumphed. “’Tis a load of rubbish.”
Light from the window between them skimmed Lady Sophie’s face, catching reddish glints in her otherwise dark hair.
Rafe pondered her unusual beauty. Her wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and pointed chin lent her face a nearly fey look, as if a wood sprite had suddenly come to life.
Most importantly, he appreciated Lady Sophie’s quick mind and straight-forward manner.
Case in point, Lady Bushnell had now resorted to tears, accusing a beleaguered Lord Bushnell of upsetting her nerves with his loud accusations. Her noisy weeping filled the space.
Lady Sophie shook her head, eyes rolling again, carefully shifting the burlap sack to her left hand.
Rafe smiled wider.
Blast, but he liked her.
Which explained why he had been utterly avoiding her.
Rafe had heeded his father’s angry ultimatum.
No associating with Lady Sophronia Sorrow. Full stop.
But . . . he was hard-challenged to care while staring into Lady Sophie’s brilliant eyes.
A roll of frustration surged through him. Damn his father and his authoritarian ways. What did it hurt if Rafe spoke with Lady Sophie?
Lord Bushnell ushered his sobbing wife out of the library, the door shutting behind them with a resounding clack.
Lady Sophie raised her eyebrows at him.
Rafe knew he should walk away—bow, take his leave, and hope to hell that Kendall never caught wind of this encounter.
But Lady Sophie’s impossibly green eyes pinned him in place.
“We have a habit of meeting behind curtains, my lady,” he said, waving a hand at the gap between them.
“Indeed, my lord.” She bit her lip. “I am beginning to think you are quite the connoisseur of them.”
She did have a point.
“These are a lovely velvet.” He pushed the heavy fabric, causing it to ripple. “Italian, I should think.”
“Useful for hiding from angry husbands?” Her tone held a slightly acerbic edge.
“At times.”
“Is it instinctual?”
Rafe blinked.
He remembered this from their previous encounter. Lady Sophie had a way of abruptly turning a conversation.
“Pardon?”
“Is your raking instinctual?”
“My . . . raking?”
“Yes. Or do you create premeditated plans to rake women you encounter?”
His lips twitched. “I was unaware raking was a verb in this context.”
“It is—” She mimed a raking motion with her right hand. “— you bring them to you.”
Rafe smothered a chuckle. “I wonder if you understand what it means to be a rake.” He leaned toward her. “Not to mention . . . etymology.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Fortunately, we are not discussing grammar, but biology. And biology I do understand.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I have undertaken a study of the primus of each social group.”
As usual, Lady Sophie’s thoughts were racing ahead of him.
“The primus? I am unaware of that term.”
“It is my own word, in this context.” She bit that lower lip again. “You see, I spent last autumn with my father in south Yorkshire.”
Rafe pursed his lips, as he did not, in fact, see. He was unsure as to the precise direction of their conversation.
But Lady Sophie was so charmingly earnest and her face so lovely with the sunlight washing from left to right, that he simply did not care.
Basking in the husky timber of her voice was sufficient at the moment.
Lady Sophie thankfully continued. “My father is monstrously fond of hunting and even more passionate about hunting dogs. He keeps a large stable on an estate in Yorkshire. More importantly, the stables are home to a thriving colony of nearly feral Felis catus.”
“Cats?”
“Yes, barn cats, to be precise.”
“Of course.” Rafe said the words like it had already been a foregone conclusion that their conversation would progress from greetings to grammar to barn cats.
“So while my father happily purged the estate of pheasant and grouse, I spent my time studying the clowder of barn cats in the stables.”
“The . . . clowder?” Rafe paused. “I thought a group of cats was called a clutter?”
“I prefer the more modern clowder.” Her side-look said, Please keep up. “After several weeks of carefully observing the barn cats, I realized that there is a strict hierarchy among them. For example, a large male cat was the primus of the clowder.”
“The primus? The first?” he asked, translating the word from Latin. His brow furrowed. “What precisely do you mean?”
“The primus is the dominant feline, like the primus of a Roman cohort—the one who commands everyone else. For example, the primus of my barn cat clowder was a large, ginger tomcat. Other cats moved out of his way and offered him their spots when he wished them. Sometimes, they brought him offerings of mice and voles. When a kitten misbehaved or another cat balked, he would hiss and intimidate them. The primus acted like the lord of the manor, and every other member of his fiefdom had to bow to him.”
A thrill chased Rafe’s spine.
A primus of a biological group? Rafe had never considered the concept before, but it made absolute sense. Most groups of animals did seem to have a dominant member, like a Highland red buck over his harem of does.
This woman. She was utterly brilliant.
And so he said so.
“That is utterly brilliant.”
It was Lady Sophie’s turn to be taken aback, drawing that bottom lip fully into her mouth.
“Th-thank you,” she said, though her words were hesitant.
“And you bring up your clowder of barn cats and the idea of this primus because. . . ?” His voice trailed off, a question mark.
“Oh, because I cannot decide if you are a primus or not.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
“You think I resemble a dominant barn tomcat?”
