Taming Rafe (13 page)

“I think this is the best mix you’ve made yet, lass,” Mr. Greetham complimented the dark-haired sprite.

“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.” May glanced over at Rafe halfway down the gentle slope. “He looks angry.”

Felicity nodded, though she didn’t know how her sister could tell that just from looking at his backside, attractive as it happened to be. “I think he had an argument with Lord Deerhurst.”

“Should I bring him some lemonade?”

Felicity filled the remaining glass. “I’ll do it.”

She had to clear her throat twice before he would even straighten and look up. That was unusual, because he generally paid more attention to her than she was comfortable with. Well…that wasn’t quite true. She loved the way he seemed to hang on her every word. No one, and certainly no man, had ever done that before. Even the Earl of Deerhurst, polite as he was, seemed more interested in talking than in listening.

“My thanks,” he said, and pulled off his gloves. Their fingers brushed as he took the glass, and the familiar tingle jangled down her spine.

She was becoming used to the sensation, and in fact sought it out by touching him. “Are you feeling well?” she asked, trying to be as diplomatic as she could and still discover what in blazes had happened.

“Nothing a pint of whiskey wouldn’t cure.”

He downed half the glass of lemonade, trickles running down his chin to mingle with the damp sheen of sweat on his throat. Felicity watched, mesmerized. Sweet and salty…what would it taste like if she licked it off? She shivered in the heat.

“James…can be a bit monotonous, I’ll concede. But he means well.”

“Is it your intention to marry Deerhurst?” he asked stiffly, as though getting the words out was difficult for him.

“What? Is that what he told you?”

“No. Not…precisely.”

“Then what did the two of you discuss, pray tell?”

He shook his head. “It really doesn’t—”

“Don’t you dare tell me it doesn’t concern me,” she interrupted, lifting her chin. “Clearly it does, or you wouldn’t have asked that ridiculous question.”

His light green eyes caught hers. “Is it ridiculous?”

She held his gaze, a hundred inappropriate and highly improper responses coming to mind. Flushing, she stammered something incoherent and then turned on her heel and headed up around the vanished wing of the house.

“What?” he called after her.

“I said, ‘Everything you say is ridiculous!’” She sped up her retreat, figuring he wouldn’t bother following her.

“Lis?”

Damnation. He
had
followed her. She couldn’t outrun him, nor did she want to make a spectacle of herself by trying, so she stopped and turned around. “What?”

“Deerhurst made me an offer for Forton Hall.”

For a moment she couldn’t breathe. “He did?” she asked almost soundlessly, her hands and feet turning to ice.

“He did.”

It had been bound to happen sooner or later. Forton Hall couldn’t go unsold forever. She’d just hoped it would be much later—though the logical part of her kept asking why it made a difference whether Rafe or someone else owned it, and why in some ways it still felt like hers. “Well, I’m happy for you.” She turned to escape.

Rafe grabbed her arm and spun her back around. “He offered me seventy thousand quid.”

Felicity looked at him. “Seventy thousand pounds?”

He nodded. “That was after I refused his offer of fifty.”

“Forton Hall isn’t worth nearly that any longer!”

“I know.”

“Even so, it’s a great deal of money, Rafe! Why didn’t you agree, for heaven’s sake?”

Rafe hesitated. “I couldn’t help wondering what he thought he was purchasing.”

Abruptly she realized what he was implying. “James has been asking me to marry him since I turned eighteen. He knows my feelings. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Rafe took a step closer. “So I should accept his offer?”

“You shouldn’t use wild speculation as a reason not to.” In a sense, though, Rafe was right; with
no time yet for a reply to any of her queries about work, she and May would be trapped and homeless unless the squire took them in—or unless James did.

“So I should accept his offer,” he repeated.

“Rafe, Forton Hall is yours. You—”

“I told him I would think about it,” he interrupted, his exasperated expression showing he was tired of her evasiveness.

“Oh. Well. Good, then.”

“After all, I can say yes in a month as easily as I can tomorrow. You…should have yourself fairly well straightened out by then, don’t you think?”

He was giving her time. He was willing to sit about decaying old Forton Hall instead of beginning his exciting, dangerous travels, just so she would have time to hear whether she’d found employment. “I…I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t know about that.” He smiled. “Besides, I’m having fun.”

