Taming Rafe (11 page)

“I only stopped by to make certain you were well.” He strode to the door and stopped. “Good evening.”

Belatedly she joined him and pulled open the door. “Good evening, James.”

Taking a last opportunity, he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. “I do hope you will consider my offer.” James took a moment to glance at Bancroft, and for a bare moment he paused, startled. The oaf hadn’t moved, but his expression seemed almost…dangerous.

“I…I shall,” Felicity answered.

The earl blinked, returning his attention to his prize. “I’ll see you at the Wadsworths’ tomorrow night.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Deerhurst stepped out into the dark, muddy yard to collect his carriage. At least he’d made some progress. Damn Bancroft for barging in just when he finally had her listening to reason.

It was critically important that he wed Felicity Harrington. At least he was fortunate enough to find her irresistibly attractive; marriage would have been a much less appealing solution if she’d been a fat old trout. James climbed into his phaeton and sat for a moment, looking at the pitiful ruin of Forton Hall and sneering in disgust. The Harringtons
couldn’t even manage their own estate. He could only imagine what they would do with Deerhurst.

The earl shuddered as he sent the carriage toward home. His father had been an idiot and a fool. However bad his monetary position, a noble did not sell his land. And certainly not to an untitled simpleton with absolutely no concept of responsibility or honor.

Thank God they’d agreed to keep the sale a secret. If they hadn’t, the next five generations of Deerhursts would have been laughed out of the House of Lords. James twisted the leather traces in his hands so tightly they cut into his flesh despite his heavy gloves.

In the five years since the death of the Harringtons’ parents and the four since his own father’s demise, Deerhurst had flourished, while Forton Hall had slid into rot and ruin. Informing the Harrington offspring that they had an estate worth over a hundred thousand pounds at their disposal would be titular suicide. As long as Felicity lived at Forton, she would never let such a sum go—not when the sale of Deerhurst would save her ancestral rat heap.

It would have been much simpler if Miss Harrington had let him lend her money. Then he could have claimed Deerhurst as repayment whenever he liked. But she was either too stubborn or too clever for that, and Nigel had already left for London before he realized precisely how poor the Harringtons had become.

Marrying Felicity and having her convince brainless Nigel to hand over Deerhurst, her new home, was by far the wisest option. If everything went as he planned, he would be wed to her before Nigel returned from London. From that point, reclaiming the Deerhurst estate would be easy.

One thing had become quite clear this evening, though: Rafael Bancroft was going to have to go.

“May tells us you’ve spent time in Africa,” Mrs. Wadsworth said to Rafe. “Is it as dirty and primitive as they say?”

Felicity glanced at her houseguest across the Wadsworths’ dining table and then returned to her venison stew. She’d hoped to avoid discussions of Rafe’s dubious past, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen.

“It was dirty,” Rafe agreed amiably. “At the time I left it hadn’t rained for eighty-three days in a row.”

On his other side Mrs. Denley touched his sleeve. “But what about the natives? I heard some of the tribes are cannibals.”

“Oh, my heavens!” Mrs. Wadsworth exclaimed, flushing.

“Don’t be silly, my dear,” Mr. Wadsworth broke in. “The cannibals live in northwest Africa, in the jungles. I’m sure our guest was never in any real danger.”

“I did see a few shrunken heads on necklaces, but they were all worn by Englishmen.” Rafe smiled and took a drink of Madeira. “The Zulus are a fierce and proud tribe, and they seem none too happy to have us about, but I was more worried about getting a spear through the chest than about one of the lads eating me.”

The dozen guests at the dinner laughed and toasted that, though Felicity didn’t know what was so amusing. They all seemed completely taken with Rafe Bancroft. Next they’d have him doing a Zulu rain dance or something. Deerhurst seemed to be the only other guest more interested in his dinner than in Rafe’s tales.

May stood up from the children’s table at the far end of the room. “Tell them about the lion.”

Rafe’s expression turned sheepish. “They don’t want to hear about that, my dear.”

“Lucinda’s Lady foaled yesterday,” Lord Deerhurst said into the air. “A colt. I daresay in a few years he’ll be a match for his sire at the Chester races.”

Mr. Denley nodded and chuckled. “I daresay.” He toasted the earl, Mr. William Pender following suit.

“Oh, tell us about the lion,” Elizabeth Denley exclaimed, blushing.

