Page 20 of The Rebel and the Rake

He closed her fingers firmly over his handkerchief, then pulled away. They touched for only a brief moment, but Sylvia felt the loss acutely, as if her own hand had been taken from her. Before she could say anything more, he stood and bowed as Georgiana joined him.

“My lady, you were extraordinary. I hope to have a chance to listen to you play again very soon.”

Georgiana blushed. “Really, it was nothing,” she demurred.

“Hardly,” he said with a smile before addressing Sylvia and Mrs. Crawford. “Thank you for allowing me to keep you company, ladies. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

Before either could respond, he swiftly turned and exited their row. Sylvia stared dumbfounded at his abrupt departure, still clutching his handkerchief.

Mrs. Crawford’s eyes followed him with a barely veiled moue of disapproval. “That man is incrediblyodd,” she pronounced.

Georgiana also kept her gaze on Mr. Davies. “Take pity on him, Aunt. I think the fellow is a bit out of sorts today.” Then she caught Sylvia’s eye and lowered her voice. “And I think I know the reason.”

Sylvia blushed and looked down at the handkerchief. She ran a finger over the finely embroideredR X Dat the edge done in a simple, classic scrollwork. She had seen gentlemen far lower in station with vastly more elaborate handkerchiefs and accouterments. The linen itself was of superior quality but soft from wear. Mr. Davies may be many things, but boastful and frivolous were not among them. This brought a smile to her lips as she folded the handkerchief and tucked it into her sleeve, where the brush of the linen against her wrist set her pulse throbbing anew.

***

After nearly kissing the tear from Miss Sparrow’s cheek in front of the entire room, Rafe resolved to keep his distance as much as possible. It was insupportable for a reprobate of the highest order to be affected by such a maudlin display of feminine emotion. And yet the thought of licking her salt from his lips had left him breathless. It was one thing to be pleasantly distracted by a pretty face, but the sheer force of his desire was alarming. He didn’t simply want to bed her, but to talk to her. To reveal things he spoke of to no one else. But hearing her speak about her childhood was a harsh reminder of the depths of his own deception. And the ache that followed had driven him from her company.

He still saw her briefly during the day, dutifully walking with her employer or emerging from the library with the dazed look of someone completely absorbed in their work. Then his ravenous eyes would devour her delicate features from across the room, while his ears stretched to listen to the few words that escaped those rosebud lips. On more than one occasion she caught him outright staring, but Rafe always made sure he was the first to turn away even as his body cried out in protest.

Instead he forced himself to indulge in the growing attentions of Lady Taylor-Smyth, who, like him, was an outrageous flirt. She was exactly the type of woman he should want. A meaningless dalliance while they were both at the castle would be entirely in keeping with his reputation—and frankly, it would be strange if he didn’t indulge. Rafe had often found such encounters acted as a much-needed release from the pressures of his work. And yet, even as he smiled at her bon mots and winked when her hand lingered just a touch too long on his arm, he could not muster any interest in pursuing things behind closed doors.

The rest of the time he focused on the search, making use of those fleeting hours when the guests were busy with entertainments and outings, leaving their rooms empty. But after three days he had uncovered nothing. Rafe needed to consider the possibility that he would not succeed.

Missions had gone belly up before, but to have Gerard know of his failure particularly grated. Rafe had so wanted to throw this success in his brother’s face and see that smug mouth thank him for his service. And there was a hell of a lot of things he was still willing to do to make that happen. Rafe hardly ever experienced jealousy or anger, emotions he considered largely useless. He had never minded when his lovers weren’t faithful or if someone excelled at a task he found difficult or even impossible. When his friends earned promotions or found love or uncovered secret inheritances, Rafe was always the first to offer his congratulations and always with genuine happiness.

But whenever he thought of Gerard, something ugly and rotten burned inside him. And every time he snuffed out the flame, it came back twice as hot. Rafe knew he should be above this. Knew he should work harder to control such emotions. And yet he could not summon the desire. It hadn’t always been that way. When he was a boy, there had been a fine portrait of his half siblings in his father’s study. Rafe used to spend hours playing under it, imagining all the adventures they would have once they were together. He was particularly dazzled by the very idea of his older brother, an interest that bordered on obsession. But, as his father explained over and over with a patience that still made Rafe’s heart ache years later, Gerard was away at school, then university, then traveling abroad. His father visited his other children occasionally, when estate business or governmental duties required him to return to England, but none of them ever came to see him at any of his diplomatic posts. Eventually Rafe realized that the long-wished-for reunion would never come and that the children he had imagined during those long lonely afternoons didn’t actually exist. It was some years hence before he fully understood why or learned how very deeply his half siblings’ loathing for him went.