“There are some similarities.”
“Truly? How do you figure?”
“Well, you patrol the edges of a ballroom, as if wishing to maintain your harem.”
“My harem?!”
“Well, yes, the pool of women you deem available for your . . . raking.” She mimed raking leaves again. “And, at times, you will chase off other males who express interest in a member of your harem, like I have seen you do with Lady Lilith, for example.”
Rafe’s head reared back. That was not . . . untrue.
“Based on your description, I am unsure if being labeled a primus is a good or bad thing,” he said.
A pause.
“Me, too.”
“Oh.”
“And, as I said, I am unsure if the label truly fits. Because there are other times, like this one—” She motioned to indicate the space where they were hiding. “—where you act not so much dominant as evasive.”
That was also true.
Lady Sophie was alarmingly perceptive.
Rafe paused, unsure how to navigate this conversation. He adored having no idea what Lady Sophie would say next. But he was also painfully aware that he should not be speaking with her. The consequences would be dire if Kendall found out.
“You have certainly been observant of my behavior,” he finally said.
“I find the genus Rakus to be a most fascinating subject.”
That startled a laugh out of him. “The genus Rakus?!”
Lady Sophie continued to bite her lip. “Erhm, yes.”
“You assign people to genuses?”
“Don’t you mean genera? That is the plural of genus, and you have already asserted a rather obnoxious attachment to proper word usage—”
He laughed again. “Yes, of course, but I belong to a genus?”
“Genus Rakus, yes. Species . . . lasciviosus.”
“So I am Rakus lasciviosus, a licentious rake . . . and you are?”
“Femina studiosa.”
A beat as Rafe parsed the label. “A studious female . . .” He thought further and then snapped his fingers. “A bluestocking!”
“Yes.”
“And do you often separate men and women into genus and species categories?”
“It seems appropriate, given the vast differences between male and female behavior, despite how mutually interdependent they may seem . . .” She paused and met his gaze, a hesitant wariness there. As if she had been lost in their conversation but abruptly awoke to the reality of him.
Did she assume that he was teasing her? That he mocked her?
“I am sincere with my questions.” He had to reassure her.
“I believe you.”
The silence stretched between them. It should have been awkward and clumsy, but instead it felt . . .
. . . comfortable, an aching sort of security. Of belonging.
Rafe longed to spend the entire day talking to her. He wanted to know everything that she saw and observed, every brilliant thought that winged through her clever head. He feared he would never tire of it.
In short . . . it was an unmitigated disaster.
She is not for you. You must leave.
Kendall’s position on Lady Sophronia was clear.
But first . . .
“Dare I ask why the sack you are holding is wriggling rather distressingly?” He pointed to the burlap bag in her left hand. It had been rolling and turning as she spoke.
“This?” She lifted it upright.
“Yes.”
“’Tis an albino Rattus norvegicus.” She paused. “The hall boy caught it in a trap and then wanted to torment it. I paid him six shillings to give it to me instead.”
“You have an albino brown rat in a burlap sack?”
“Yes.”
Rafe laughed. It burst free from his chest, a startled reflex.
T
his woman.
She would destroy him.
“May I?” He held out a hand for the sack.
She passed it to him.
He carefully peered inside.
A pair of blood red eyes stared up at him.
Why, yes, indeed it was an albino brown rat.
“Fascinating.” He passed the sack back to her. “What will you do with it?”
She shrugged, those lovely green eyes slid back to his as she spoke, pinning him. “Set it free, of course. It cannot help that it is different.”
Lady Sophie would rescue a wee beastie that stood apart. Such an action was, in the end, merely a reflection of her own uniquely astonishing self.
Rafe’s heart thumped in his ribcage, each beat more painful than the last, the organ seemingly expanding larger and larger, even though he assumed such a thing to be physically impossible.
He teetered perilously on the brink of falling head-over-heels in love with Lady Sophronia Sorrow.
And that would be the equivalent of declaring war on his father, a war that Rafe would not win.
Rafe was desperate to be free of his father’s iron grasp. Desperate to make his own decisions, to accompany Andrew on his trip to the South Pacific, to be his own man. But until he came into his inheritance, complying with his father’s demands was the only way to retain a modicum of freedom.
So Rafe did not spend hours talking with Lady Sophie, as he wished.
He did not bask in the warmth of her smile, or imagine a life where he could call upon her tomorrow.
Instead, he . . . panicked.
He did what he should have immediately done. He handed the burlap sack back to her, bowed with exacting precision, and left the room.
Because falling in love with Lady Sophronia Sorrow with her vivid eyes and sparkling intellect would destroy him in truth.
4
Rafe tried to stem the tide of his admiration for Lady Sophie. Truly he did.
Over the next three months, he threw himself into helping Andrew make final preparations for his voyage to the South Pacific. He bowed to his father’s every whim, hoping against hope that Kendall might relent and allow him to accompany Andrew. But that hope did not materialize. Andrew’s ship, The Minerva, was currently docked in Leith outside Edinburgh and would depart in the next two weeks. Rafe remained in London.