“Yes, do,” her mother and Mrs. Wadsworth echoed, followed by Betty and Lucy Caster.

Rafe glanced across the table and caught Felicity’s gaze, his eyes dancing. “It really isn’t all that exciting. The regiment had a herd of goats we’d bought from the local tribesmen, and they began vanishing by ones and twos during the night. We thought it must be goat thieves, and a few of us decided to stand watch and see if we could catch the culprits. I stood the third night. It had been quiet, so we figured perhaps they had seen us and been frightened away. Then, just past midnight I heard rustling in the bushes behind the boma, and the—”

“What in the world is a boma?” Lucy Caster interrupted, tittering.

“Beg pardon. A corral, of sorts, made up of thorn bushes.”

“Continue, lad,” Mr. Denley urged.

“The goats were becoming agitated, as well. I crept around as close as I could to the blackguard and then jumped up, yelling ‘Halt, you thief!’”

“Oh, my,” Betty gasped, her hand at her bosom, “and it was a lion?”

Felicity realized she’d been sitting there with her fork halfway between her plate and her mouth. Hurriedly she lowered the utensil and took a swallow of Madeira.

“A very large and very surprised lion,” Rafe continued. “It stood up only six feet in front of me and roared. And then it sprang at me.” With a hooded, amused glance at Felicity, as though he knew she was as caught up in the tale as the rest of them, he took a bite of stew.

“For God’s sake, man,” Felix Caster blurted, “what happened?”

Rafe shrugged. “I had to shoot it. Damned shame, though. It was a magnificent beast.”

“So you might have ended in some animal’s belly after all,” Lord Deerhurst said, looking directly at Rafe. “What luck you have.”

Something in his eyes and the way he said the words made Felicity uncomfortable, and she took another swallow of wine and forced a laugh. “My goodness, Mr. Bancroft. What a fearsome tale you tell.”

Squire Talford, beside her, chuckled as well. “Marvelous, indeed. I don’t suppose you kept a souvenir of the encounter?”

An ally, finally. She’d nearly forgotten that he knew of her misgivings about the soundness of Rafe’s mind. And being a gentleman, he’d asked for proof in a way that wouldn’t embarrass Rafe when he couldn’t produce any.

Rafe sat back and reached into his pocket. “It’s a bit difficult to tote a lion carcass around the world,” he said, and lifted his hand. “But I did keep this.” He lowered his fingers to reveal a single, ivory-colored claw as long as his thumb. “More than he would have kept of me, I imagine,” Rafe continued, handing it to Mrs. Wadsworth.

Felicity sneaked a look at the squire and saw him eyeing the claw with an intrigued expression as it passed around the table. Rafe could have bought it somewhere, she supposed, but even so, Rafe Bancroft was becoming even more confusing. He’d charmed the local gentry with apparent ease, and whenever he caught her eyes, her heart sped and fireworks exploded into the sky. And she was beginning to find a great deal of satisfaction in the knowledge that at the end of the evening, the ladies fawning over him would have to say good night, and she wouldn’t.

“Your brother’s been gone well over a month, Felicity,” Squire Talford noted from the comfort of her couch five days later. “Are you certain he knows what’s going on in his absence?”

“Yes, I wrote him to return immediately. I can’t imagine why he hasn’t arrived yet.” Felicity continued patching the hole in what Rafe had dubbed her muck-about dress. It would only get torn again, but she needed it to last as long as possible.

The squire sipped at his tea. Gentleman that he was, he hadn’t asked for port, though she knew that to be his favorite afternoon drink. The closest thing to port at Forton Hall was a half-empty bottle of Madeira in the kitchen she’d been using to cook with, and she suspected that Rafe had been sipping from that when she wasn’t looking.

“And where is your Mr. Bancroft this afternoon? He made quite an impression at the Wadsworths’ dinner. I have to admit that after what you told me, and from Deerhurst’s description the other day, I expected him to be frothing at the mouth, hackles raised and teeth bared.”

She chuckled. “He’s pulling part of the upper
story out of the way so we can do one more search for valuables.”

“He seems to have turned out to be quite helpful,” the squire noted.

“I told you he was.” Felicity looked up, then set aside her sewing when he continued to gaze at her. “Are you implying something, Charles?”

