Page 88 of A Rogue to Ruin
Was she better off without him? Probably. Hadn’t he been telling her that since practically the moment they’d met?
Colton blew out a breath and dropped his hands to his sides. “I told you to tell her the truth. Now she’s going to be humiliated again with another broken betrothal.”
Rafe swallowed as Colton moved toward the doorway to the staircase hall. “You assume she’s going to end it.”
“What choice have you given her? The exposure of your past will take what everyone has already been talking about—your resurrection and betrothal to Anne—and twist it into an utter spectacle. After everything Anne’s been through, you can’t expect her to endure that again.”
It was a vicious blow to his gut so that Rafe nearly doubled over. Heshouldhave told her. Better yet, he never should have become involved with her at all. “I would still marry her,” he said softly, his soul aching.
She likely didn’t want him, and he’d have to accept that. Unlike his uncle, he would.
Colton pressed his lips together. “That will be up to her.”
“Will you tell her I’m sorry? And if she’s willing to hear me out, I will tell her anything and everything she wants to know.”
“I’ll try, but I may be persona non grata tonight with Anne and my wife.” Colton grimaced. “Anne may not want to see you again. Who you were is pretty damning.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “However, I know something about redemption, and about finding someone who can not only forgive you your sins but help you forgive yourself.” His eyes met Rafe’s. “I’ll do what I can, but expect the worst.”
“I always do.”
The footman had returned to give Rafe his hat and gloves. Taking the accessories, Rafe departed the house, setting off toward Upper Brook Street the same way he’d arrived: on foot.
The evening was warm, perfect for trouble. In his youth, he would have spent a night like this thieving and fighting, earning one of the myriad nicks from his opponent’s knife as they fought bare-chested amidst the cheers of their comrades, the light of the moon, and the scent of cheap gin.
He crammed his hat on his head and shoved his gloves into his pocket. Perhaps he should go looking for such trouble tonight. It would be a simple thing to return to one of the neighborhoods where he’d been a prince, where men and women had flocked to his side, eager for his approval and leadership. He could get any one of them to end his uncle’s existence. Rafe wouldn’t even have to do it himself.
Killing was one crime he’d avoided at all costs. Except for the singular occasion when there had been no other option. When vengeance had been wholly necessary. Even now, four years later, he felt no regret.
Still, he wouldn’t do it again. Unless he was driven by another’s violence. Not to him, but to those he cared about. Selina. Anne.
Hadn’t that violence already happened? Mallory had murdered his parents. He deserved the same fate as the man who’d killed Eliza.
A righteous anger welled within him. He abruptly pivoted and stalked back the way he’d come, passing Colton’s house and ignoring the pull he felt toward Anne. Onward he kept until he reached Bond Street.
Perhaps he wasn’t really meant to be the earl. Perhaps he wasn’t worthy.
Hailing a hack, he directed the driver to the only place he’d ever belonged. In the rookeries of East London, no one found him lacking.
There, he could be anything he wanted. He’d just do it alone.
Chapter 15
“You ride as if you were born on a horse,” the Viscount Northwood, Harry’s older-by-five-minutes twin brother, said as they walked their mounts from Green Park. “And this is only our second lesson. It’s nauseating, if you must know.”
“Thank you?” Rafe allowed himself to smile.
When Harry had suggested his brother teach him to ride, Rafe had bristled at first. But then he’d surrendered to sense. Heshouldride a bloody horse. Not just because he was going to be an earl, but because his father had wanted him to. His father had loved horses and planned to breed them at Stonehaven. Rafe was perhaps a ways off from doing that, but when he let himself look to the future—hopefully someday soon—he wanted to pursue his father’s plans.
“Are you ready to tell me what happened at the dinner last night?” North, what nearly everyone called him, looked at him askance as they rode through Berkeley Square.
Rafe hoped he looked accomplished enough on the horse so as not to draw notice. At least, no more than he was already receiving by currently being the most notorious man in London. He tugged his hat lower over his brow.
Rafe had told North about the dinner on Wednesday before their first lesson. When they’d set out earlier, North had inquired about it, but Rafe had avoided the question.
“Not particularly, but you’ll learn soon enough. My uncle is contesting my claim. He’s using my past as an orphan in East London who had to steal to survive as proof that I’m not up to the task.”
“Filthy whoreson.” North gave his head a shake. “I’m sorry to hear it. I’m sure you’ll prevail. No one is questioning your identity. The title is yours.”
“It will be.”
