Taming Rafe (8 page)

The use of her nickname startled her, and a soft blush crept up her cheeks. When she turned back to Deerhurst he was looking at her, his own expression distinctly disapproving.

“Who is this…Bancroft?” he asked, wiping his gloved hand against his trouser leg.

“I told you who he is,” Felicity answered. Dash it, defending her decision to take Rafe in was becoming a damned nuisance. She wished everyone would just mind their own business—at least until the roof was repaired. “An old friend of Nigel’s.”

“He isn’t staying here, is he?”

“Was there something you wanted, James?”

His face reddening, he sputtered for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Of course I would never question your good sense, but you know I worry about your being here all alone.”

Declining to inform him that May had turned out to be quite an efficient bodyguard, Felicity put a hand on his arm. “I know, and I appreciate your concern. But it’s really not necessary, my lord. Truly.”

“Even so, I would feel so much better if you would—that is, if you and May would stay at Deerhurst until Nigel’s return.”

Everyone seemed to want her to abandon Forton, as though having Nigel present made any real difference whatsoever. “That isn’t necessary, either.”

“At least let me help pay for some of the repairs to dear old Forton Hall.”

Her eyes narrowed at the second mention of charity that day. “Very kind of you to offer, but again, unnecessary, James. As you can see,” and she gestured at Dennis Greetham high up on the roof, “we have matters well in hand.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Lemonade, Lis?” May asked, holding a pair of glasses.

Rafe came behind her carrying a tray laden with a pitcher and two more glasses. Fleetingly she wondered whom they were excluding from the refreshment party. When she glanced over at her stable guest and found his eyes on her, it became rather clear.

“Mr. Bancroft, Lord Deerhurst is Forton’s neighbor to the east,” she explained, lifting a glass from the tray and handing it to the earl. Was it the heat or Rafe’s direct gaze that was making her pulse quicken? “We’ve all known one another forever.” And knowing her for three days did not give the supposed second son of a duke the right to behave rudely—especially toward an actual earl with an actual title and an actual estate.

“Oh, yes,” Deerhurst smiled, taking the glass, “we all grew up together. Which is why I was surprised that I’ve never heard you mentioned before today.”

“I’ve known Rafe forever,” May interrupted, and took their stableguest’s hand in her small one. “Let’s go give Mr. Greetham some lemonade.”

Oh, dear, now everyone was behaving atrociously
. “May, why don’t you ask Mr. Greetham to come down and join us?”

“All right.” Scowling, May stomped off toward the ladder.

“And don’t you climb up there,” Felicity ordered.

“Damnation.”

“May!” She turned to Rafe. “Now you see what you’ve done?”

He grinned and took a long swallow of lemonade, droplets running down his chin.

“How long do you intend to stay here, Bancroft?” the earl asked.

“Just until Nigel’s return,” Felicity said hurriedly, before Rafe could begin talking about the forged title and dukes and Africa.

“He’s selling me the place.” Rafe drank again, watching her over the rim of the glass as he emptied it.

“
What?
” The color draining from his face, Deerhurst stared from her to Rafe and back again.

“Nigel is doing no such thing,” she stated, glaring at Rafael. “Mr. Bancroft is only teasing.”

Deerhurst looked at the two of them again, then forced a disbelieving laugh. “Well, I must say, it wasn’t very amusing.”

Felicity took the glass from the earl’s hand and propelled him back toward his phaeton. “No, it wasn’t. But you needn’t worry about losing the Harringtons as neighbors.”

The earl smiled as he craned his neck to keep Rafe in view. “I should hope not. You are my dearest friends.” He clutched her hand to his chest. “My very dearest friends.”

“Of course we are,” she soothed.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Felicity freed her hand, wondering what had upset him so much. Other than his annoying habit lately of offering to lend her large sums of money, which thankfully hadn’t begun until after Nigel left, he was unexceptionally pleasant. In addition to that, he was her one and only suitor.