The squire took another sip of his tea. “No. Just that you failed to mention—how did Betty Caster put it—his ‘strikingly handsome and gentlemanly appearance’.”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Yes, he is attractive, I suppose, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Come now, Felicity. If he’d been eighty and toothless, no one would care. As it is…well, I know he isn’t staying in the stable any longer. Ronald told Mrs. Denwortle as much, and now the entire county knows. You should be more careful with your reputation, my dear.”

She scowled, more disgusted than angry. “I know, but I wouldn’t have a horse staying in that wreck of a stable. I couldn’t very well have Rafe remain there while it collapsed around his ears. It was a much-considered decision, believe me.”

She could read the curiosity in the squire’s gaze, but in truth she had no answer for it. Rafe had been at Forton Hall for a fortnight, and it seemed he’d been there forever. He fit into their routine effortlessly, and he’d done so much for them that she’d almost begun to hope Nigel wouldn’t appear for another few weeks. And not just so that Rafe could haul away the remains of the west wing and clean the debris out of the garden. Since he’d come to Forton Hall, she hadn’t been lonely.

Rafe now had a brigade—as he and May called them—of ten local farmers, stableboys, and assis
tant shopkeepers volunteering their services. They came when they could, and they brought their wives and daughters and sisters with them. She couldn’t remember ever having so much company—or having so much attention paid to her, in the person of Rafe Bancroft.

But charm alone didn’t explain why her pulse raced every time he walked into the room. May clearly adored him, but Felicity wasn’t quite ready to define the affection she herself had begun to feel for him, soft-headed and lost or not.

Squire Talford cleared his throat, and she jumped. “Beg pardon?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Felicity!” May called, running up the hallway, “I fetched him for you!” Panting, she burst through the open doorway.

“Thank you, May,” Felicity answered, amused. “Where is he?”

“Right here,” Rafe’s deep voice said. He stepped around May into the morning room, stripping off his work gloves as he entered.

“I beat you,” May said gleefully, following and plunking herself down onto the couch.

“Well, I’m old,” he returned with a grin, stopping before the squire. “Squire Talford.” He sketched an elegant bow. “I wish we’d had more time to converse last week.”

Charles stood and shook Rafe’s outstretched hand. “So do I. You tell quite a tale.”

Rafe perched in the deep windowsill. “And it was mostly true.” He grinned. “Have you heard the one about the tea kettle and my skull?”

Charles laughed. “Yes, I have. Felicity and May can be quite a formidable pair. Be glad you survived.”

Rafe glanced at Felicity. “I am grateful every day.”

That was how it had gone for the past week. He would say something that sounded perfectly innocent, and then he would look at her. She’d immediately take the words as a compliment and blush. Then she would get mad at herself for blushing, and madder at him for aggravating her so. At least the work kept her distracted, and she was beginning to feel grateful that there remained an unending supply of it.

“How are you progressing today?” she asked.

“Well, you’ve smiled at me twice—so far, quite well, I’d say.”

Felicity blushed again. She was becoming a regular rouge pot. “Rafe,” she grumbled, and turned her attention to the squire. “He’s a terrible flirt.”

“So I see.”

“I was asking about the west wing, Mr. Bancroft.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?” With a completely unrepentant smile, Rafe draped his gloves over one knee. “The west wing is going more slowly than I’d like, but if you have anything still intact under all that rubble, I certainly don’t want to crush it now.”

“Was that your horse I saw grazing behind the stable?” Charles asked unexpectedly.

“Yes, that’s Aristotle,” May answered before Rafe could. “He’s a right goer.”

“He is magnificent,” the squire agreed. “What did you pay for him?”

“Fifty quid, about six years ago.”

“That’s a hefty sum.”

Rafe glanced at Felicity again, his expression a little uncomfortable. Perhaps he didn’t like being reminded of his absurd dreams of grandeur any
more than Felicity did. He shrugged. “It was worth it.”

“Aristotle was just a colt, and he bit Lord Montrose,” May said conversationally, sitting forward to pour herself a cup of tea and then adding five lumps of sugar to the brew. “Poor old Monty.”

“May, that’s quite enough of that,” Felicity chastised sternly, though she was more annoyed at the squire for bringing reality into the conversation. They’d been doing quite well without it. She had no idea Rafe counted her smiles—she’d only been counting their kisses.