Felicity stepped closer. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

She leaned toward him, boldly wrapping her fingers into the loose ties at the open neck of his shirt. Tugging herself up against him, she touched her lips to his. Rafe’s hands slid around her waist, bringing them closer still. His lips tasted of lemonade and sweat, sweeter and saltier than she had imagined. Her whole body felt warm and tingly. His mouth parted a little, teasing at hers and making her feel as though she were about to melt.

She moaned, and slipped her hands up around his broad shoulders. She wanted to devour him, to feel his hard, slick body all over; to taste his salty chest; to—

“Lis?”

With a gasp Felicity pulled away, just as May pranced around the corner. “What is it, May?” she asked with as much calm as she could, knowing her face must be flushed.

“Mr. Greetham has to drive into Pelford for a new saw blade. Might I go with him and get a pastry?” May looked at the two of them a bit strangely, and for once Felicity wished her sister wasn’t so bright and inquisitive.

“Of course, dear.” Belatedly she realized Rafe still had one hand about her waist, and she brushed it away. She didn’t dare look at him; she could feel his arousing heat just by standing beside him.

“Bring me back one,” he said, his voice more controlled than hers, and flipped May a sovereign.

May grinned as she caught it. “Aye, aye, Captain.” She saluted and marched back around the corner.

Felicity started after her. Before she’d taken more than a step or two, Rafe grabbed her hand and pulled her back up against his chest.

“Not so fast, Lis,” he murmured, and bent his head to capture her mouth again.

After a surprised moment, Felicity kissed him back with renewed hunger. Finally he lifted his head and looked down at her.

“You’re absolutely smashing,” he said, grinning. “Top of the trees.”

Even though she half wished he would stop talking and kiss her again, she had to chuckle. “Let go,” she ordered, pushing at his hands. “Someone will see.”

He released her waist, sliding his fingers down her arms and taking her hands. “You run an estate and raise your sister, all on your own, and you don’t want anyone to see us kissing?”

“Running an estate makes me odd. Kissing you would make me ruined,” she said, her voice unsteady. She used to be much more sensible; she was certain of it.

“Haven’t you talked to Mrs. Denwortle lately? You and I have been carrying on an illicit love affair since I arrived in Cheshire—and possibly even before that.”

She stared into his amusement-filled eyes with horror. “I’ll kill her!”

“I hardly think that would help your reputation, my dear. Though it’s not a bad idea.”

“This is not funny! And it just points up why we can’t continue behaving this way. It’s not seemly.”

“Beg pardon, but didn’t
you
just kiss
me
?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“But two minutes later it’s unseemly.” He pursed his lips. “I’m afraid if you expect me to stop kissing you, you’re going to have to come up with a better reason than that.” He ran his thumb along her lower lip. “A much better reason.”

Felicity really wasn’t all that interested in thinking up a better reason. Neither, though, did she want to risk losing her heart to someone she’d known so briefly and who planned to sail off to China and parts unknown for the next ten years.

“Hm. How about if I tell you the taxes are nearly due, and Forton has no money with which to pay them?”

Slowly his hand dropped. “What about your tenants’ rent?”

“
Your
tenants, you mean,” she corrected gently. “The seed washed out, and…Nigel wanted a new phaeton.” The memory of her brother’s selfish stupidity tightened her throat, so that the words nearly made her choke. “We couldn’t provide replace
ment seed, so to compensate we reduced the rent. Half the remaining tenants have left since then.”

For a long moment he looked at her. “How much do we—I—owe?”

“One hundred and eighteen pounds.”

He blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“It could be worse,” she hedged, for the first time grateful that Forton’s problems were someone else’s responsibility.

“And how is that?” Rafe asked skeptically.

She smiled. “You could come from a poor family.”

Immediately she realized that she’d said the wrong thing. Rafe’s expression hardened, and he turned on his heel. She watched him vanish around the far wing of the Hall. A few moments later he reappeared on Aristotle, and rode off toward the trees. Felicity retrieved the glasses of lemonade and returned them to the kitchen. No doubt Rafe was now regretting having turned down Lord Deerhurst’s offer. Seventy thousand pounds would see him a long way from run-down Forton Hall, and from her.

“Blast it,” she muttered, sitting at the kitchen table.

Earlier, he’d mentioned some sort of tension between him and his father, and that he didn’t like the idea of taking Bancroft family money. And then she’d gone and told him to ask Papa for help. Coming from someone who wouldn’t ask for a rope if she fell down a well, her presumption was appallingly thick-witted.