He stepped up onto the phaeton and took his seat. “Are you still going to attend the Wadsworth dinner on Thursday? Because I did want to chat with you.”

“I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you there.”

Deerhurst snapped the reins, and his gray gelding turned toward the drive. Felicity watched the carriage out of sight, then, furious, turned to find Rafe. He had vanished. “Where is he?” she asked, her teeth clenched.

“He went into the stable,” May said, pointing. “Are you mad?”

“No,” she said brightly. “I merely need to clear up a little misunderstanding.” Hiking up her skirt, she strode toward the stable.

“She’s mad,” her sister informed Mr. Greetham.

“Aye.”

“I am not,” Felicity called back over her shoulder.

Rafe was brushing down Aristotle when she stormed into the stable and stomped to a halt.

“How dare you!” she snapped, hands on her hips.

He turned to face her. “How dare I what?”

“You promised you wouldn’t go about announcing your supposed ownership of my estate!”

“I didn’t,” he corrected her. “I said I was
going
to be the owner. I thought that was quite decent of me.”

“Decent? You practically threw Lord Deerhurst out of the house on his ear.”

He dropped the brush into a bucket. “He was practically drooling on you. You should thank me.”

Rafe’s apparent calmness didn’t soothe her own pounding heart in the least. “He’s dear friend,” she protested.

“Then he should have offered to climb up on the roof and help us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a nobleman!”

“Not much of one.”

Felicity wasn’t sure why she was so angry, but
she knew for certain that it was his fault. “You know nothing about him, and don’t you dare presume to run my few acquaintances away!”

Wishing she had a tea kettle, she stormed past him. He grabbed her arm, and spun her back to face him. As she took a breath to shout at him again, he leaned down and softly touched his lips to hers.

“My apologies,” he said, straightening.

She blinked, realizing she was leaning up toward him, her mouth half open. “What…what for?” she stammered.

“For running your acquaintances away.”

Felicity struggled to remember what they’d been arguing about. “And the kiss?” she demanded, trying to rally her indignation, when what she really wanted was for him to kiss her again—immediately, so this time she could memorize it.

Rafe shook his head, running his thumb across the sensitive corner of her mouth. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

Damnation, she was leaning again. “Then…then what, pray tell, was it?”

“Practice. You’ll know when I’ve kissed you, Lis.”

Rafe strolled past her out the door. As he disappeared in the direction of the ladder, Felicity took an abrupt seat on a bale of hay. He intended to kiss her again. Was that a threat—or a promise? Slowly she reached up and traced her lips with one finger. So
that
was a kiss. “My goodness.” A shivering thrill went down her spine.

Then she remembered that he was demented. “Dash it all,” she whispered. For a moment longer she sat, wishing that Rafe Bancroft could be who and what he claimed, and that for longer than the space of one kiss, she could regard him the least
bit seriously. Then she rose, swept hay off her skirt, and went back into the house. She’d learned a long time ago that wishing was a poor substitute for reality.

S
ometimes, Rafe decided, he could be an absolute blithering idiot. “Just practice,” he muttered, as he secured the last of the available shingles. “
You’ll know when it’s for real
.” Disgusted, he blew out his lips. “Jackass.”

“What’s that, Bancroft?” Greetham, partway down the ladder, popped his head back up over the eave to eye him curiously.

“Just talking to myself,” he said, dropping a hammer and an old, rusty saw down to the ground.

“Miss May said you were a bit soft-headed.” Greetham continued his descent.

Rafe leaned over the edge of the roof, torn between affront and amusement. That little chit had a mouth on her, for damned certain. So did her sister. “I am not soft-headed. I had an accident the other day. That’s all.”

“No need to explain to me. I’m just a simple farmer.”

As the farmer reached the ground, Rafe started down the ladder, chuckling as he descended. “Simple farmer, my ass. Do you have any appointments planned for tomorrow?”