Rafe began taking bracing walks late at night on the terrace that ran along the castle’s ground level. It was the only thing that helped clear his jumbled thoughts and kept his growing panic at bay. And it was during those turns breathing in the peaty fall air that he worked to unravel the case before him, as well as his growing attraction for Miss Sparrow. He had been bowled over by lust before and had succumbed to inconvenient desires, but this was a different kind of want. A different kind of need. Something that went beyond the physical. He had experienced a similar ache last spring when he met the woman who would become Alec Gresham’s wife. He had at first mistaken the former Lottie Carlisle for a delightfully fiery courtesan, but she had quickly set him straight with a solid slap he most certainly deserved. Lottie was only a young woman hopelessly in love with his idiot friend. But Rafe had greatly admired her spirit, even when he suspected her of having mercenary motives. Perhaps even more then.

There was the same kind of quiet indomitableness about Miss Sparrow, as if she could conquer far-off lands before sitting down to breakfast. But she could also be exceedingly wary. Reluctant to share even the most inconsequential details about herself. Rafe could usually spot a liar, but reticence was a different sort of challenge. As far as he knew, the only solution was to develop trust over time.

And then what? You will tell her about yourself?

Rafe stopped in his tracks and pressed his palms against a low stone wall, staring off into blackness. For nearly ten years he had lived behind an image he had created all in service to queen and country. But what had that left him with? The longer he stayed in this position, the more his old friendships had withered as his contemporaries got on with the business of real life. But Rafe didn’t have a real life anymore. He had traded it for the chance to be a different version of himself, and for many years that had been enough. More than enough. Now, though…now he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been caught up in a very long game of pretend, just like when he was a boy.

From a dozen yards away came the sound of a door opening. In the dim light emitted from the castle, Rafe could make out a figure stepping onto the terrace from the library. After several moments the faint glow of a match flared as the figure lit something and the smell of burnt tobacco wafted toward him. His heart warmed from long-ago memories of his father, who had ended every meal with a pipe. Rafe walked slowly toward the figure, taking care to muffle his footsteps as much as possible until he could determine who it was. Then decide if he felt like making his presence known.

The figure let out a soft sigh and moved into a streak of light from the library. Rafe’s breath caught. There was only one guest in the entire castle who would be caught dressed in something as sensible as a plain white shirtwaist and dark skirt or allow her hair to become even slightly disheveled.

Miss Sparrow.

Before he had time to think twice, Rafe approached her, his tread growing louder with each step. But she seemed entirely lost in thought. Rafe wasn’t daft enough to think he was on her mind, but that didn’t stop the little flicker of hope in his chest. She leaned back and blew an impressive ring of smoke into the air. It hovered for a moment like a halo before dispersing into the night.

“Hasn’t anyone told you that’s a filthy habit?”

Sylvia let out a short shout and nearly dropped what Rafe could now see was a small pipe. “Mr. Davies,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest before shooting him a glare. “Don’t you know it’s notpoliteto sneak up on a person?”

Rafe held up his hands. “So sorry. I should have announced myself immediately. But I wanted to see who you were first.”

Sylvia stared at him for an achingly long moment before the glare faded. Then she crossed her free arm just below her breasts, lifting them slightly. Rafe made sure to keep his eyes on her face. She may not possess the eye-catching curves of Lady Arlington, but there was still much to admire in her figure.

“I suppose I should be flattered, then,” she said flatly before she took another puff and blew the smoke out from the corner of her mouth. “I only smoke when I’m working, you know. I find it helps when I get stuck, or so I tell myself.”

“I’ve not seen many women smoke a pipe. At least, not in England.”

Sylvia held the instrument out and looked at it with something like fondness. “It was my father’s. It was the only thing of his I kept after he died.”

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