Another, more disturbing thought rattled her. Rafe had ridden toward Deerhurst. What if he’d gone to tell the earl he’d changed his mind?

“Oh, good Lord!” She lurched to her feet, nearly overturning her chair. Halfway out the door,
though, she stopped. Forton Hall belonged to Rafe. As much as she loved it and needed it, she had no right to it.

Not any longer.

R
afe slammed his fist against the desk, and had the satisfaction of seeing his solicitor jump. “You’ve had no offers?”

John Gibbs cleared his throat. “No, sir. No offers.” He shuffled the papers on his desk. “Not even any inquiries.”

“I know I asked you to be discreet, but you did put out word, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course, sir. It’s just that, well, with the Season and all, no one’s—”

“Damn.” Rafe sat back in his chair. “Nothing?”

“No, sir.”

That offer from Deerhurst was looking better and better. “Advertise in the newspaper,” he decided. “Nothing too gaudy, and make Forton sound…comfortable. And for God’s sake, don’t mention my name.”

The solicitor looked puzzled. “I don’t understand, sir. Your ownership of the estate is no longer in dispute, and to be blunt, given the present condition of Forton Hall, the Bancroft name is your major selling point.”

Rafe sighed. “Just use your name as the contact, will you?”

“As you wish. I, ah, will need to pay for the advertisement in advance.”

Rafe eyed him. “How much?”

“For a discreet ad, twenty shillings. Per week.”

Cursing under his breath, Rafe produced the correct change and dumped it on Mr. Gibbs’s desk. “Just remember, Gibbs, I want Forton to sound nice. And pleasant.” He stood.

“Yes, sir.”

Rafe strolled back out to the cobblestoned street and whistled Aristotle over. The bay stayed close by his left shoulder as he wandered past the scattering of shops and residences toward Mrs. Denwortle’s establishment. They were nearly out of fresh peaches, Lis’s favorite.

Gibbs was right about the interest the Bancroft name would draw, and using it to sell Forton Hall had been his original plan. Now, though, he had no intention of doing so. He merely wanted to sell the estate to someone who would appreciate it—not to someone attracted to Cheshire by the Bancroft name. Why he’d suddenly become so concerned about the Hall’s future well-being, he had no idea. “Like hell, you don’t,” he muttered to himself, and Aristotle snorted at him. Apparently even his horse knew better.

Ever since he’d arrived, he’d been adding conditions to the sale. Rafe ran a hand through his tawny hair. There was no use denying it: He felt responsible for the Harrington ladies. Their brother’s stupidity certainly wasn’t his fault. It was just that they had no one to turn to—no one but him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bancroft,” Mrs. Denwortle said, as he entered her shop.

“Good afternoon. Lovely weather we’re having.” She aggravated him no end, but at least he
seemed to irritate her, as well. He continued to work on refining that aspect of their relationship, but he had to admit that she was a fairly imposing opponent.

“Oh, yes, lovely. Nights are still a bit chilly, though. What brings you into Pelford on such a fine day?”

Rafe shrugged. “A little business, and some supplies.”

“Goodness me. What sort of business would the son of the Duke of Highbarrow have in little Pelford?”

“Estate business.” He had little liking for gossips, and in London, he would have told the shopkeeper just what he thought of her curiosity. Here, though, he had the standing of the Harrington ladies to consider. So he would be polite—to a point.

“Oh, my. ‘Estate business.’ That sounds grand.”

“Mm-hm. Half a dozen peaches, if you please.” He looked at the shelf behind her, and strands of bright colors caught his eye. “Are those new hair ribbons?”

“Oh, yes. They arrived from Paris just this morning. Lovely, aren’t they?” She waddled over to collect the fruit.

Rafe scowled at her back. “Yes, they are.” He knew full well if he purchased one of the ribbons for May or Lis, Mrs. Denwortle would see that the entire county knew he was providing Miss Harrington with her wardrobe. On the other hand, Lis would like a new hair ribbon, blast it all, as most of hers had perished in the collapse of the west wing.

His army training provided the answer: what he needed was a distraction. He spied a music stand in the corner, and immediately hit on the solution. “Ah, that reminds me. Where might one find mu
sicians to hire? And I’ll take two of those ribbons. A blue and a green.”

She froze, mid-step. “Musicians? What sort of musicians?”