“‘Appointments,’ is it? Well, I’m having tea with the king and Lady Jersey, but—”

“Good God, why?” Rafe grimaced. “They’re dull as mud.”

“Rafe.”

At the sound of Felicity’s voice, he jumped. Her voice was pretty, with a soft, musical lilt quite at odds with her claims of practicality. He found himself wondering if she could sing, until he noticed Greetham staring at him.

Shaking himself out of his daydream, he turned to face his hostess. “Lis?”

She hesitated for a moment, and he could see the censure in her mobile expression at his use of her given name. Now that he’d gotten away with it, though, he wasn’t about to give up the privilege. Sweet Lucifer, he’d already kissed her. “Miss Harrington” simply would not do.

“Please don’t pester Mr. Greetham,” she said. “He has his own responsibilities.” Felicity scowled at him for another moment, then turned to her tenant. “How are Mrs. Greetham and Sally and the boys?” she asked with a warm smile.

“Glad to be rid of me for the day, to be sure, Miss Harrington.” He smiled. “I’ll tell Rosie you asked after her.”

“I would be grateful.” She put a hand on his arm. “And thank you for all your help today, Mr. Greetham.”

The stout farmer actually blushed. “No need, miss. ’Twas my pleasure.” He doffed his cap at Rafe. “Good evening, Bancroft.”

“Greetham.” Rafe watched the farmer hop up to the wagon seat and start down the drive with his mules, then turned to find Felicity. She was gone, vanished back into the house. “Damn,” he muttered, not blaming her an ounce for wanting to escape him. He generally wasn’t so clumsy with his seductions. He’d been attempting to charm her, for
God’s sake, not to drive her and May out of Forton. “Idiot.”

Dinner was finely roasted pigeon. Landed gentry or not, she cooked better than Quin’s old chef at Whiting House in London. And he’d wager a month’s army pay that neither the famous Lady Jersey, nor any of her flighty, fluttering, titled friends, could roast a pigeon if it jumped into the oven for them.

Felicity kept giving him dark glances throughout the meal. Rafe couldn’t tell if she was angry with him for kissing her or for calling her by her first name, but he wasn’t about to ask.

Over a bottle of brandy Quin had once tried to describe how he felt when he kissed Maddie for the first time, and the resulting jumbled mishmash of fluff from his cool-headed brother had started Rafe laughing so hard he’d nearly tumbled to the floor. To his growing horror, some of the nonsense Quin had spouted suddenly made sense. He kept catching himself watching her, wondering what she might be thinking.

Certainly he didn’t regret kissing her. Her presence made his stay in Cheshire very interesting. But he’d kissed women before. He’d had affairs and lovers and several complete disasters before. Never, though, had one damned kiss—and barely a kiss, at that—left him feeling so…disjointed.

He was looking at her again, at the graceful curve of her neck as she helped May with some arithmetic problems. Her skin that afternoon had felt so soft, and his fingers twitched with the desire to touch her again. “I think I’ll head out to the stable and read Aristotle a bedtime story,” he said hurriedly, rising before he could begin composing odes to her earlobes. She’d likely only want to correct his grammar.

“Mr. Greetham says it’s going to rain,” May said, looking up. “Don’t you think you should stay in the house tonight?”

Rafe risked another glance at Felicity, hoping that their kiss would at least have gained him that. He was blasted tired of picking straw out of his ears and nose and eyes, and every other nook and cranny in his body.

“Rafe enjoys spending time with Aristotle,” Lis countered. “Now concentrate, May.”

He scowled, then quickly wiped the expression from his face as Felicity looked at him again. “Is that thunder I hear?” he asked, trying to change her mind.

She turned toward the window. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Blast. At least he had her sister as an ally—and he needed to keep it that way. He leaned over May. “The answer is thirty-one,” he whispered in her ear.

“Thirty-one, Lis,” May piped up.

