She curled her hand into a fist. “Stop calling me love, and Grey—don’t call me that, either.”
“What would you prefer I call you then?”
“I prefer you not call me anything. I prefer you leave.” She ground the toe of her slipper against the parquet floor.
“And miss seeing how this evening turns out? After you’ve had two glasses of champagne? Not a chance.”
She stuck her nose in the air and turned her face away from him. “You think you know me so well, but you don’t. You don’t know me at all.”
“So it seems,” he drawled. “What else don’t I know about you?”
“That I’m about to have a third glass of champagne.” She turned on her heel and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
One hour later, Rafe was smoking in the gardens. The hedges and flowering bushes formed a bit of a maze and provided a great deal of privacy. He’d gone to the far end of the property and had propped one booted foot upon a stone bench that sat next to a small fountain. He breathed in the cool night air and glanced up at the stars. Stars had been some of his only friends when he’d been a child. They’d been some of his only friends while he’d been a prisoner in France, too. He had a relationship of sorts with the stars. They might be cool and distant, but they were good listeners.
Rafe took a deep breath. He didn’t know why he’d stayed here these last two days when Daphne obviously wanted him to go. Something about her desire to get him to leave caused his competitive nature to take effect and then he’d be damned if he’d go. But it was true that he didn’t have a good feeling about this Fitzwell chap. Why Swifdon was allowing his sister to consider the man’s suit, Rafe would never know. No. He knew why. It was because Daphne wanted him. And Lady Daphne got what Lady Daphne wanted. She always had. Which was exactly why Rafe and she could never be together. He couldn’t offer a young lady like Daphne a life of luxury. He certainly wasn’t rich, and blue blood didnotflow through his veins. No. Daphne was meant for a member of theton. But not Fitzwell, for God’s sake. Couldn’t she see that she’d be running rings around him before the honeymoon was over? Rafe shook his head. No doubt, that’s exactly what she wanted to be able to do.
Why Rafe had asked her to kiss him, he’d truly never know. It was something about the way she’d seemed so ready to dismiss him, seemed so unaffected by him. She’d been affected by him once. And God knew, he’d been affected by her, too. Swifdon would pummel him if he’d known the thoughts that had raced through his mind last spring, let alone the liberties Rafe had taken in the library last night, but by God those few seconds before the Duchess of Claringdon had come in, they’d been worth it. Rafe popped the cheroot from his lips and grinned. He tossed the nub to the grass and ground it under his boot. He turned to head to the house just as a peculiar sound reached his ears.
Singing.
It was Daphne. Singing. Her voice was high, and happy, and sweet. He found himself smiling at the noise. Until he realized what she was singing. Good God. It was a bawdy song. One he’d heard in taverns more than once.
Alas, my fair maiden. Alas, alas.
Why do you roam so free?
Your hair, your hips, your nose, your lips.
Are irresistible to me.
She turned the corner around the hedge and stopped singing abruptly upon seeing him. A hiccup escaped her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth.
A grin spread across his face. “Why, Grey. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing before.”
Her hand fell away from her mouth. She gave him a catlike grin, then she twirled in a circle, her silvery satin skirts swinging around her dainty ankles. “Alas, alas, alas,” she sang.
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Grey, how many glasses of champagne did you drink?”
“Only two.”
“Only the two I saw you drink earlier?”
“Only two more in addition to those two and one more.”
“Good God.”
“What?” Her eyes blinked and then rounded.
“You mean to tell me you’ve hadfiveglasses of champagne this evening and you’ve never had spirits before?”
“Ha! I’ve had spirits before. Just goes to show what you know.” She picked up her skirts and curtsied to the hedge. “Good evening, sir.”
Rafe shook his head. “When have you had spirits before?”
“When I left finishing school. Mrs. Pennyhammer served us each a thimble of wine.”