Ha
. “The sort that play instruments.” Rafe leaned up against the counter and put his chin in his hand. “Out of doors. And I changed my mind. Yellow and blue ribbons.”

Hurriedly she pulled the ribbons off their peg, wrapped them in paper, and placed them beside the peaches. “Oliver Hastings plays the fiddle at the Childe of Hale when he’s short of whiskey money.”

“I had something a little more substantial in mind, but thank you, anyway. What do I owe you?”

“Twelve shillings.”

Rafe handed over the change and lifted the sack of goods. “My thanks.”

“The Denleys had an orchestra at their Christmas soiree last year. I’d be happy to—”

“Good, I shall inquire of them,” he interrupted, before she could arrange for the London opera’s orchestra to come out and bankrupt him. “Thank you again, Mrs. Denwortle.”

“Oh, it just occurred to me. Chester has a church choir.”

“I’ll consider that. Thank you.”

Aristotle had become accustomed to toting packages, and he didn’t object as they headed back down the road. As they crossed the bridge over Crown Creek, Rafe noticed that an additional section of fence along Forton’s western border had collapsed. It wasn’t much of a barrier, just two rows of weather-beaten lumber. Even so, it marked the end of his land and the beginning of Deerhurst’s, and he decided to repair it first thing in the
morning. The more distance between himself and the earl, the better he liked it.

Slowly he drew Aristotle to a stop.
My land
. He’d never really thought of it that way before. The field sloping down from the creek and the scattering of trees to the northeast belonged to him. He owned the cattle and sheep grazing along the near side of the creek. For someone who had depended on a disapproving father for practically every farthing in his possession, it was a very odd feeling. And a comfortable one.

Rafe shook himself and sent Aristotle into a trot again. He was far too young to be succumbing to comfort. He would be comfortable when he was old and gray and had gout. And this land would be his for only another few weeks, until he found a buyer. He didn’t have the blunt to be sentimental.

The Hall was in sight again before he remembered that he needed to send one hundred and eighteen quid to King Georgie if he wanted to hold on to the estate long enough to sell it. Out of the five hundred pounds he’d arrived with, only ninety-three would remain after taxes. “Blast it,” he muttered, as his crew of gardeners came into view along the north side of the manor house.

Felicity straightened as he neared, and a shiver of anticipation ran down his spine at the sight of her. He wanted her, as he’d wanted her since he’d come to on her kitchen floor and seen those dark, expressive eyes looking at him. He needed to apologize to her for being so curt; it wasn’t her fault that he could barely stand to be on the same continent as his father.

“Peaches,” he said, lifting the sack as he passed her.

She smiled, and he grinned back, absurdly pleased that she approved his selection. This was
getting ridiculous. Next, he’d be bringing her flowers and…Rafe stifled a scowl as he dismounted. Flowers and hair ribbons, or something.

Rafe seemed in a better temperament as he rejoined them in the garden. At least he’d gone into Pelford instead of riding off to be rid of Forton Hall. And he’d brought back fresh peaches, of all things. She
loved
peaches. Felicity couldn’t figure him out at all.

“In Africa,” he said, strolling up beside her, “It’s the women who tend crops and gather roots.”

“And what do the men do?”

“Hunt gazelles and drink fermented cows’ milk mixed with blood.”

She wished he could be content with the gazelles he’d already hunted. “That sounds dreadful.”

“Actually, the stuff’s so potent that if you can get that first swallow down your gullet, you don’t care what the rest of it tastes like.”

“So you’ve imbibed?”

He laughed. “Repeatedly.”

And she’d tried to fool herself into thinking that Rafe Bancroft would be content with something as tame as growing roses. “Oh, dear,” she said, turning away so he wouldn’t see the disappointment on her face. “Speaking of taste, I need to get dinner started.”

He touched her shoulder, stopping her. “Lis, I wanted to apologize.”

“There’s no need,” she said, pulling away. “We both merely lost our heads for a moment. It won’t happen again, I’m sure.”

She fled inside. Once there, though, she puttered aimlessly about the kitchen, wishing she’d never given into her silly desires and kissed him like that. Before, at least she could have blamed it on him.

Of course, if she hadn’t liked the way he kissed so much before, she wouldn’t have been tempted into doing it again. So maybe it really was his fault. Felicity put her hands on her hips as annoyance replaced her embarrassment. Why had he apologized? He’d kissed her before and apparently hadn’t regretted it.