Her sister clapped. “Excellent, May. Five more, and we’ll be finished.” She eyed Rafe, and he tried to look pitiful. It didn’t work. “Good night, Rafe,” she said firmly.

He sighed. “Good night, Felicity, May.”

“Night, Rafe. Are you going to work on the roof again tomorrow?”

“Unless it’s raining.” He strolled over to grab a book from the pile drying by the fire.
Culpepper’s Herbal Guide
. He started rooting for a more interesting tome.

Felicity perked up. “You know, I’ve been thinking. If it
is
raining tomorrow, you might make a go of fixing the main doors.” She smiled at him, and he felt his insides melting into goo.

He grinned helplessly back at her like a drooling
idiot, wondering if she knew how her smile lit her eyes and made him think about kissing her sweet lips again—as if he’d been able to think of anything else all evening, anyway. “The doors. Splendid idea.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

Feeling even more moronic, Rafe collected a lamp and headed off to the stable. The blow to his head must have caused some sort of temporary mental imbalance. He had no other explanation for his own odd behavior. When Deerhurst had arrived, he’d practically vaulted off the roof to get between the earl and Felicity. Generally he wasn’t that territorial with women he had a claim to, much less someone it would actually benefit him to be rid of.

The gusting wind kept blowing out the lamp, making reading impossible unless he wanted to risk burning down the stable. Since he’d ended up with the damned herbal guide anyway, he piled on every blanket they’d given him and curled up into a scratchy pile of hay.

The rain began right at dawn, accompanied by a cacophony of thunder and lightning. The wind had picked up as well, and it moaned hauntingly through the rafters. Rafe sat up amid a tangle of blankets, looking up anxiously toward the roof.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, as miniature waterfalls began cascading down into the hay all around him.

With every gust the structure creaked and groaned, and Aristotle nickered uneasily from his stall. With the wreckage of the west wing fresh in his mind, Rafe dressed quickly, put a halter on the bay, and led the horse out of the stable.

The storm had evidently awakened Felicity as well, because when he pushed open the single working door, she was waiting just inside. Clad in
her nightgown, a shawl wrapped tightly around her, and her midnight hair loose and curling past her shoulders, she looked like the waking vision of the dream he’d had earlier. At least that was how she’d looked at the beginning of the dream. By the end, she’d been wearing considerably fewer clothes.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling as welcome heat ran through him. Kissing her had been one of the more intelligent things he’d done since his arrival. In fact, even with the cold rain, he was still thinking of several other things he’d like to do with her.

“You are not bringing that animal into this house.”

His smile dropped. “I most certainly am.”

“This is not a stable.”

“Your stable’s hardly a stable. And I am not going to have it collapse on my horse.”

She folded her arms. “No.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes. “If you want me to fix these doors,” he offered as calmly as he could with rain drenching his backside, “you will let me bring Aristotle into the foyer.” He folded his own arms over his chest, mimicking her. “Otherwise, you can do it yourself.”

He watched the play of emotions across her delicate features. Finally she sighed and stepped back. “Very well. But he will remain in the foyer, and as soon as the rain stops, I want him out. Is that clear?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

To his credit, Aristotle entered the house as though he did that sort of thing all the time. He did nibble a little at the vase of daisies beneath the stairs, but after Rafe cuffed him on the nose, he left the posies alone.

“You see?” he said, grinning over the gelding’s
back at Felicity’s stony expression. “A perfect gentleman.”

“Hm. And how—”

Thunder boomed deafeningly overhead, drowning out the rest of her sentence. She jumped, and upstairs May screamed.

“Felicity!”

“Oh, no,” she gasped, and ran for the stairs.

Rafe was faster. He bounded up the curving staircase, taking the steps two at a time. As he reached the second floor, a small figure in white flung itself at him.

“The roof’s falling!” May cried, wrapping her arms around his waist with surprising strength.

“No, it’s not,” he said in his calmest voice, putting his hands on her slim, trembling shoulders and not quite certain what to do. Flighty females he could deal with, but terrified little girls were something else entirely. “You’re perfectly safe, May.”

Unexpectedly, Felicity slid her hand along his shoulder and down his wet back, then knelt on the fraying carpet at his feet. Briskly she rubbed May’s shaking back and her sleep-tangled dark hair. “Shh, May. You were just dreaming. The roof won’t fall again.”

“How do you know?” May mumbled, her voice muffled against Rafe’s stomach.

Disturbed by May’s shaking, Rafe pulled her away from his waist. He squatted down beside Felicity, and immediately May flung her arms around his neck, attaching herself to him again tighter than a sea limpet to a rock. “Good God, May,” he rasped, “you could strangle a hippo.”

“No, I couldn’t,” she quavered against his shoulder. If he hadn’t already been soaked to the bone, her tears would have taken care of it.

“I beg to differ.” He put his arms around her
back and rocked her slowly from side to side. “But you really are safe. I put Aristotle in the foyer, and you know I wouldn’t do that if I thought the house would coll—”

She lifted her tearstained face. “Aristotle is in the foyer?”

“Mm-hm.” He nodded. “And I think the thunder’s made him a bit edgy. He could probably use some company.”

May released his neck from her stranglehold and wiped at her eyes. “Might I give him an apple?”

“I would be grateful if you would.”

With a last sniff, May hurried down the stairs. A moment later, Rafe heard her comforting Aristotle. “Don’t worry, old Totle. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

“Thank you.”

Felicity was kneeling beside him, still in her nightgown and with her long black hair loose around her shoulders, and the desire to run his fingers through her dark, curling hair, and to kiss her full, soft lips hit him hard. “For what?”

“For calming May down. I was worried this might happen. She was so frightened the other night.”

“So were you, no doubt.”

She smiled a little, and shrugged. “I’m older. And I don’t frighten as easily.”

Her brown eyes studied his face, and his pulse leaped and sped. “Here,” he said, rising, “let me help you up.”

When he extended his hand she slipped her slender fingers into his. He slowly pulled her to her feet, wondering what she would clobber him with if he simply jumped on her again.

“You haven’t told me,” she said, color creeping into her cheeks as she swiftly freed her hand,
“what you had intended to do with Forton Hall—if the deed had turned out to be legitimate, I mean.”

“I’ll let that go”—he grinned—“because you’ve let old Totle in the house. Poor lad—with that nickname all the other horses will be laughing at him, now.”

She continued looking at him expectantly, and he cleared his throat. Rafe could distract most other women of his acquaintance much more easily than he could Felicity Harrington. “China,” he finally said. “I’ve always wanted to travel, and selling Forton Hall is my chance to see the world.”

“Ah. I see. But why don’t you simply ask your father or your brother for the money? I would imagine they are fabulously wealthy.”

He nodded, following her as she started back down the stairs. “Oh, they are; but it’s
their
money. I don’t want to have to answer to them for anything—everything—that I do. I’m blasted tired of that.”

Felicity paused, turning around to look up at him. For a moment, something vulnerable and uncertain touched her eyes. “Being a second son must be difficult,” she finally offered.

In view of the disaster she faced, Rafe felt a bit selfish. “I make do.”

“You made it to Africa on your own, didn’t you?”

“You went to Africa?” May asked from downstairs. She held an apple up for Aristotle, who snorted at it hopefully.

“He saw elephants,” Felicity added, smiling at him before she resumed her way downstairs.

“You didn’t shoot any of them, did you?” May demanded. “I like elephants.”

“No, I didn’t shoot any elephants,” Rafe re
turned. “A few gazelle and a wildebeest, but that was to eat.”

“That’s all right, then.”

Rafe leaned back against the banister and folded his arms across his chest, his rain-soaked clothes clinging unpleasantly to his body. “Thank you.”

“What did you do in Africa?” May gave the apple to the gelding, then walked over to lean beside Rafe, copying his stance.