When he stepped through the kitchen door a few minutes later, she rounded on him. “What do you mean, apologizing for kissing me?
I’m
the one who kissed
you
, and
I
apologize.”

“I was apologizing for being sharp with you,” he said, looking surprised. “And why are you apologizing for kissing me? It was very nice, I thought.”

She blushed. “Oh. Well, thank you. But even so, it was stupid, and we shouldn’t do it again.”

He shook his head and pushed away from the door to join her. “It was not stupid, and we should definitely do it again. It only gets better, believe me.”

She shoved firewood into the bottom of the oven and brushed past him to set a pot on the stove to boil. “I think you should go back to selling my home so you can go drink fermented cows’ milk with the Zulus again.”

“It was the Masai.”

“Whatever.” Good Lord, she wished he would go away—she couldn’t think straight when he was standing so close.

Rafe grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. “Why don’t you want me to kiss you again?”

“Let me go, you big oaf!”

He released her arm but remained standing directly in front of her, willing her to meet his gaze. “Explain, Felicity.”

She backed away and hurried to find some turnips. “It’s perfectly clear to me. I’ve already agreed to work for you, and I certainly have nowhere else to go at the moment. You don’t need to play at flirting with me.”

“Play?” he repeated, snatching the turnips away from her. “What in hell makes you think I had some motive besides simply wanting to kiss you?”

“You did,” she answered evenly, trying to keep a rein on her own temper.

“I did?” He held her gaze, his eyes searching hers. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me then, after all. I took a blow to the head recently, and it seems to have damaged my ability to fathom nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. Don’t be so stupid.”

His eyes narrowed. “Beg pard—”

“You’re the one who’s been to Paris and Africa and everywhere,” she interrupted.

He took a step closer. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Felicity wanted to whack him. “You don’t know how to run Forton, so you decided you needed me about. That’s why you’re being so nice to me.” She wanted to point out that he’d made it quite clear he had no intention of staying in Cheshire, but she didn’t want to remind him if he had by some miracle forgotten.

Rafe glared at her. Abruptly, though, his expression cleared. He glanced down at the turnips in his hands, and tossed one into the air. Catching it deftly, in a moment he had all three vegetables circling with dizzying proficiency. “I’m nice to you because I enjoy your company, Lis. I’d begun to hope you enjoyed mine.”

Her pulse jumped. Damn him, he could make her insane just by saying the simplest, most straightforward—if improper—things. But she could play
that game, as well. Putting her hand to her heart, she smiled shyly. “Are you asking me to marry you, Rafael?”

The turnips careened into the air and hit the floor.

“Oh, now you’ve bruised my roots.” She clucked her tongue at him. “Do go fetch me some more, dear.”

For a moment he stared at her, then burst into laughter. “You are devastating, Lis.”

“So I’ve been told.”

May burst into the kitchen. “What are they for?” She ran forward, her cheeks flushed, to tug on Rafe’s hands. “What are they for?”

His expression baffled, Rafe looked from Felicity down to May. “What are what for, sweetling?”

“The musicians! Mrs. Denwortle said you’re hiring the same orchestra the Denleys used at Christmas! Are we having a party?”

Felicity saw a muscle in his cheek twitch. “Oh,
them
,” he said, nodding. “You confused me for a moment. I, ah, wanted it to be a surprise, but yes, we are having a party. Of sorts.”

“What sort of party?” Felicity asked, surprised. “We—you—can’t afford to have a—”

“It’s a working party,” he broke in, smiling dazzlingly at her.

She’d seen that sort of smile before. It was the very same one Nigel used when he was embarking on some outlandish scheme. She folded her arms. “Explain, please.”

“Well,” he said, turning May around so that her excited, delighted expression squarely faced her older sister, “the stable…yes, the stable is a complete disaster. I can’t afford to hire a crew to pull it down, so—”

“You’ve managed to have a crew here nearly every day,” she noted dryly.

“So I thought, why not provide music and host an al fresco, potluck sort of soiree, the highlight of which would be the razing of the stable?” He looked at her expectantly.

“It sounds reasonable, I suppose,” she admitted, still suspicious. “But I don’t like the idea of using our neighbors as slave labor.”

He grinned. “If I can get them to volunteer, it’s not slave labor. Besides,” and he dragged May a step closer to her, “with the stable gone, you can hardly banish me to sleep in it again.”